Thanks for your kind words! It lets me know that folks are reading this and that its worthwhile to continue the tale on the Interwebs. Of course I'd just keep making it up in my head while playing, but it's almost as much fun to write it out.

This next mission was replayed about three times, each with different events but the same ending in two of them (which is why they had to be replayed). The first iteration, which is the one I'm going to use, was ruined by a crash landing that didn't look to bad to me, but was fatal! The second time these N28's and Dolphins showed up and two of them decided to occupy the same space in the virtual skies as myself! The last time there was a big furball right off of the objective - seven baddies against seven of us (two Dolphins were getting worn out), and while I survived the scrape (no kills credited, but what a melee!) it really wasn't as interesting storywise as the first one. Indeed, on both replays I was just wanting to get through it so I could tell the tale and move on to the next mission!

Suprising Reflections
11 August 1917
0810 hours
Dommartin les Toul Aerodrome

I was lounging at the mouth of the hangar, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. Our scheduled mission was to be in the afternoon, and we hadn't been called for the briefing until 1300.

I had an idea things might be otherwise when I saw the Escadrille Commander walking briskly across the lawn of the aerodrome as if in a big hurry, his flying jacket undone and flapping behind him.

"Martin," he called out when he was twenty feet away, "get the machines in position and have the mechanics make them ready!"
"Rene!" I barked needlessly, as instantly he himself was barking commands to the ground crew.
The Commander paused when he reached me, looking irritated.
"Why aren't you suiting up?" he asked, and then looked about, as if expecting to see others.
I was at the back of the hangar putting on my flight gear when I heard the Executive Officer call out as he approached.
"Where are the others?" the Commander demanded.
"Not on the aerodrome - the barracks and mess are empty," the Exec cried out, frustrated.
"Then find some gear, Paul," the Capitian advised, "see if Martin has another set stowed back there."
In fact I did; jackets, helmets, gloves, and goggles from pilots that had quit, been injured or died were stored in a large bin against the wall. They had all been cleaned, as the mechanics used the the coats in times of rain (and saved the rest for when winter would come) and one never knew who would need a replacement. I had an extra scarf to loan as well. I was picking out the best of them even as he made his way past the bustle of men pushing aeroplanes out of hangar and into the sunlight.

The Commander walked back to us and scratched in the dirt, first making a crude map and then then a series of lines on it.

"We've been telephoned that German scouts have been following and harrassing a column of tanks we've been shifting behind the lines here," he said, stabbing at the point where two bridges crossed the river not far from our aerodrome. "The Army had put them up on the front to be seen as a ruse, with the actual attack to be north of here, and it will be ruined if they make it back to give the news."



Nieuport engines sputtered and roared, the mechanics speeding things up by warming the engines, as we made final adjustments. The Commander fastened his coat and began rummaging for a helmet and goggles, while I dug out a pair of gloves for him. He touched his neck, realizing he had no scarf, and ducked into my quarters.

A ripping sound had me looking in, where he was quickly tearing a length off of my bedsheets! Satisfied, he wrapped it twice around his neck and tucked the ends secure.

"Not as good as silk, but better than the wool of my collar!" he said unapologetically.

Once ready we moved immediately to our machines without fanfare.



The mechanics for two of the aeroplanes, either by common sense or the direction of Rene (who had become something of a straw boss), had left the other two idle on the grass, helping the others make the readiness of our own go quicker.



They looked sad, as if left behind behind their will, as I looked back after taking off.



The wave of his arm told us to form up echelon right, and we took our positions.



As we neared the bridges, he had us form a Vee, with the Exec taking his left.



We found the ground machines on the road, but without a sight of the Germans.



They were waving and pointing frantically as we crossed over them, though, so we made southwest, looking over the forest.



They had seen us as well, and we charged one another!



The lead of the pair climbed, firing as we met, but I had by now learned never to chase directly.



I was rewarded in seeing the second staying low, conserving his speed, ready to shoot should we point our machines in the air, providing him a perfect, stationary target.



Letting my Number 17 turn, I kept with the German, seeing the lead Hun fall in behind him and dive away.



I stayed with my Hun, firing short bursts when he crossed my guns and trying to keep my speed up. These German flying machines were devils of speed, and one could never give much ground to them!













As he climbed I could see him looking backwards, but it wasn't at me - his gaze was higher.



A chill came over me and snapped my head rearwards. Mercy!



I began a right turn in order to cross underneath him, hoping to climb and gain his tail unseen.



This was not to be; he slipped down in a right turn, spoiling my line, and in an instant would be lining up his guns. My throat when dry and a terror crept over me instantly.



I rolled high and to the right as late as I dared, ruining his aim and whooping for glee in my head (I made no sound, as my jaw was clenched so tightly that later it would ache) as I saw a Nieuport swoop down unseen.



A brutal cascade of French machinegun rounds riddled my murderer, sending him into the ground before he could complete his task.



Even as I rejoiced, the fellow I had assaulted earlier crossed behind me, having gained altitude.



I turned about, hoping to return the favor one of my senior officers had gifted me.



He made to a right hand turn as I climbed towards him, and then stuttered to the left, making his target the higher Nieuport closest to him.



It was a mistake, as I was on him at once.



He tracked left, and I with him, my engine roaring over his at 2,500 revolutions per minute, shaking my little machine as the wind over the wires shrieked.



My vision narrowed and breath left me as I pulled the handle to the gun, pushing myself up against the restraing strap with both feet on the pedals pushed hard with my legs.



A quick burst and a jam! I pounded my fist against the gun with rage so hard that I would carry a bruise for a week as I pulled high to his right .



Quickly fading left so as to stay behind him, I worked the charging handle four times, clearing and loading the gun three times, only to look right and see matters were well in hand.



Being possessed of a balanced state of mind, the Commander and Exec acted far more rationally than I had, each making a run on the enemy in turn.



He nosed so hard that his aeroplane went end over end, summersaulting before smashing the pilot's head into the ground.



Forcing myself to relax, I reformed up with the flight as we ensured there were no other enemy machines in the air around us.



By the time we made to go back to the aerodrome, I had stopped trembling. Still, the sight of that German moving up on me and firing was fixed in my mind, making me shake my head to get rid of it.



Soon we were nearing home, and I pushed all thought from my head as I made to land.



Once on the ground, the mechanics came out to handle our aeroplanes as we taxied them to the hangars. I accepted Rene's help out of the cockpit, where I was joined by the Commander and Exec. We shared knowing looks without a sound and went our separate ways.

I stripped off my gear and laid down on my desheveled bed, covering my face with a damp towel. The light came through the white fabric, and I let my eyes unfocus against it, feeling at once so light as to float within myself and terribly heavy. Every part of me ached as I went limp, except for my hand, which began to throb with pain. It must have been Rene that came in and covered me with a blanket; he did not speak and I did not ask who it was.

It was just after dark that a runner came for me, instructing that I was wanted in the Commander's office.

Cursing, I put on a clean uniform and made my way there.

The Exec was waiting as well, and they both stood as I entered. The chairs had been moved in front of the desk to sit in a center facing triangle, and three glasses stood next to a bottle of English whisky.

I accepted mine and motioned with the silent toast offered, taking it down in one long drink.

We stood just looking at eachother, as if to say anything would be to say too much. I finally grunted and moved to the desk, refilling my glass.

"Martin," the Commander finally said, as if beginning an unpleasant task, "why do you hate the other pilots?"
"You've got it backwards," I shot back, "they hate me, and have since the first day I became a pilot."
The Exec gave me an incredulous look as if slapped for no reason, but the Commander laughed.
And then he became very serious, if a bit sad.
"How many pilots were in the Escadrille when we made you a flyer?" he asked.
"I'm not sure - twenty five or thirty," I admitted.
"Twenty one," he said, then quickly corrected himself, "Twenty two with yourself."
"Okay, twenty two."
"And how many of those twenty two are either dead or wounded so badly they have been removed from flight duties?"
"I don't know," I said again, "maybe half."
The Exec went pale, standing up, pouring from the bottle, tilting back his glass, and quickly repeating the action.
The Commander nodded, as if finally understanding something.
"Of the original pilots, Martin," he said as if reciting a statistic, "Only Paul here, Rendell, and yourself are still with us."
"And that damned Torma," came a verbal shot from next to the desk, "who is still living fat and happy at Corps Headquarters."
"Yes, and Torma," the Commander allowed.
"Oh," I said, letting the situation correctly unfold for me. It wasn't the Escadrille's pilots that were rejecting me; I had been rejecting them.

We each had another drink.

I allowed myself a small smile.
"I don't have to make friends with them, do I?"

The laughter broke the tension, and with it, the Commander walked over to a shelf and pulled a folded newspaper from it.

It was with a wicked grin that he tossed it to me. There, on the front page, was a picture of Number 17 with Rene at the controls!



Below the fold was one of him standing next to the wing, looking confident and very much the part of the aviator.

"The reporter was from Quebec, but he had a limited run made here for Canadian troops and as a present for you."

I read the caption.
"The little kitten?" I exclaimed, "That's terrible! And they have it wrong! This says 'Double' Ace!"
"You idiot," the Exec smirked, "you are one."
"No," I countered, "I only just made ten kills."

They thought this was very funny; the count for Ace had been moved from ten to five almost immediately after the war had begun, and I was woefully behind the times!

"Rene looks good, though," I observed, changing the topic.
"Yes, and I'm sure he's going to be quite famous around Touls."
"Why?"
"Because as far as any of the young ladies will know, he's the moody double Ace Sergeant Martin Miller."
I honestly hadn't thought about that. Maybe having him stand in for me wasn't such a good idea afterall!

We let the topic drift to the day's mission, talking through what had happened. They both thought I had done a very good job of keeping a lookout around me even while chasing so closely after that Hun, and that I had timed my evasive maneuver perfectly. They tossed aside my confession that I was very much out of control of the situation as modesty, and soon wandered into our experiences with close calls and the gallows humor of mistakes made.

The sun was rising when the small party ended, and the Exec and I stood against the dew, gathering ourselves for the long walk to our beds. He gave me a very strange look, as if coming to a decision, and then stuck out his hand to me, as if to introduce himself.
"I am Lieutenant Paul Guillaume, of the 87th Escadrille," he said seriously, watching my eyes.
"I am Sergeant Martin Miller, of the 87th Escadrille" I responded in like kind, taking his hand.

He laughed, clapped his hand on my back, and we went our different ways.

I didn't know it at the time, but that moment, and not the one where he had swooped down to save my life, was the one that started a life long friendship.

I must have got here too early before because this "episode" has a much better ending now.
The first one was quite abrupt compared to your norm.

You do spin a good yarn Dart.


Wheels

I had to run a quick errand and hit "submit" rather than losing and having to re-type three quarters of it, and then came back and finished it!

To be honest, I was really hoping a mission like this would come along. I don't know what glitch in the mission generator caused two of the planes to be unmanned, but the second I took off I knew who the other two pilots were!

Part of the fun of making up a story to go along with campaigns is waiting for the right events to happen that will fit into the near term story arc; they're as gratifying as when new ones get invented!

For example, I wanted Martin to get a likeable friend who would teach him French, but I also wanted him to lose that friend in combat. So Layfayette was pulled from the ether, and when one of the pilots in the rain mission wandered off it was an easy fit - if a "lite" version, as Martin is still struggling with the language. Ol' Jaques can be thankful it happened so early after his introduction, as it saved his life! Similarly, I wanted the Exec and Martin to become friends of a sort, but that mechanism seemed to be inscruitable. Having that Nieuport come down and save my butt was a godsend!

Btw, that was one of the most intense moments I've had in the sim. I'm looking back (and I don't know why I checked six; normally I get target fixated) and watching as this guy is going to come down and kill me without very much I can do about it. To have a flight member whoosh down and dust him as he climbs to get a better bead on me was incredible!

I can tell by the enthusiasm in your writing that you are having a great time with RoF.

You mentioned in the story that the pilot of the plane you were attacking looked over his shoulder.
Was that dramatic license or are the AI looking around much more than in IL-2?
So much so that you might be able to take a cue from them like you described today?


Wheels

Pure dramatic license! While the AI does look around, track each other, leaders give hand signals, etc., one has to be pretty close to see it. OTOH, it's going to be fantastic when we get the replay function for RoF; the AI track eachother with their heads much more naturally than in IL-2, and even make minor movements.

Multi-player is a different story, though; since the player's head is mirrored in game to where he is looking on his side of the monitor, you can - if you're close enough - see where they're looking!

It all sounds cool Dart.
I can hardly wait for Martin's first movie.


Wheels

Getting Closer to Pilots
12 August 1917
1000 hours
Touls hospital

Layfayette was in great spirits; not only had he survived his first combat mission, he managed to escape the crash with injuries that were far less severe than the doctors had feared when he arrived. Four broken ribs, a broken leg, and a bullet hole through the arm would have him released this day from the hospital (where they had no room to spare) and then sent on convelescent leave for thirty days.

I joked around with him over the disturbance in the hallway off of the officer's ward, by which I mean that we had to talk loudly over the disturbance in the hallway in order to talk about the disturbance in the hallway.

Rene had insisted on driving me, and his popularity made for as much of a scene as he could fabricate, particularly with the women. They had all seen his picture in the paper, of course, and while he wasn't much to look at he apparently was quite a charmer.

Young Jaques thought it was a perfect joke, and while I was beginning to tire of Rene pocketing addresses of pretty girls and asking me what it was like to be friends with such a great hero, I couldn't be angry or jealous. I had, after all, embraced the idea of his impersonating me for the newspapers and the Americans.

Besides, a rather striking brunette had given me her name and rendezvous instructions for later in the week when Rene was simply too busy to talk to her. It might all be a ruse to get to the "real" Sergeant Martin, but one for which I would be all too willing to be an exploited victim.

We loaded Jaques into the car for a trip to the aerodrome with a minimum of fuss; he was far more worried that we position him in the wheelchair such that his war cross was hidden than causing him greater injury!

The Escadrille treated his return as if he was a hero! The other pilots had rushed out to the car and insisted on carrying him to the infirmary by hand, laughing and joking with him.

I was jealous of this, and ashamed for it. Of course he would be popular with them; it had never dawned on me - no matter how nonsensical it would be otherwise - that anyone could be my friend and cross the door to the wardroom and be liked as well.

A better man would have followed along and embraced the homecoming. He wasn't around (or, rather, was being carried by joyous friends), so I skulked back to my fabricated quarters to play some Solitare and yell at Rene for not having any hot coffee available. He was in far too good a humor to take offense, and only laughed at me.

In an hour or so Lieutanant Rendell came to my door, peeking around the corner and then coming in when he saw I was at my desk.
"Sergeant Martin, am I intruding?"
"Come on in, it's a free country," I replied, and he smiled.
"An odd expression," he said, taking a chair, "it must be American."
"Oui," I admitted, and after a pause, "what can I do for you?"
"I've been your flight leader on most of your missions for months and I don't think I've said two words to you."
"Well," I countered, "we have shared many arm signals, if that counts."
He smiled, then turned serious.
"A lot of our pilots are very new, Martin, and I heard rumors we may begin more missions over the lines rather than keeping guard behind them."
"Oh, really?" I had began to wonder about that.
"Yes, and I want you to stay in the number five position so that you can guard them."
"Suits me fine."
"When the enemy approaches, though, I also want you to stay close to me."
"I can do both?"
"You have been all along," he admitted, "but I want you to be doubly so."
I gave him a puzzled look.
"Martin, you and I have an ability to fly missions and return."
I gave him another puzzled look.
"This is not so common."
"Oh, I don't think so, Rendell. One just needs to not get shot down, crash, or do something foolish."
He gave a grim sort of laugh.
"I had a bad dream that I was finally put down, on fire, every night for a week."
I did not mock him. I had such dreams myself, and it was a very real outcome to our work.
"Then we'll make sure it is only a nightmare," I allowed. We nodded to eachother, as if a pact had been made.

I pulled out a bottle of brandy and we shared a drink. It turns out Rendell was from a region called Alsace, which oddly enough was part of Germany! Apparently the region had been contested for many years, and the population divided between those who saw themselves as French and those who saw themselves as German - with their own flag and government! When the war started, his family had moved quickly to Paris and when he was of age he had signed up to be a pilot.

He left half a bottle later. I wouldn't say we were friends - Rendell talked about himself and whatever the subject as if giving a lecture in class rather than as to a friend - but I certainly didn't hate him.

On the next morning his rumors of bringing the fight to the enemy were proven unfounded, as we were given the task of protecting the factory again:



At the appointed hour we took off and in short order had made our way to the factory, noting that the patrol we were relieving was a pair of Sopwith Dolphins. I had heard that our Nieuport 17's were deemed obsolete, but it was something of a slur to require five of us to do the job of two.

Unless, of course, they had been met by Germans and that was all that remained.



We began a circuit around the place, the formation slowly falling apart as the younger pilots struggled to keep up! The front looked as depressing as always; I was not eager to fly over it!



Seeing the skies clear, I became bored with circling near Rendell, and thought about his request to stay close to him.



So I did, practicing lining up my sights and generally sticking to his tail!













I thought it was great fun, but Rendell studiously ignored me!





As we formed up to depart, though, I saw the price of providing a bad example! One of the new pilots attempted the same, and nearly caused collisions within the flight!









Soon enough we were nearing Touls, and I drifted from the flight for a flash over the town. Rene had promised to do so to his list of girls, and who was I to stand in the way of romance!







As I flew over, I saw three scouts in the distance. Relieved that they weren't Germans (two seaters always flew in pairs), I decided to approach them and wave a hello.



But not before dipping my wing for the suburbs! I noted a tavern that we had not visited, making a mental note of where it was.



The aeroplanes were circling, no doubt gaining altitude before crossing the lines to the enemy, but my powerful rotary was much better than whatever they had in their machines.



Blast my luck! They were Germans, plain enough, and I ensured my guns were charged.



They did the same, firing at me!



I dove beneath their guns, deciding to take the machine to the left.







I picked the nose up, firing at long range, and to my suprise saw my tracers run true! I put it back down quickly, though, as the gunners on two seaters were well practiced.



As I neared, it was clear that the crew would be injured, as the fabric of their plane had been riddled with my machinegun. I checked my gun and pulled up, ready to give the final blow and move to the next.



A terrible mistake! The gunner was waiting on me, and as I climbed to him with my gun firing, he fired as well! Crouching behind the engine, I pushed the stick forward as a terrible slapping noise of his bullets ruined my motor, ceasing it in an instant.

The firing stopped and I dared a look. He was on fire!



Worse, his dive was right in front of me, and I had to slip to avoid a collision!



With no engine to roar, I could hear the screams of the observer at such a close range.



It was a horrible thing to witness, and I was glad for when it keeled over to a hard dive.



I made for my own "dead stick" landing, picking a field facing Touls.



There was no such luxury for the Huns. They took what the ground offered without mercy.



I made a poor landing, ground looping and wrecking the left lower wing and snapping the spar, but was uninjured. I got out and inspected the machine - it would need a new motor, cowling, and some repairs besides the wing. Rene would be greatly displeased.

Still, I had lived and the Germans had died. The machines themselves were of little consequence in my tally book.

On return to the aerodrome, there were two things waiting for me.

The first was a note dropped from the two seater flight, which I found very strange. The Germans had taken note of my record and sent them with congratulations on behalf of the Jasta in this sector. It seems they are looking forward to meeting me in the skies.

The second was a small addition to my medal!



Why fill out a log book when one need only to consult the awards clerk on the proper number of clusters for the award was a terrible thought to have, but Rendell thought it was funny when I whispered it to him after he received his own palm right after me.

I returned to my quarters and had a fine meal while Rene shouted insults from the hangar at Number 17's return.

Tsk tsk.
See what happens when you try to impress the ladies.


Wheels

Haha, so there was something of a field trip afterall

Keep at it Dart, it's a blast!

OK, where is it ?

I want another Martin story.