another great one

can't wait for ending

S!

Yay hes back!!

They re-organized the entire airfield, dispersing supplies, people, aircraft, and a hospital in three days of breakneck effort, partially to accept some new type of Italian bomber that our allies were fielding. We were so busy with the effort that when the message came that Hans had been injured and captured I didn't reflect on it.

We escorted the Italian bombers to our airfield without incident.

They are big, with four engines and gun turrets all around, but I don't think they're going to win the war for the Italians. It was all so top secret - secure communications, camoflauged dispersal areas, medium escort - and so naturally it was decided that our base was too far forward and they were relocated to our "old" coastal airfield the next day.

If they were that revolutionary they'd mass produce them and put them on the front lines, just as we did with the Messer in Spain. Hell, the Italians aren't operating under the Versailles Treaty like we were, building machines in secret and looking for a way out of the stranglehold on the Fatherland that didn't involve godless Communists.

Tomorrow we're supposed to escort the bombers on their first strike mission.

My headaches have been replaced with a terrible itching to the cuts on my nose (the doctor says it means it's healing) and an irritability I cannot shake. I am mad at nothing and everything, intolerant of everything while apathetic about anything. If it is not relating to my duties, I want only to be left alone, even though I feel unable to rest in my solitude.

It all seems so bothersome, and I wish only to fly. It is only in my aircraft that things make sense, that I am not weighed down with a thousand pebbles in my rucksack.

Hey Dart, I just checked this page again for the first time in ages. So glad to see the story continues. The usual good work on that first one - I like the references to the fellow pilots , especially Ganz becoming all cocky after his second kill. Makes it much more alive and personal. Nice details too - the oil drums ready for the planned dawn landing.

Just read the second one now. I like the introspection you've added here.

My question is, what happened to Miller? I featured him in a couple of breifings for my RAF France campaign - nothing much though, just another member of the squadron so there's nothing to contradict.

Anyway, thanks for writing them. I really hope you are able to finish the series some day.

Without too much of a spoiler (we're a couple missions ahead of Flt. Sgt Miller's exit from the story), he returns to the RAF.

Miller is at the airfield by the coast, remember? It's not my fault Jedermann was transferred!

But he does make a cameo in the next AAR.

And I may make up two (instead of one) events outside of the campaign to help things along.

Once this is completed I'm going to put it into .doc or .pdf form and provide a link (with some spelling and grammatical corrections, as I write these things exporaneously in one sitting without much more than a quick once over before hitting "Submit."

It's really a credit to the great mission scripting that I need only re-run the .ntrk file for screens I want; they just stick in my head.

[edit] I think I'd like to complete the campaign using the 4.09 beta for the extra draw distance. Do I just copy and paste the pilot profile and be caught up?

A pdf or similar would be cool. I could add it to the M4T site next to the campaign download.
If you just patch up you should be okay without having to worry about losing your progress I *think*.

Oh, I have both on my system as stand alones; I took the brute force solution of just copying the whole of the simulation rather than the elegance of a switcher.

I was called into the Commander's tent shortly after dawn with some haste - apparently we had an important visitor. Probably one of those RSHA jerks or some propaganda wank all too impressed with themselves to allow me to sleep until breakfast.

A soft, clean looking Oberst sat in a chair behind, but along side, the Commander.

RHSA, no doubt.

"Good Morning, Jedermann," he said pleasantly, "please sit down; coffee?" he asked, offering our own mess coffee as if it were his own.
"Good morning," I said warily, accepting a cup of coffee.
"How well do you know Hans -" he began, but I cut him off.
"As fine an officer as I've ever known, he has proven again and again that his loyalty to the Fatherland and faith in the Final Victory is complete."
"Yes, we are well aware of his loyalty," he replied, casually, "but how well do you know Hans Eitzen personally?"
"We have a very 'correct' relationship, Herr Oberst," I caged; no use putting my own troubles with the RHSA onto Hans, after all, "cordial but professional."
"Then you are unaware that his full name is Hans Fredrick von Eitzen."
"No."
"And that he comes from a very prominent family?"
"I was not aware," I admitted, "he never used family status in any way, including mentioning it."
"He has been captured by the British, and we have agreed to a prisoner exchange with them."
"Who are we exchanging for him?"
"A Flight Sergeant Miller," he said, flatly.
"Why?" I asked, suprised.
"We were hoping you could tell us."
"I have no idea," I admitted, "Sergeant Miller seems unremarkable other than his brazen attitude."
A full minute of silence ensued.

"You are to fly Sergeant Miller to this location," he said, sliding a map over to me with a mark on it, "tonight at midnight. It is to be unadvertised and unescorted. You are familiar with flying the Storch, are you not?"

My eyes bulged at the mark on the map. It was the British airbase to the east of us.

"Yes, I can fly the Storch," I said, slowly.
"Very good. You will pick up Flight Sergeant Miller at 2200 hours and fly him to their base tonight. They will be expecting you. Dismissed."
"May I ask a question?"
"Certainly."
"Why me?"
The Oberst leaned back in his chair before answering.
"It would seem you are the only officer in which Flight Sergeant Miller has any trust to fly with."
I couldn't help but laugh. It was probably a trap, and he was most likely lying. I'm probably the only one they wouldn't mind have being put into a POW camp in the whole of North Afrika.
"This is very sensative, Jedermann," he warned, "do not discuss this with anyone. Dismissed."

I mulled over the mission over breakfast and forced myself to pay attention to the briefing for the combat mission that would fill my day before the night.

We are to escort more bombers coming into the base, picking up where the Italian fighter coverage would leave off. Simple enough, but it is always the simple missions that turn complicated. I smiled to myself over the idea of getting shot down in the morning and being unable to pick up Hans in the night.

We took off in good order, and were pleased to find the bombers in the right place!



I took a quick look at the big Italian bombers and we climbed above the formation, Ganz on my wing, keeping close:





It wasn't long before we saw three aircraft crossing in front of us, small and fast - Tommyhawks!



I immediately ordered the attack, but one of them set directly onto the bombers and got in some terrible hits!



This would not stand! Ganz and I raced to him as he split-S to escape:



The Tommy dove into the clouds with us in hot pursuit; I guessed as his location and came out of the soup to see Ganz had made the same choice:



Ganz had better position, and struck at him - only to be shocked to see an Italian fighter had joined in from below! I gave warning that it was a friendly (of sorts) and Ganz grunted acknowledgement.



The P-40 went high on them, forcing them to break to the right; but I was in perfect position:



Smoke and oil streamed from his engine, and I climbed back high towards the bombers. Let the Italian finish him off, I had the bombers to protect!



As we closed, I could see another British plane attacking the wounded bomber; it looked as though their tail gunners had done him some good!



He was high above me, but diving down as if to make another attack:



It was a terrible mistake on his part!



That ended with a flaming engine...



The bombers seemed clear, and I looked back to see what the radio chatter was about:



I reversed to see if I could help, but Schmitt and Straub had it all well in hand:



It was with great sadness that I watched the Italian bomber's engine catch fire. At least they all bailed out over friendly territory.



We landed after the bombers with no loss to our own flight and seven enemy planes brought down and one probable (his engine was seized and was seen gliding towards his lines; he might have restarted it or ditched with little more than a broken oil pump).

I arrived at the coastal airbase at 2100 hours and was met by the Commander of the squadron there as well as that clerk from the RHSA. They appeared concerned and smug, respectively.

Guten Abend, Herr Oberst, the RHSA Colonel said cheerfully, "Ready for your little trip?"
Ja wohl, I responded, as flatly as I could, "Where's Miller?"
"In the infirmary. I will let you tell him of tonight's mission."
"He doesn't know?"
"He only knew he was to be traded," the Oberst smirked, "we did not tell him when."

"Before we wake him, Oberst Jedermann, please come to the briefing tent," the Squadron Commander ordered softly.

In the tent he offered a cup of coffee and some questions.
"How are you going to get there?"
"I plan on flying the ridgelines just off the coast, low in the valleys."
"A good plan; but you may receive some ground fire."
"Yes, I'm sure. But only rifles and maybe a light machinegun or two. With this full moon I'll be easy to spot by anti-aircraft guns against the clouds."
"And the return?"
"The same, but to the east along the ridgeline there," I pointed on the map, "it's the quickest way back to our airbase."
"Your commander has said many good things about you," he deadpanned, looking up with his grey eyes, "far better than others in the chain of command would indicate."
"Well, such is the nature of things," I shrugged.
"Be careful, and godspeed."
I said nothing.

The sand crunched beneath my feet as I made my way to the infirmary tent and pushed the tent flap open, the warmth from within a nice change from the chill of the desert air.

"Miller! Wake up!"
"Wha....get off!" he replied, opening one eye against the torch I put on his face.
"Get up! I'm on a sortie, and you're my gunner!"
"You're drunk, Jedermann, and not the least bit funny," he said, rolling over, "Not a one of you Hun has the least sense of humor."
I kicked the end of his bunk.
"Five minutes," I said.
He rolled over, a look of suprise on his face, and sat up.
"Get that bloody lamp out of my eyes and help me find my boot."

The Ambulance Storch was prepared, and a short ride in a Kubelwagon later he was being lifted into the back.
"Do you know how to work the gun?" I asked.
"Now you're really funny. As if you would put me behind a working gun!"
"It's already loaded, as you can see."

Miller fell silent.

In short order I had taken off and began to fly just over the scrub off the beach. I heard Miller pull the cocking arm of the machinegun as we crossed the river that had marked the front line when he was shot down.

It was entirely uneventful; we didn't even receive any fire when we crossed the British lines, though we gave them scant chance, flying less than thirty meters off of the ground.

Soon the lights of the landing marker and the red light that designated the place I was to taxi to came into sight, and I lowered the flaps of the Storch:



The moon was so bright that objects on the airfield were clear to me, and the lights were unnecessary!

I taxied directly to the red light they had put out, and was suprised to see they had set up a machinegun at the rendezvous point!



I shut the engine off and sat there, unmoving. Were they going to shoot us? Was it a trap?

"Easy, lad," I heard Miller saying quietly from the back seat. I was unsure if he was talking to me or himself.

An officer came from behind the truck parked next to the machinegun along with what looked like a doctor as well as a very nervous looking rifleman.

I opened the cockpit window on the right hand side and made no other move.

"Get out, slowly, Oberst Jedermann," the Officer ordered in German.
Oh sh-- I thought to myself.
I complied, raising my hands and stepping left towards the propellor. There was no chance for heroics.
"Squadron Commander Miller," he said loudly as the doctor rushed forward, "are you alright?"
"Lost my bloody leg, but other than that, alright, if that's what you mean."
Squadron Commander?
"We thought Jerry had you for good!"
"So did I; good spot of luck borrowing a flight jacket from Morris, eh?"
"And you cursed your mechanic for getting oil on yours!"
"I'll be buying him a pint for it tonight!" Miller responded with loud cheer.

A crazy thought went through my head. They were all but ignoring me while they pulled Flight Sergea--Squadron Commander Miller from the Storch. I could grab the rifle that was propped against the fuselage and.....do nothing.

I leaned against the warm engine panel and withdrew a cigarette, lighting it with a flourish.

The rifleman snatched up his firearm and leveled it at me.
"What are you about?" he demanded.
"A meter sixty-five;" I replied nonchalantly, "do you wish to know my weight?"
The doctor laughed.

The officer in charge came closer. I could see he wore a Group Captain's rank, and he sized me up.
"Cool as a cucumber, aren't you, Hun?"
"Actually, I'm quite disconcerted, if you must know."
"We'll hold our end," he said, as if annoyed, and turned to speak loudly, "Bring him out!"

Hans shuffled from behind the truck, a British soldier on each arm. He looked as if he could barely stand, and they nearly carried him to the aircraft.
Mein Gott, I whispered, and moved to him.
Hans was a mess of bruises with a bandage around his head, his eye blackened so that it shined purple in the moonlight.
"He ditched badly," the doctor said, "broken ribs, nasty crack to the skull, but he'll be fine."
Hans raised his head to look at me, attempted a smile, and promptly vomited onto the sand.

I did not ask permission to help gingerly place him in the back of the Storch.

On the flight back to our airbase Hans remained slumped in the back seat; I half imagined him moaning in discomfort as we turned onto final and rolled across the uneven sand to the infirmary tent.

I helped carry the stretch to his bed and left to my own, as Hans was either asleep, drugged, or unconcious.

Oddly enough, I fell asleep almost immediately myself.

[edit]

A few notes:

1) Sorry for the misspelled words I see on a readthrough; but I'm too tired to sort them out.
2) The airfield you see is the British one as laid out in the Campaign. I added the lights, the truck, and the machinegun; it's such a good job that I wanted to show it off. Nothing else was added!
3) I turned the last mission into a dogfight map and flew the Storch externally after changing the time of day; this has always been a feature of the simulation.
4) I have no idea where the ambulance Storch skin came from. I had another already in the folder and when I saw this one had to use it.
5) Yeah, it's weird that they would allow a Storch onto their base. I'm taking some historical license here in that they were afraid that Hans wouldn't make it in a regular ambulance.
6) Sorry for the anti-climatic end of Miller's part in the tale. Originally it was two trucks near the front, though.
7) Yes, I knew Hans' last name from the start; I thought it would be used differently. It may still serve its original purpose in the story.
8) I guess I need to check to see how many missions are actually left in the campaign to start tying up story arcs....

extremely well written m8

this whole series has to be the best AAR's I ever read.

S!