Beginning notes:

As most folks who frequent the IL-2 and RoF forums know, I'm not much on squadron management in campaigns. I usually skip over debriefs that don't have me doing much and usually don't even look at what my bot squaddies have done in sims that track such things.

The reason is that I tend to just make up my own story as it goes along out of my head, and the simulation's tracking of stuff often tries to contradict the narrative I've decided on.

Rise of Flight probably has one of the weakest squadron management and in-game AAR's of any flight sim. Similarly, there's no playback feature to find out exactly what happened outside of one's recollection - and as my Afrika '41 campaign in IL-2 showed, what I often thought happened was entirely incorrect (from number of enemies to which wingmate or even flight I was fighting with!) However, it's never stopped me from filling in those huge gaps with the ether of my imagination.

The narrative that follows isn't representative of RoF's campaign system.

It is representative of the missions and the flying done, though, at least my own poor flying. The screenshots aren't the best in the world, as they're done in real time using a key bound to my X52Pro to trigger FRAPS, and often in a dogfight I'm too busy pressing other keys to worry about taking pictures!

Anyhow, here's my little story. I'll ask for your forgiveness in spelling and grammatical errors, as it's all a rough draft.

Prologue:*

April 1, 1917 and here I am in France. It seems like a lifetime ago that I was hiding out on a ship - the first ship I could - in order to get away from the Mobile cops. Turns out it had a bunch of guys shipping off to fight in the war, and I managed to come up with a story that I was a news reporter and bluffed my way into three squares a day on the voyage over.

The problem was when we hit France. I ditched the Army and was stealing a car near the harbor when the French police nabbed me. The glove box had some papers in it and I pawned them off as my own, hoping to get out of the scrape. Just my luck they belonged to some French mechanic that had taken a lark, leaving his uniform and his car for me to try and scoop up. He was probably stowed away on the same ship I recently was, hoping for a trip in the other direction.

I was delivered to this aerodrome where everyone was talking French and very perplexed at my paperwork versus my own self. In the end this officer came in who could speak English and told me that if I couldn't fix engines I'd be shot as a spy! I think I've spent most of my life either stealing things with engines in them or fixing them, so it wasn't too tough to show them I knew which end of the wrench to hold.

The Escadrille was flying the Nieport 17, which I thought was a scary monster of power with its huge radial engine, and I was assigned to number 17, piloted by Julien Torma. He was a very odd fellow who took to drinking by himself and talking nonsense about "what reality is and isn't," but he spoke English and was a decent enough of a guy. His penchant for insisting that those who worked on his aeroplane speak to him using his first name and ignore his rank did little to endear him to his fellow pilots, that's for sure!

He also insisted that all the mechanics be taught the basics of how to operate the aircraft in flight, holding classes himself, in order to "better understand what to fix the best for flying." He was also something of a prankster, which I would soon learn.

One of the many things a mechanic does is run up engines after a repair and warm them before missions when there is time. It was a terrible, rainy day when Julien told me to check the magnetos on his aircraft:



If I had an ounce of sense in me, I'd of suspected something other than his goofy ways when he had me put on pilot's gear in order to perform routine checks, or in his insistance to be my second in starting the plane.



The rain was spotting my goggles as I settled in to prime and set the controls for an engine start:



"Primed!" I yelled.
"Check!" he shouted over the rain and wind, completing the counter-rotation.
"Chocks in?"
"Chocks in!" he yelled back.
"Switch on!"
"Switch on!" he screamed maniacally, swinging the propellor around.

The engine coughed and sprang to life, but instead of simply rocking to the left against the chocks, it lept forward!



The tail rose on its own, and I grabbed madly at the control stick, working the pedals on the floor until it stopped sliding along the grass. I was simply too terrified and out of my wits to slap at the magneto switches or depress the blip switch. The plane rose into the air on its own volition....



Petrified by fear, I looked back at the aerodrome falling away behind me.



The strangest thing happened with the aircraft when I did so, as it began to turn back to the hangers!. Later Julien would tell me that I moved the stick and rudder correctly, but in truth that as I was leaning back and over, my arms were locked and I pulled the controls with my shoulders!



I regained enough presence of mind to turn the off the magnetos, which made the plane tilt to the right in a very bad way. The propellor stopped as I pointed back to the safety of our base:



I tried to remember the lesson he had taught me about landing, and put the plane as level to the ground as I could and still have the nose slightly upwards. I closed my eyes as the plane reached for the wet turf, rotating suddenly to the right. What if the aeroplane rolled over and crushed me?

The lower left wing tapped and bounced the plane just as I stopped, snapping the wing strut, but otherwise staying attached with the guide wires holding firm:



I sat shaking, unable to move, as Julien approached, laughing in his way that made one wonder about his sanity. "You're a grand pilot now, my American friend!" he shouted as he lept up on the step and kissed my rain soaked cheeks, and kept saying it as he bounded off and back towards the officer's mess.

It would be half an hour before I could loosen my grip on the control stick and then muster the strength to climb out.



After that day, Julien would press me into batman duties as well as my mechanical ones, and never failed to give me pointers on piloting, which usually consisted of "don't think it's so terribly hard, Martin! Don't think about what to do to make the plane maneuver for a minute - think about what you want the plane to do and let it answer your wish!"

* This isn't a campaign mission, actually. It's the "deliver a package" scenario mission for the NP17, and the one I flew when I came up for the idea for my campaign character.

Looking shorter than usual.

Julien had been going through what he described as one of his "periods of muse," which means "a serious bender" to the rest of us, but thankfully bad weather had made flying impossible. The skies were clear at dawn, however, and when they called for pilots for the day's briefing he was nowhere to be found!

I slipped into the back of the hanger where the flight leader was going over the mission, which thankfully wouldn't be until later in the day:



I began to canvas the local haunts where I thought I might find him with no luck, but unfortunately it was the Escadrille's executive officer that discovered him passed out in the patch of trees at the end of the takeoff and landing turf shortly before lunch. My French isn't really improving, but it was clear that Julian would be in serious trouble if he wasn't presentable and able to fly at 1 o'clock.

This was confirmed when the same officer that would have had me shot for a spy when I arrived came by his quarters and warned that not only would Julien be out of the Escadrille but a "correct" inquiry into my own records would commence if he failed to be in the cockpit!

Julien responded by producing the largest single amount of vomit I have ever seen a man produce in one long stream and then laughing at him.

It was clear that there was no way he could pilot the plane in the forty minutes left to his deadline, so I came up with a desperate plan: I would put on his gear, keep the goggles down and the scarf up, fly along with the formation and hopefully we wouldn't encounter the enemy. To further the ruse, I had one of the other mechanics wear my coat, boots, and hat to act as my second in starting the aeroplane.

Nobody seemed the wiser as the engine was started and I blipped it off and on to hold my position until the flight took off:



I must say that I was very pleased with myself that I managed to not only take off without crashing, but kept good place in the formation!





I suppose it is because I had rebuilt and tuned the engine to number 17 so many times, but I found that I had to blip the engine in order to prevent over-shooting the flight! Countless hours of working fuel and mixture to best RPM's were giving me a very false sense of security, and I found a very odd sensation of thrill race through me.



Soon, though, we were over the front, and a terror began to replace the joy of flying. Shells burst on the ground and in the air around the flight, men hidden from view even from above in their deep trenches, trying to stay alive.





I desperately wanted to fly back to the aerodrome right then! But something kept me in formation as we circled from the German to the French side of no-man's land, looking for a pair of scouts that had made putting up an observation balloon impossible and seeing the horses carrying supplies strafed since dawn.

The flight suddenly broke formation and headed north, as if on cue.



I struggled to catch up, looking around frantically. There! Two planes approaching!



Sticking to my plan, I stayed to the left and away from the path of the Germans. The four real pilots would deal with them, two to one!

The lead Hun dove and then climbed, firing head on to the flight lead, smoke from tracers passing both directions, and it was too late that I saw that I was blundering into the melee.



His plane did the most amazing thing, nearly stopping in mid air, and the Hun twisted it about some way to make it turn to the right before tumbling out of the air. It was by sheer luck that I had only to turn gently to the right and dive to place myself right behind him and be safe from his guns.



You're supposed to shoot, a voice in my head said, and I pressed the trigger on the control stick. Nothing. Cursing, I charged my guns, but the moment had passed, and he was climbed suddenly to the left!



Climbing to the left as well, he looked back and dove to the right, clear of any shot I might have! It was clear that I was out matched and quite unlikely to stay with him!



His aeroplane zoomed into a climb, getting farther from me, as I began to curse. What sort of motors had the Germans made to make a plane leap into the air like that?



One of my flight members dove on him, firing at him and narrowly missing the front of my plane as he passed between us, and the German rolled his entire plane over! He turned hard right, and I with him, blipping to slow my plane so as not to damage it from our incredible speeds, until I was close enough to shoot again.



And then he simply flew away from me. I had yet to learn to slow by climbing higher rather than blipping the engine off, and his aeroplane was much more powerful than mine! I was at once sweating and shivering as I began to fear he would turn about and give me his guns!



Insult to injury, he suddenly climbed and fired at one of our Nieports, defacing the sky with smoke and tracer.



I flew forward, level, until I was under him as he halted himself in the air and pointed himself back towards the ground:



Amazingly, I found myself directly behind him, and fired as my he crossed my guns!







I blipped my engine off to stay behind him and heard the unmistakeable clanking of broken piston rods! He was done for! I was elated - I had not only survived, but bested this Hun! And then a glimpse of white on the ground ahead.

That was no German aircraft on the ground I would be flashing over at a lightning 80 miles per hour; it was a Nieuport.



It was without celebration that I watched the Hun aeroplane crash into the trees below.





Looking about, I saw the rest of the flight gathering, with the other German either downed or ran off. It was sobering to see the spaces left intentionally blank in the formation.



Lost in thought, blinking hard as my eyes seemed to be adjusting to the light as if I had come from a darkened room, I climbed across the front towards our home aerodrome.

It couldn't have been more than a moment, but somehow I had lost the flight and was all alone!





Making for the river and flying south rather than trying to plot a course cross country, I soon saw two aeroplanes in the distance going my way! A feeling of safety came over me, as I could rely on them for my navigation!





Until I got closer and saw they definately were not painted with the preferred tricolored roundel! Worse still, they were shooting backwards at me!



Heedless, I made to position where I could shoot them down, only to find a nasty suprise in store for me!



They seemed to have conspired together beforehand, as I pressed the trigger and put lead to the Hun plane a ripping noise went through my left wing and my left arm felt as though it had been raked with a hot poker! The second plane had dove to give its gunner a shot at me to good ends, and I banked hard and away from them, leaving them to others to deal with.

Soon, though, I spotted the aerodrome and this time blipped the engine and kept it with power as I landed, keeping the plane from spinning about as it touched down - that was a lesson I'd never forget from that rainy day! The rest of the flight had not arrived back yet, and as much as I wanted to leap out and continue my disguise there was no strength left in me for such an action. I simply sat and contemplated the long tears on the wing where bullets had ripped the canvas and the sleeve of my coat and shirt. It was just a graze and the bleeding had long stopped thanks to the silk of my scarf which I had jammed inside the sleeve of the coat against the wound.



I was scarcely aware that the Flight Leader had walked up to the other side of the plane until he spoke.

"Good landing, Julien," he said.
"Thank you, sir," I replied - and then suddenly realized he had spoken to me in English, not French. The ruse had failed!
"Are you okay?" he asked matter of factly.
"Yes, sir."
"I heard you weren't feeling too well, Julien," he continued, "and some said you would be unable to fly the mission."
I simply looked downwards into the cockpit, saying nothing.
"You certainly were looking shorter than usual when I saw you walking out to your aeroplane fifteen minutes before everyone else."
I looked up to see him smiling.
"I will send a nurse to look after you in your quarters; there is no need to tell anyone about it," he instructed seriously, "unless you wish to duplicate the wound on Msr. Torma with a pistol, something I would understand completely."

Top stuff. More please.

Good Stuff! Keep it coming Dart. This will keep my interest in the game until we get a real Dogfighter server.

Thanks!

On with the story!

Lost and Found Out

Julien remained restricted to the aerodrome for two weeks after that day, and judging by the chaste manner he adopted had apparently been given the riot act in a way that mattered. He showed up and flew his missions clear eyed but without much enthusiasm, to be honest, gaining some consternation from the other pilots at the loss of his sense of elan in the air and on the ground.

He scored no kills in the air, but that was the nature of things; a squadron of forty pilots in the course of three months might have the bulk of their air victories attributed to just three or four very skilled men within their ranks! A man who could best five enemy aircraft or balloons was noteworthy in the extreme, carrying the mantle of Ace and getting a picture in the paper and newsreels.

Contrary to the press, the lives and fates of our pilots was far less mundane and cruel than was let out. Flak, machinegun fire from the ground, mechanical and structural failure, and the dangerous workings of simply flying an aeroplane claimed far more than enemy scouts. Many simply fell out of the air, spinning to their doom, with no one to know why they had done so. We lost a pilot on what looked to be a minor crash; he had nosed the plane onto the engine after hitting a rock in a field with his landing gear axle. While it took only minor repairs to get the aeroplane back in shape, the pilot had failed to put on his restraining belt and broken his neck when he was thrown forward.

Julien kept me in high regard, forgiving me for impersonating him in the cockpit of his bird, and making something of a private ceremony where he presented me with the aviator's wings he was given on his graduation of flight school later that night. The event was something of a hushed secret, a forbidden topic simply not discussed but sometimes debated late in the evening within the aerodrome. Most refused to believe it simply because the idea of a mechanic not only taking to the air but shooting down a German scout to be a rediculous notion.

As I said, Julien was on the wagon and somewhat forlorn in his newly adopted ways of sobriety and nearly British correctness, which began to worry me. "A man can change his ways but not who he is," my mother used to say when pronouncing judgement of suitors for my sisters, and she was dead right. I had reason to worry, though I didn't know at the time that there would be an event that would forever change both of our lives.

His birthday.

The evening of the 30th proved that Julien had broke his restriction and was nowhere to be found! The squadron commander's car was likewise missing, and it didn't take a genius to put two and two together. Search parties came up empty, and returned early in the morning of the 1st of July, though judging by the smell of alcohol and the demeanor from some the search seemed to be entirely limited to taverns, exclusive of the bar within.

At first light I was relieved to see the commander's automobile parked behind one of the hangars, and slipped into the back of the mid-morning briefing to see Julien's state. He wasn't there, so I took notes as best I could, which wasn't saying much. The ability to learn French seemed to be impossible for me!

Apparently those recon planes I had failed to shoot down had seen a convoy of tanks headed for the front, and the squadron was to protect them. There was much more in the briefing, but the fellow up front was talking very fast and I was twenty feet away as well!



We pushed the planes into formation on the grass before lunch, and I went to fetch Julien from his quarters. He wasn't there. I took a quick canvass of the aerodrome and vicinity. He wasn't there.

Deja Vu, it's called, and appropriately a French term. I had seen this before, and saw future events as if they had already occured. Damn that Julien! He'd be court martialled for sure, and me right along after him, sent in chains back to the States to face the court I had skipped out on!

I would once again put on his flying gear and take his place.

Now, then, I would like to say that I did this entirely out of a sense of loyalty or friendship, but the years have taught me that the worst lie one can tell is the one we tell ourselves. Ten percent was concern for this Frenchman I barely knew, but the rest was evenly split between a desire to save my own neck and a desire to once again fly the aeroplane. Absolutely nonsense, and crazy as well, but I had been as thrilled as I was terrified of my second flight and had spent many hours reliving it since.

So I found myself once again in the well of the Nieuport, engine warmed and rather pleased with myself to take off and form up with the rest of the squadron:



I remembered from my notes that we would be flying to the west, away from the front, and so desperately looked about for landmarks that would take me back home should I be separated from the rest of the flight.

We first encountered an aerodrome next to a small village, which I made mental note of.



Then a bridge over the river, with the road we would follow to the target area.



Simple enough!

Some scouts appeared in the distance, but judging from the thumbs up given by the other pilots, they were friendly.



Soon we were over the tanks, ugly big machines that lumbered slowly on the road. I was thinking that they'd be resurfacing behind them in the weeks to come, but speed was of the essence for the next offensive.



The flight leader turned to the right and dove slightly, speeding up, which relieved me greatly, as once again I had tuned my engine for a solid 2,000 RPMs and had been blipping the engine to keep my position!



The rest of the pilots, however, had failed to anticipate this and I looked back to see them lagging behind, with one well back.



And then I counted. Flight leader in front, I'm second, and four behind, flying hard to catch up. Six planes. But we're a flight of five! I waved frantically, pointing, and the flight curved to meet the straggler.

German! And with a wingman, too! The lead fired at too long a range at the flight leader and dove away beneath me.



I pursued as he came up from his dive, staying high as our own fired on him.







The German climbed right up into my sights! I obliged him, remembering to charge my guns this time!










Flames erupted from his engine, and I was again elated and horrified at the same time:





A ripping noise that was sickeningly familiar ran through my plane, and I twisted about to see his wingman firing at me!



Frantic, I pushed the stick forward and the rudder to the left, staggering the plane so as to spoil his aim.



I immediately climbed and turned to the right, shocked to see a SPAD climbing up to engage him! Where did they come from?



He made quick work of the Hun!



I took stock of my aeroplane and frowned. The left spar was severed, and a set of support wires had snapped with them.



I was also suddenly alone in the air. I climbed gingerly in a circle, shocked to see what had gathered the attention of the others!



I flew towards the melee for some reason, though I knew it would be more prudent to fly the other way, and saw that the Hun were getting the wrong end of the deal.



I pulled to the right, avoiding getting further into the fight, with a plane crossing before me.



Nieuport! Wait, no, was it? Too long, from the looks of it! I climbed away, not wanted to know the answer, to be honest.

Now, however, I was truly alone in the air, and began to take stock of my location. I hadn't seen this aerodrome or village on the way there, so it must be in the wrong direction.



Turning about, to the south I saw three planes. Forming up or chasing? Friendly or enemy? Remembering the lesson of flying up to aircraft with the assumption that they were French and getting a bullet in the arm for my troubles, I avoided them!



Spying the river ahead, I made towards it, hoping to find my landmark.



It took several minutes of flying in circles over the river before I realized I was north of our original track, and flying south soon found my bridge with the small island next to it!





I began to slow as I flew to the west, seeking out more landmarks. The wing began to creak and I blipped the engine off to keep my speed as low as I dared. I needed it to stay attached!

The aerodrome showed in the distance and I made for it, noticing a SPAD below me making for it as well.



The SPAD flew around and over the hangars, landing against the wind to the west. Was this the aerodrome with the small village to the west of our own, or our aerodrome, which also had a small village near it? If I landed would I find that I was an interloper on some other squadron's patch, or was the SPAD setting down on the 87th's home?



My plane buffeted from some wake in the air, and I made up my mind - it didn't matter, I would land before my aeroplane came apart and fell from the sky on its own.





It was not a good landing, as I had slipped at the end to keep the left wing behind the nose, as if that would protect it. As the wheels touched, they immediately wrenched the plane to straighten themselves, slapping the right wing hard on the ground, which bounced me to the left, further damaging the wing.





Though she was a wreck, I had managed to survive my third flight in an aeroplane and my second combat sortie!



Strangely, rather than the paralysis I had experienced after landing before, I was suddenly filled with joy and not a little bit of excitement. I climbed out of the cockpit as if filled with the strength of ten men, leaping directly to the ground rather than using the step.

Of course I instantly regretted it, twisting my ankle and knee as I impacted the turf and winding up rolling underneath the broken wing!

Mechanics and medics raced over to me from the hangars, but I quickly assured them I was alright. It was, of course, the wrong aerodrome, and I managed to explain that I needed a ride home "toot sweet." I was told to wait in the anteroom to what suspiciously looked like the aerodrome's commander's office and heard much loud talking, clearly into a telephone.

When the man came out it was clear that was exactly who he was, and I surmised he was talking to the 87th. I was escorted to an awaiting car by two soldiers carrying rifles, and was somewhat panicked. I've been arrested before, and this sure felt like it did when it happened.

Half an hour later we arrived, where I was taken to our own commander's office. He spoke no English, so another officer was there as a translator; besides that, though, we were alone.

He looked at once angry and contemplative.

"What is your name?"
"Sergeant Pierre Sebastian," I replied, using the name from the documents I arrived with.
"This is a lie."
"Well, yes it is," I replied, looking him in the eye. Everyone, including himself, knew it to be from the moment I had arrived.
"And you left America why, exactly?"
"To avoid arrest," I admitted. It's not like there would be much reason otherwise to come to the middle of a war, would there?
"Who was flying the number 17 scout today?"
"The number 17's assigned pilot is Lieutant Julien Torma." I was now more mad than scared, as he was acting as if he knew nothing of the past or the situation.
"Lieutant Torma is currently in a jail in Paris, having been arrested last night. I will ask you again, who was flying the number 17 scout today?"
"I was," I said flatly. It's not like I could deny it!
"You will write a statement of who you really are, how it is you came to France and assumed the name of a deserter, and your actions today."
"Fine, I'll do that," looking straight at the commander the whole time, ignoring the translating officer.

I was taken to a small room and given a piece of paper and a fountain pen, and I did exactly as he wanted, including who I was, what the charge against me was that I had avoided, and what I'd done in the squadron, including the flight of the 23rd and his knowledge of it. When I returned, the officer read my statement in French to him, stopping several times; he hesitated at the crime I had committed and the part where the commander himself was aware that I had taken Julien's place at the controls before.

The officer was dismissed, and I was left standing across the desk as the commander picked up the sheet of paper, looking at it for himself.

"Is this true?" he asked in English. My face flushed as I realized that he had been playing me for a fool the whole time.
"All of it."
He began to laugh.
"They would send you to jail for this?"
"Two years hard labor, it would be my third offense."
"Amazing place, America. We will, of course, verify your claims."
"Yes, sir."
"In the meantime, you will remain here, restricted to the aerodrome. You are not under arrest, but I must warn you not to go wandering or do anything rash."
"Yes, sir."
"You are dismissed, but I caution you not to talk about today's events to anyone."

[edit]

After the furball, I did a check of enemy and friendly planes. The two scouts were just the lead to a much larger group of aircraft - four two seaters escorted by ten scouts (in addition to the two I engaged), which were in turn met by not only our NP17's but a flight of SPADs and NP28's! Luckily, I missed the bulk of the fight, or I'd be writing Martin's obituary!

Awesome story!
Pure joy to read it and watch the pictures! Thx, Dart!

Outstanding AAR. Great story and screen captures.

More; more.

Great AAR Dart.
I hope to be reading some more of them.


Wheels

Nice AARs. Can I know what RoF is? I've not heard of it.

So good to see. This kind of thing makes such a difference. I'm actually going to fire up RoF for the first time in over a month because of it.
Looking forward to more.