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.

Oh, I'm so glad you showed up!

Next installment gives us Martin's last name.

Hint: he moves to the UK after the war, and his son flys in WWII. In Afrika.

Homage to your skills.



Rise of Flight is a WWI flight simulation produced by Neoqb.

SimHQ review here:

http://www.simhq.com/_air13/air_415a.html

By way of disclosure, I wrote that review.

Great stuff Dart!

...makes me want to enlist in Martin's squadron!

*awaiting the next installment*

Cables and Tethers

1 July, 1917
2200 hours
Commander's Office*

"Paul, come in here," the Commander said from his doorway to the executive officer before walking back to his desk.
"Yes, sir," he said as he obliged, sitting in the chair opposite without asking.
"I have the report on our American mechanic."
"So fast?"
"I had cabled for it to our man in New Orleans six weeks ago, actually."
"Ah."
"Seems that our Martin Miller was telling the truth in his statement."
"Really? Even the charge against him?"
"Oh yes, my friend," the commander laughed, "they would definately had set him to hard labor for two years had he been caught."
"That is insanity! Half of France would be in prison for such a thing if it were illegal! They have actually made adultery a criminal offense!"
"Most assuredly. While he claimed after his arrest that he had no idea his amour was married, it does not good to cockold a judge, no matter how pretty, which is why he fled the minute he was permitted bail."
They both laughed.

"I have a problem, Paul. Torma has been reassigned to Headquarters in Paris, so we are a pilot short. I also have an American fugitive imposter who seems to have become a competent, if very green, one."
"Julien at the Headquarters? But he was arrested for assaulting the police along with all the other things he did!"
"Never underestimate the connections money can bring to powerful people. Regardless, things are what they are, and we must make the best of it."
"I have no solution, sir," the exec said flatly.
"I do. We clean up the record for Msr. Miller and have him put on the rolls as a Sergeant with duties as a pilot."
"Clean up? You mean fabricate!"
"As you say," the commander admitted, "but that is what you shall do. Local training, nothing fancy in the logbook."
"And his kills?" the exec asked, incredulous, "shall I put those in his log book as well?"
"Of course not; don't be silly."
"Well, it's moot, sir. We don't have an aeroplane for him. He damaged the one he was flying on landing, and there is no replacement."
"I think you'll find that we will receive one this evening from the British; they had been hiding a Nieuport 17 for training and were found out."
"Beautiful," he spat back.
"You do not approve?"
"No, sir, I do not."
"Do you dislike him?"
"No, not particularly."
"You wanted him shot for a spy when he arrived, Paul, if I remember correctly."
"I have no ill feelings for Msr. Miller."
"Good, then you won't mind the two other things I want you to do."

The executive officer looked at his commander warily.

"First, I think some sort of reward should be given for his two kills, something small."
"Such as?"
"The Americans that joined us at the start have an emblem on the sides of their plane, a hat in a ring."
"And you want this on a French plane?"
"Oh no, I was thinking something more personal, more fitting."
"A hangman's noose?"
"No," the commander laughed, "I was thinking a cat in the ring instead."

The executive officer thought for a minute, then laughed as well.

"It certainly fits what put a red loop around him here, sir!"
"Have it done by morning."
"Yes, sir, that shouldn't be a problem."

He got up from his chair and made to leave.
"Paul, there is the second task, one I think you will not like so much," the commander reminded.
"And what will you have me to do, sir?"
"Martin still speaks no French."
"I've noticed."
"You speak English."
"Oh, no, sir, please."
"Oh, yes, Paul. You will teach him to speak French. I cannot have a pilot that can't understand the mission briefings!"

* Translated from the French, naturally.

2 July 1917
0700 hours

I was awakened roughly by the executive officer, Paul something or other, who insisted that I had ten minutes to be dressed and in his office. Most of the French are a-okay kind of guys, but this guy took the cake in being a real jerk about everything. Hell, I still haven't forgotten that if he was in charge I'd of been hung!

"Follow me," is all he said when I arrived.
Walking quickly, as if he were going to a task that was distasteful, and therefore best rushed, he lead me to the hangars, stopping me between them before we got to the grass.
"The commander has decided to alter your record, allowing you to stay here."
"Very good news, sir!" I said, and meant it!
"You may not think so once you see the hazardous duty he has assigned you to."

I said nothing, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. By "here" did he mean France, and by "hazardous duty" the Infantry?

We turned the corner to the hangar and I must admit I was a bit perplexed when I saw a Nieuport. One with British markings, an ugly emblem on the side, and the look of wear:



"I am to remain a mechanic," I said, quite let down for all the build up about hazardous assignments.
"No, Sergeant Martin, you are to be this aeroplane's pilot."

I was speechless.

"We will replace the roundels, but the symbols on the side of the fuselage are to remain intact. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"You will be given the day to inspect and repair this aeroplane, and to load ammunition belts. Tomorrow you will assume regular duties."
I just stood there, staring at it.
"Should you survive the day's mission, you will also report to my quarters at 1900 hours tonight and every night for an hour of French language instruction."
I shot him a dirty look without thinking about it.
"I do not care for this either, Sergeant, so I suggest you learn to speak properly very quickly."

Very "suite" stories... but "bonjour kitty"??? Psychological warfare in WWI??? You evil, evil man!

Rolling Out and Missing Barrels

I had spent the entire day with the mechanics working on the "new" number 17, tightening up the wires, checking spars, running the fuel lines and electrics, and testing the engine. The machinegun needed replacing; it looked as though it had been cooked once too often!

Otherwise, though, the aeroplane was in satisfactory shape, if somewhat battered. Like all of the flying stock, repairs had been made here and there, and in pretty short order we'd be stretching and doping new canvas over the frame and wings.

The only thing new was that emblem on the sides of the plane. One of the mechanics told me he had been instructed to put it there by the Executive Officer, but given no reason why. That the mechanic he ordered to place it there seemed to have no artistic conception of what a cat looks like, the cartoon monstrosity was the result.

Still, it was my aeroplane. I was thrilled beyond comprehension, to the point of being shocked by it. The Exec wasn't joking around when he gave me that jab about "if you survive the day" stuff; scout pilots rarely lasted more than a few weeks in the squadron, and some barely an hour from their first combat flight.

That night I arrived at the Executive Officer's quarters at the appointed hour, where I found he looked as displeased with giving a language lesson as I was in receiving it.

"First, here are your credentials," he said, thrusting a set of identification papers, a pay book, and a flight log at me as if they were a rifle and bayonet, "there is no need to inspect them now."
"Yes, sir."
"Non, il est Oui, monsieur," he retorted.
"Oui, monsie-er," I replied.
"Oui, monsier," he repeated, "say it again, properly."
"Oui, monsier," I managed.
"Je suis un idiot," he said, "now you say it."
"Je suis un idiot," I parroted, noting that id-eee-ott sounded a lot like plain old English "idiot."
"Je mourrai bientôt une mort horrible dans l'air."
It took me a few tries on that one. I have no idea how this was supposed to teach me French, but we spend an hour with him spouting out sentences me repeating them back to him. What le noeud coulant du bourreau est le lien de cou du bas né means is beyond me, but he made sure I got that one right as well.*

I made my way back to my cot in the hanger where the rest of the mechanics stayed with a headache but absolutely no further knowledge of this foreign language. The rest of the evening I spent with a huge box of machinegun rounds, inspecting every bullet for defects and placing those that passed muster into the cloth belts that would go into my aeroplane.

The next morning I was up at dawn and suprised to see one of the mechanics, a short little guy named Rene (which I always thought of as a girl's name, but he made up for his lack of height with arms like tree trunks and fists like cannon balls) in the cockpit checking the fuel and castor oil levels as well as the controls.

I'd learned enough French for the talk of the job, of course, and asked him what he was doing there.
"This is my plane."
"No," I corrected, "it's mine."
"You may be the pilot," he said back with a knowing smile, "but the plane, she is mine."

I made my way to the mess hall, where the Executive Officer not only told me that the flight briefing was in an hour, but that I would be put on report if I wasn't in complete uniform when I showed up for it. I was at a loss until the cook pointed at my left breast pocket - I wasn't wearing pilot's wings!

Terror swept through me as I imagined being pointed out and humiliated at my first official flight briefing. What would I do? And then I remembered and ran back to my footlocker, pulling the pilot's wings Julien had given me from the wrappings I had placed around it to keep it safe and, after pinning them on, checking in a mirror to see that they were straight. I must admit I was very proud of my self at the sight of it.

When I arrived, however, the Commander looked upset to see me. I quietly sat down in the back of the group.

The mission was something of a repeat of the one before. Our tanks were still moving towards the front, and there was great concern that they might be attacked by aeroplane or spotted for artillery:



At the conclusion of the briefing, we were made to remain. In both English and French, I was announced and introduced to the other pilots formally by the Commander, which was followed by obligatory, if less than enthusiastic, applause.

"I'm sure he will be a great pilot," the Commander finished in English only, "as he has already demonstrated great affection for the ways of being an aviator."

I had no idea what that was about until the Exec grabbed me by the arm rather roughly as I was leaving.

"What is the big idea?" he demanded.
"I don't know what you are talking about," I replied.
"Where did you get those wings," he asked indignantly, "and why are you wearing them?"
"You said I would be on report if I didn't have them at the briefing," I said back, as loudly as he was speaking to me, "so I got a set."
"The commander was going to present you with aviator's wings, you idiot," he hissed, "his own!"
"I think Lieutenant Torma had beat me to it, Paul," the commander said from across the room, this time with a smile on his face. "Get on the flight line, Sergeant Martin; good luck and good hunting."
The commander's face darkened as he looked at his exec, though.
"I would like to have a word with you in private, if you don't mind..."

The goings on were all forgotten, however, as I climbed into number 17 and went through the ritual of start up and takeoff. I was very pleased to see that I had kept my place in formation, matching my counterpart on the other side perfectly:



I must say something about the nature of the air this day, as it was unlike anything I could have imagined. The only way to explain it is to describe driving a car over a freshly plowed field - there were bumps and ruts in the air, throwing my aeroplane about and making it the Devil's Own in keeping formation for all of us. One couldn't correct for it so much as hang on to one's controls and ensure one wasn't tumbled. I suppose I might have been sick from all of the swaying and rolling up and down, but the truth is I was too busy sweating even at altitude over the situation to contemplate it.

Soon we were approaching where the tanks were, and once again the flight leader lept ahead of the rest of the flight with only myself staying close.



I wondered if those were the same tanks that had somehow been delayed or different ones. Then I noticed the flight lead had suddenly dove to the right towards them, as if to make speed.



I had turned with him, of course, and looked up to see the rest of the flight turned about and flying the other way:



And further on, two planes flying up to greet them! Oh, we were in the back, not the front of the battle!





Tracers ripped the air as they merged, the enemy coming right at me!



The pair of Huns went to my right, holding formation, as I made towards them:



They seemed to stagger in mid air as I rushed up, with the closer diving to the right:





My engine screamed at 2,250 RPMs as I dove on him, the wires whistling as I approached ninety miles an hour, and I was on him in a flash:



And then, crazily, flying past him, so close as to think I could have reached up and grabbed his plane! It struck me that it looked like a beer barrel that had been stretch to make an aeroplane; a very odd thought to have when going at a speed that requires three digits to enumerate!



I went left and climbed to avoid hitting him, and then back to the right, but he had already made his turn:



Looking about quickly, his second was turning to make an attack on me!



Rolling his plane about, he somehow managed to turn on a dime and shoot at me! I slipped hard to the right, away from the bullets, and he missed me, completing his turn right in front of me, flashing past my guns too fast for me to pull the trigger.





He continued his turn and climbed away from me - and right into the guns of one of our own!



I noticed a gray aeroplane tail up on the ground and flew close by after looking about for any more German scouts (both of the interlopers had been shot down) and regretted it. There was no way a man could have survived the crash.

Climbing high, once again I realized that I had been left behind, separated from the remnants of our flight. An aeroplane resolved itself in the distance, but while it wasn't German it certainaly wasn't a Nieuport:



We waved and I made for our home aerodrome.

Near the bridges I spied two more planes in the distance, and made towards them, cautious.

German two-seaters! Now I could get my revenge, and I had come up with a plan to defeat the tail gunners.

I conspired to fly underneath them at great speed and climb steeply, firing as they crossed my guns. I'd blip the engine off on the ascent, which would give me more time to shoot as I slowed, and then turn it back on as I dove away to make for another pass.

With any luck I would strike the engine of the rear plane, causing it to slow and and denying it protection from the lead.

The problem was two fold, however. First the wind ruts were getting worse, bucking me around and sure to spoil my aim; second was the fact that I knew what I wanted to do but had never attempted such a thing before. Regardless, I would attempt it.

My first pass went well enough, though I wound up too far back to make any hits and too near level with him. He returned this error with machinegun fire. He missed, no doubt hindered by the wind furrows that we were bouncing over.

The second pass nearly killed me. I climbed as I wished, close in, but soon realized I was too close - almost colliding with him! I turned away in the climb, leaning away from where I was sure the bullets would pass through the cockpit, only to find I was rolling upside down! Nearly in a panic, I did nothing, frozen, and the aeroplane miraculously completed the roll, coming up level. I went slack on the stick and rudders and turned the magnetoes on, the motor roaring back to life as I searched for the Hun.

I had thought they would be to my left, as I had rolled to the right, but this was contrary to the facts, and I soon resumed my chase. I fired numerous times at the rear plane, exhausting my ammunition, and with great frustration flew underneath him, especially since my last pass had unmasked the pitiful state of his engine. The clanking sound and the steam rising from his holed radiator definately told a tale of the wounds I had inflicted on him, but there was no way I would know if he would be downed or make it back to his lines.

Flying back to the aerodrome, I reflected on the sudden and unplanned maneuver I had made. Climbing to three thousand feet, I climbed (though not so radically as before) and put stick and rudder in the same direction, rolling the aircraft in a horizontal spiral. The engine did not cut out when inverted (though it should have), and after a few practices I discovered that it could be done very gently.

Such a trick might be useful in a fight with an enemy scout, and I was glad to discover it. Perhaps I would share this manuever with the other pilots on my return. I'm sure they would be thrilled to learn it!

My landing was uneventful but for two things: One, I arrived a full half hour behind the rest of the flight and they had started a pool as to whether or not I was dead, and two, I discovered that while the German had missed my head, the cat in the painting didn't make out so well, having been shot right through on both sides:



For a short 37MB .wmv movie (zipped to p...con aircraft...

(I pressed record instead of screenshot, so it's all I have of that melee!)


[edit]

* I promise not to inflict much more Internet translated French on y'all....

You have areal talent there Dart. Good story line and well written. Great screenshots to go with it.

Thanks!

It's clear that it's written in one go without proof reading, though. Lots I would change if I wrote it out outside of the Quick Reply box!

Next mission to be written up tonight, if I find the time.

It's still entertaining to me Dart.
The cat in the ring was a nice touch.
I am looking forward to more "episodes."

One of the pictures links isn't working in your last AAR post.(for me at leaast and I can see all the other ones.)
http://simhq.com/forum/ubbthreads.php/topics/2880728/Re_Martin_the_unlikely_pilot_R.html#Post2880728

This one actually.



Wheels

I'll have to track it down!

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Patrol.

11 June 1917
Aerodrome

The last couple weeks have been miserable. It seems a few things have been decided about me, none of which I particularly care for.

First was the decision that my schooling in piloting needs much improvement, owing to my bravado in announcing I had invented the barrel roll, which is apparently a common maneuver. Everyone laughed at my ignorance but the Commander, who then prevented me from combat flying. Instead I spent my days blipping around the grass, hopping into flight that took me no further than five feet from the ground, and all the things that new pilots endure at flight school. I would have protested to the Escadrille Commander, but he was the one conducting lessons! The last week was much better, as it was dedicated to aerobatics, where I learned the loop, the barrel roll, and the Immelman turn, along with common combat tactics.

I asked about how to best shoot down planes, as my shots have missed more than hit, only to be rebuffed. "Just get closer," the Commander said, "and you'll be sure to hit." I hadn't the heart to say that I miss the other plane at arm's length from my propellor!

Second was the language lessons. Three weeks and I have not improved very much, as the Executive Officer has had me repeat sentences in French without English translation letting me know what they mean for an hour every night. It doesn't take a linguist to know they're mostly insults towards me.

And third is the distain the other pilots of all ranks have for me. I am unwelcome in the pilot's club, the excuse being that it is for officers and their guests only. In the mess I am unspoken to; the hostility is so great that I have been taking my meals either with the mechanics or by myself.

It would be unsufferable but for the my bunk in the hangar, from which I can look at my aeroplane. The fuselage panel was patched and the cat in the ring refreshed (much to my chagrin) and the British roundels haven't been changed for French (the mechanics wanted to wait until sufficient canvas arrived, changing it when they replace the wing coverings), but she looks absolutely beautiful to me.

At any rate, with pilots being lost nearly daily, it wasn't long until they had no choice but to put me back into the air:



The air was beautiful for flying and the skies clear. I took off in formation and we quickly formed up and made towards our patrol area. We had flown scarcely ten minutes until we saw a great battle in the distance:





From the looks of things by tracers, it was four against two, and in short order was clear that it was our side taking the worst of things - at least until the five of us showed up!



The lower plane to the left turned away from me, and I pursued.



Only to find that the silhouette of a plane is the same whether it is flying towards one or away!



I snapped my head around, following with stick and rudder:



He turned to his left as he passed under me, and I to my right, but he turned faster than I and climbed at an incredible speed past my nose.



I had pulled too hard on the stick, and my own aeroplane groaned. Pushing the control stick forward to relieve the strain, there I saw a second Hun diving beneath me!



I made to pursue, but he was much too fast!





Wallowing in the air, I could do little but watch him climb away.



Fortunately, it was into the waiting sights of one of our own, catching him unaware as the German tried to maneuver against a member of my flight:



It is never pretty to see a pilot burning.





To my right another Hun, probably the one that had nearly crashed into me, was turning the wrong way. I made to pursue, attempting to gain airspeed, but my flight members were all to eager to demonstrate the most violent way of shooting down Jerry.





We scanned the skies, but both the Huns and whomever they were fighting had flown away. Regrouping, we continued to our patrol area.



I spotted two aircraft in the distance, and waving at the flight to gain their attention, turned towards them.



Definately two seaters!





Approaching low as to spoil the aim fo the tail gunner who was already firing at me, I dove and then pulled up, firing a long burst as my sights carrried over him.







My guns instantly jammed, but it was no use for this one, as the tracers must have struck bomb or gasoline tank!



I dove to make the same move on the lead German, and was rewarded with angry fire from the tailgunner. Thankfully he missed as I rolled the aeroplane left and dove away from the smoke of his rounds!





This slowed me quite a bit, and I made to catch up to the others, who now had him firm in their sights;







My guns cleared, I once again fired a long burst at the Bosche, diving under him and seeing the damage I had done to his wings.









But I wasn't alone in pursuit:



Climbing up to both slow my aeroplane and position my self to quickly dive on him, the mess we had made of his aircraft and the dire straights he was in was obvious.



Pushing the nose down as they crossed under me, I grimaced at the sight of one of our own coming dead in on his tail and into the gunner's aim:



I had said earlier that the image of a pilot burning is never pleasant; when its one of your own its absolutely sickening.





His second, however, was quick to take revenge.



The engine on the two seater was dead, and the gunner behind the pilot as well, if his absence from his position was any indication. I flew forward to look at it.





I was so angry that I followed the German down, taking great satisfaction in seeing the crash.









I rejoined the surviving members of our flight and we made it back to our aerodrome unmolested.



Rene was waiting with brandy and a smile, seeing first that the aeroplane was undamaged and then that the gun had been fired.

"One," I said to his questioning eyes.
He laughed and clapped me on my back, pulling me into the hangar and away from the dirty looks of the other returning pilots.

I completed my log book and submitted it to the Executive Officer when I reported for my nightly parrot lessons.

He read my entry and threw it back at me, angry.
"What is this!"
"It's English," I shot back, "you know I can't write in French yet!"
"You have claimed downing a German aircraft!"
"I did."
"Lies!"
I balled my fist.
"You cannot follow a machine after it has been disabled to the ground and claim it as your own!"
"I did not claim that one;" I said slowly, measuring my words, "I shot down the trailing two seater."
"You did not," he said as if it were a fact.
"I was first to the flight, and I was the only one firing at it when it burst into flames and came apart in the air," I protested.
"That was not you," he continued, his face red, "That was the work of Lieutenant...." He paused, searching for the name, then continued, "of that new pilot, who was then killed by the first."
"That." I said, haltingly, "Is. A. Lie."
"It is what the rest of the flight has said, and it is the truth."
I said nothing, matching his glare. He looked away, his voice softening.
"The claim will go to him, along with the citation for it, back to his family."

I was undone, and knew it. The fix was in, and I deflated. As much as it angered me to not get credit, I felt sympathy. The pilot was so new to the squadron the Exec couldn't recall his name and he'd been killed on his first combat sortie. It would matter far less to me in years to come (should I live that long) than to a grieving widow or mother who might then believe her husband or son had not died in an instant with no result.

"Fine. Remove it."

I was dismissed for the evening without my language lesson.

It was a far better reward than any medal they might have awarded me.

[edit]

For all the claims that the stock campaign missions are sterile of flights and action that are outside of the objectives, I seem to have great luck at the random spawn of "other" flights and objects. I've seen trains and truck convoys on the road (though not in great abundance) and more than a few distant fights. This one happened to be right in our path, so we got to mix it up directly.

More good reading Dart.
I hope Martin "lives" a long time.


Wheels