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

I was pretty ticked that I didn't get credit for that recon bird! I think one of my squaddies pumped a round into it on the way down!

Well i restarted my N17 career as well, (shame you can't keep the previous one)
already had that pussy skin for the N17 ;-)
hope i can kill some more birds this time around. it sure isn't nice to fly in heavy weather.
keep up the good work Dart, much appreciated.

Rodin in Rof.

excellent series dart! keep em coming!

Great stuff Dart!

Jason

Please keep them comin' Dart!

Great fight today, I'll put up the story and pics tonight.

Had to restart the campaign due to illegal interference. I had paused the sim and left the room on a Wifey Mission, only to discover my son had "finished" the patrol intercept I was on the way home from.

Just as well, though, Martin was supposed to have zeroed out his kill count.

It was nice of him to help you out Dart.


Wheels

Unfortunately, I had blipped the engine off just before pausing, which meant he wound up gliding and then spinning into some trees. Poor kid apologized a zillion times, saying he didn't know how to start the engine. Too bad, really, as I had shot down two and forced down another (we were both out of ammo and his engine was shot) by flying directly above him, making him dive away again and again until he crashed. I'm going to try it again in a future mission, as it was simply too cool. But it killed the campaign, so I just started over.

The dates matched up to the narrative, so I just went with the flow:

Unexpected Wingmen
12 July, 1917
France

Rene woke me with the ringing of a cow bell, using one of the few English words he knew in a loud voice as he did so.
"Up, up!"
I rubbed my eyes and instantly regretted it. I had been sorting machinegun rounds until late in the evening, and the odd grime of brass was now making me blink hard and weep against the sunlight coming into the hangar.
Sunlight! Judging by the shadows, it had to be nearly nine in the morning, and briefings were usually held then! Putting on the clean shirt Rene handed me, I pushed my boots on, threw on my hat, and nearly ran to the briefing area as I wrestled on my jacket. I arrived just before it began, slipping into a chair at the back. The mission would take me to a familiar spot:



I studied the map intently, as I had brought neither my own or a pad of paper on which to take notes.

Afterwards, I approached the small table where there was an urn of coffee, my fellow pilots making room for me as if I had some sort of disease, dispersing to the outside of the hangar to smoke cigarettes without so much as a Good Morning. I poured myself a much needed cup, made much too strong, and brushed past them to where the mechanics were pushing out the aeroplanes in readiness. My spirits rose at the sight of my own, now with proper French roundels.

I smiled at them as I approached, and they greeted me with so much comraderie that it warmed me much more than the beverage in my hand. My flight gear had been brought out as well, placed on the lower wing, and I started what seemed like a ritual of putting it all on. Shirt collar slack, silk scarf wrapped carefully to cover all of my neck, ends tucked in to keep it secure, shirt buttoned back up, wool sweater on, thick pants for a second layer on my legs, overcoat, helmet and goggles, with the mittens held in my hand for later. I peeked into the cockpit to see my map case and a grease pencil were on the seat, so I pulled it out and made annotations while the mission waypoints were still fresh in my head.

The mechanics did shoot each other conspiratorial looks while they worked, though, and I was getting curious as they started the engines to ensure it would run and be warm for when I had to take off.

I was also getting curious that the number four plane's pilot had walked out in full gear and had performed the pre-flight checks and engine warming himself. The other pilots seemed to only arrive ten minutes before launch, walking around their aeroplanes in a perfunctory manner and going through the minimums of control checks, as if such things were best left to their juniors who were stuck on the ground. Before I could contemplate it further, Rene stepped forward, holding something behind his back.

"For you," he said in French, and presented me what looked like a bundle of woolen socks.
Seeing my look of confusion, he rolled the top of it down to reveal a rather large metal flask hidden within.
"Coffee," he said, "Socks to keep it warm."
"Magnificent," I replied in French, meaning it, and they acted more delighted than I was at the prospect of having something warm to drink while in the air!

With that, I climbed into the cockpit at seeing my hesitant comrades walking across the grass to their aeroplanes, and ran through the controls. Rudder, elevator, ailerons. Gun charged. Map case and coffee secured. All pilots in aeroplanes, and the lead started his engine as they pulled away the chocks. My own started immediately, and I blipped the engine in a steady thrum to keep it running but not moving forward, smiling to myself at the power of the motor pushing the wings left to the ground as it powered up, rocking them back as it relaxed.

I glanced over at the number four pilot, but he was concentrating on the leader of the flight:



In short order we were in the air and formed up, making a grand sight!





The landmarks were familiar, and I was beginning to relax and enjoy the sensation of flying when in the distance I saw a familiar but disconcerting sight:



We made for the melee, trying to count and make out planes as we approached.





Fellow Nieuport 17's in trouble! This would not stand!



As we entered the combat, two Huns made to my left in front of me.



The trailing plane dove to the right, and I made to put him in my gunsight:



Rather than directly pursue, I slipped slightly as I turned, catching him as he climbed to make a more sharp turn. I was learning!







Raking my sights across his aeroplane, I fired a long burst:





To my suprise, his upper left wing failed him, flying up and over the right one!



For a sickening instant his plane seemed to hang in the air, as if deciding what to do, and then plummeted to the ground..

There was no time for basking in the victory, as I scanned wildly around me and made for the bee swarm some six hundred yards away. Six planes, I quickly counted, knowing it was too many. The closest planes were friendly, however:







But they were seeing somethin I wasn't, and a glance backwards confirmed my fears. Turning about quickly, I was glad that the Hun hadn't been much closer!



The Jerry charged at me, head on, scaring me so badly that I failed to fire my guns.



He flashed under my aeroplane with a whisker to spare from colliding with me, and I looked back even as I made the controls to turn about.





And so it went, turn and face each other, as if we were knights jousting, turn and face each other, three deadly circuits in which neither of us could score a hit, until finally I tried a desperate measure. On his next pass I pulled high even as he approached, twisting my aircraft about like a dancer, and reversing in an instant. He gained ground on me, but my dive soon put my airspeed equal and better than his.

I had found his tail!



He quickly saw my move and turned underneath me, and I made to perform the same trick again...



...only to discover he, too, had it in mind. By sheer luck I found him in front of my gun, hanging in the air, waiting to drop his nose on me.




I saw the bullets enter his craft's fuselage behind the engine and the sudden jerk of the pilot that immediately become a slump. There was no need to pursue any further.



Once again whipping my head around, there to my right was a German flying towards me with two of my flight curling in after him!



Seeing the Nieuport to the right extending away, I blipped the engine, turned hard left, started it back up again, and took aim.



Tracers whizzed beneath my aeroplane, and I begged off of Jerry's tail in order to save my own! Slipping left and looking back, I saw no aeroplanes. I slapped my head forward to see that it was one of my own that had been over eager! Worse, he had lost the track of his flight and nearly spun into the ground!



I cursed as I was forced to catch up with the enemy. Their damnable planes were just so fast!



I thought I had him as he turned right and left, but in my haste I had made to turn too quickly and had to blip the engine off for fear of having the wings fly off on their own!



He took advantage of the respite, diving away and then turning back on me:





I turned right with him, blessing the rotary for twisting my about in the sky.



He was so fast, though, and my maneuver had slowed me so much, that I could do little but watch him fly away from me.



In fact, he moved so quickly that I tracked him by his shadow on the ground, and made to take advantage of his reverse.





This time, however, I would make a gentle turn, shaped like a U, and hold my altitude, hoping he would turn about and climb much in the shape of a fish hook.



It worked!





I fired as he rolled his plane from a right turn to a left, ripping into his upper wing!



He dove away, but we would not let him escape!



I was back on him in a split moment, as he made the mistake of climbing.



I pressed the trigger, letting a long stream of hand picked machinegun rounds find their mark:



Looking about, I found myself alone in the air. What convention of madness has aeroplanes thick around one for one moment, roar and tracer, and then none around to be seen the next, as if they had never existed but in the imagination?

I made for home, scanning the skies for friend or foe, but seeing only a train puffing its way up the line:



It reminded me of the coffee Rene had sent with me, and I pulled off a mitten in order to make off the top and have some. It was no longer hot, but it certainly wasn't frozen, either. I drank it greedily, finding that even its slight warmth felt good in my mouth and down my throat.

I spotted the rest of the flight - four planes, meaning we hadn't lost anyone - approaching the field, readying to land, and I took my turn, running my plane right up to the hangars and signalling to Rene, who had positioned himself on the other side of the aerodrome, that all was well with his aeroplane.



My jaunty wave belied an exhaustion that I did not realize until I made to get out, and it was with Rene's help that my foot found its mark on the side of the fuselage, and his strong hand on my back kept me from falling to the ground. I sat on the grass and then let myself lay on my back, arms at my side. There was no looks of worry, though, as I was smiling. A moment later I accepted the hand up and walked arm and arm with him into the hangar, where he helped me remove my flight gear.

I was amazed to see my clock showed it only at half past twelve. I would have sworn it had been six hours passed in the air, not two and a quarter! I made out my log and penned a short summary of the flight for later translation, handing them to Rene to deliver to the Executive Officer. I took a meal of bread and cheese right there, and fell asleep without bothering to wash up first.

1800 hours, Officer's Mess

I arrived as ordered, washed and in a clean uniform, quite uncertain as to what I was summoned for. The tables had been moved from their typical columns to a U shape, with the head table standing off from the others. The other pilots of the Escadrille were waiting, including three from the morning's flight, all looking anxious and eager, but with a menacing gleam in their eyes. The Executive Officer sat behind the table, papers in front of him, and I noticed that behind me as I walked in there was a military policeman.

"Is this your sworn statement on what happened in the air today?" he began, in a serious tone that spelled trouble.
"Yes it is," I responded, with some chuckles and gasps coming from the assembled audience.
"You claim three Germans downed by your gun?"
"I do," I said, anger welling up inside me.
"You claim you single handedly engaged and destroyed two German scouts within a few minutes, and then downed a third shortly thereafter?"
"He did," said a loud voice from the right side of the room, the speaker obscured by a line of aviators that had pressed forward to get a better look at my undoing. They parted immediately, revealing the Escadrille Commander.
"Sir, I thought you had gone to Division today..." the Exec started, and then trailed off at the stare he was being given. He gathered himself and began again, "The pilots in his flight said -"
"I was a pilot in his flight, taking Rendell's place," he stated, flat of emotion, but with force, "and Rendell took mine in delivering reports to Division."

He walked to the center of the tables as I moved quickly towards the open end of them, closest to the door.

"And as a member of his flight, I can attest to his statement and probably add much to it, as three short paragraphs do little justice to his bravery and skill shown today," and with that transpired into French. I can't much say exactly what he said, but it sounded much better than what happened; then again, everything sounds much better than it happened in French. The remaining three pilots of my flight were soon looking down at the ground, with the flight leader finding a chair to sit down in, as he had gone pale.

The looks of the other pilots went from shock to suprise and then very serious as they began to stare at me. I was seriously contemplating running for the door when the Commander drew himself to attention and called my name in a loud, official sounding voice.

"Step forward, you idiot," the Executive Officer hissed.

And Sergeant Martin Miller, who a few days earlier had been a fugitive impersonating a mechanic, became a decorated hero of France.

Great stuff - i'm enjoying these and particularly your writing style!

I am glad you didn't take him to task for it.

This was another great episode in Martin's life.
IMO, your character development for the story is good too.
I am looking forward to seeing how great a legend "Martin" becomes in France.

OT a little but Martin was my grandfather's name so I am imagining him in the plane.
He wouldn't have flown for Germany but our ancestry is German on my father's side.
He wasn't a pilot either, he was a coal miner.


Wheels

@ Brian:

Thank you, sir! You're too kind, though - my writing is very much still at the amateur level.

If I were to turn it in for a paper it would be marked "B-" with a "See Me" note.

I've got this and one more mission to add, but the second is a rather lengthy one, so will probably have to wait.

@Wheelsup:

One can't get mad for stuff like that; he was just wanting to use the computer for himself, and figured the best way to get out of the sim was to get a little secret stick time.

Anyhow...

Spilled Milk
13 July, 1917
1030 hours
Maintenance hangar

Rene and I were elbow deep in castor oil and gasoline residue, taking turns scrubbing the inside of the engine cowling to number 17, with our pauses to laugh making the work much slower than it should have been. Rene's command of French vulgarities was impressive, and he made a very good language instructor. Other mechanics were shouting suggestions as they worked on their respective aeroplanes as well, making it a merry time for all. We had something of a game that went with it; if someone should repeat a curse word or phrase that had been covered before, we would whistle in disapproval.

Neither of us saw or heard the Escadrille Commander until he was standing right behind us.

"Merde," he said, and Rene and I both whistled, looking over our shoulders to see who had gone for such an obvious one.

Rene took a step back and stood at attention, dirty rag transferring to his left hand as he saluted. It seemed odd, but later learned that when an enlisted man didn't know what else to do when surprised by an officer, he saluted. Apparently this is universal in the armed forces of every country on the planet.

Saluting back, the Commander took stock of my appearance with a look of amusement and distain. He was an odd fellow that way. He could frown with his face and smile with his eyes, or do it the other way around. When they matched, though, they had an intensity one wanted to shy away from. Aloof most of the time, he could be very attentative and easy to speak with when he desired. He was regarded with a positive respect by the men, that being the only way I can describe a man that one gains trust while still never to be trifled with.

"Why are you cleaning the cowling of this aeroplane?"
"Sir, the post-flight maintenance gets rid of most of the oil and gas, but there's a residue that builds up along the seams and the inside lip that requires extra attention."
"No, Sergeant, that's not what I meant," he continued, "why are you cleaning the cowling of this aeroplane?"
I looked at him somewhat puzzled. It was my aeroplane, Rene's opinion on the matter notwithstanding, and so naturally I would take part in its maintenance.
"You are a pilot," he said patiently, "not a mechanic."
"Julien-" I began, and then corrected myself, "Lieutenant Torma was a pilot and an officer, and he took part in maintaining his craft."
"Ah," the Commander said, as if about to arrive to a point that would win the debate, "so Julien performed maintenance, did he?"
"Well, yes," I said somewhat sheepishly. I felt like I was being forced into an argument I did not want to have.
"And how many times did Julien Torma - and we are talking about Julien Torma - actually get his hands dirty while taking part in it?"
"None," I admitted after a moment. I hadn't actually thought about it, but he usually took up a chair and smoked cigarettes as the rest of us did the work. Other times he would lean against a post or the aeroplane and drink coffee while we did the work.
"Get cleaned up and report to the pilot's briefing area in an hour."
"We've already had the morning briefing, sir," I protested. The last place in the world I wanted to be on this side of the line in France was there.
The look he gave me booked no reprieve; I saluted him and walked to the showers, throwing the rag into the metal bin as I left the hangar.

The other pilots were hanging about and fell silent as I entered the area of a hangar used for a briefing area and pre-mission lounge. My head up, I walked purposefully to the table with the large coffee urn, poured myself a cup, and moved to the briefing map. It was a straight forward mission covering familar territory, but it seemed the thing to do.



The Germans seemed to be very interested in Malzeville, slipping a pair of recon birds at different times of the day on short jaunts over the front to look at it. It wa a crossroads town, and if one broke through the front, there was roads leading right to it. The rail station there certainly had been busy carrying troops in and the wounded out.

"The English call this a 'Milk Run,' as it is as easy as going to the grocery for some milk," a voice behind me said. I turned about to see the pilot the Commander had replaced on my last mission (Rendell? I am terrible at remembering names but not faces, and I had seen him many times in briefings) smiling at me. I grinned politely back, but said nothing; while he had no part with the Kangaroo Court attempted the previous night, I wasn't in a bantering mood with him or anyone else in this room. I turned my back to him and to the board.

But there is only so long a man can stand and look at a map, so I made for a chair next to a small folding table, pulling out a deck of cards as I did so. I had learned the game of Solitare while in jail the last time, and meant to pass the time with it.

Shuffling the deck, I noticed a group of three new pilots to the Escadrille looking at me curiously, as if they wanted to say something to me. I ignored them, trying to concentrate on setting up the game correctly. I was ten cards in when their shadow cast over the table. I also saw that they were joined with one of the veteran pilots, who seemed to be taking the role of spokesman. Steeling myself for a fight that I was quite ready to start if they insulted me, I stood, fists balled.

The Veteran pilot began to introduce them to me by name, each offering their hands as if glad to meet me. I was dumbfounded by the gesture, and accepted, shaking each in turn. Awkwardly the four of us just stood there afterwards, looking at each other and not saying anything. The veteran pilot laughed, patting me on the shoulder as if we were long friends, and walked away, taking the rookie pilots with him.

Shaking my head, I sat back down and continued to play until it was time to suit up and fly the mission.






A gentle right turn at the waypoint, and I contemplated digging out my sock pile of coffee for a swig.



Looking back to my left, I was astounded to see the flight had suddenly turned left! I moved to catch back up!



Of course they had seen the recon machines, and now that I was low and out of position so could I.



As we closed the distance, I frowned at the steep climb the rest of the flight was in, as if they could meet them right away.



It is an odd thing about flying machines that they seem to climb much better if one maintains a fast airspeed with a slight incline of the nose rather than a slower speed with a greater one. I let the two Germans fly overhead without altering my flight path.





I was rewarded for the effort, as when I did turn about, I was level with them and possessed plenty speed to turn about and chase the Hun.





Indeed, I sprinted ahead of my fellow Nieuports and began to close in, staying low to avoid their observer's machinegun.







Or, at least I though I had. The flight leader was very skilled and was in firing position before I was. Fire from both directions crossed the air.





Having learned my lesson about getting between a friendly and an enemy's guns, I began to line up for a strike on the lead of the Jerry pair, staying clear of the trailing one!



From the looks of it I wasn't needed for it at any rate; the observer seemed to have been injured or dead and the wings tattered.



I laughed at the sight of his engine knocked dead, and gave a wave to the flight leader!



But there was work to be done, and I carefully lined up my aeroplane to deliver a killing blow:









The delivered true, and I could clearly see the observer framed by the flames of the engine looking back at me. He was doomed, but rather than simply accept his fate, he fired a long burst at me!



I crouched behind the engine, hearing Hun bullets striking it, and then a blow to my right leg, as if I had been kicked by a mule. Reaching down with my mitten, I felt where it had been and came away with a smear of red. This was no graze!



My motor began a terrible clanging noise, and I began to look about for a place to land.





It was an odd sensation, more numb than painful, until I went to move the rudder, which sent a poker right through it.



Though it sounded terrible and I was losing RPM's, I keep the engine turning, making for Malzeville.



I certainly expected a much better effort from myself than the crumpled Hun below me!



It did not last, and the propellor clanged to a halt. I began to pick out an area to land in.



Not the most ideal location, but it did look flat enough and without obstructions once I cleared the line of trees.







I must say I was very pleased to have made it with the smallest of bumps, rolling to a halt.



My flight made a low pass over me, and I waved to let them know I was alive. They continued on to the aerodrome.

A group of soldiers arrived twenty minutes later, and by means of a stretcher carried me to the road and then to Malzeville; after a quick survey by the doctor there (I think he was disappointed at my wound, as he covered up a tray that included a bone saw after probing it most unpleasantly with a metal rod) and a bandage was delivered by ambulance to the aerodrome's small infirmary. They would retrieve my aeroplane by truck the next day.

Our own surgeon looked over my wound and provided an injection of a sort that sent me into a swoon. It was the oddest thing; I was aware of the pain, but as if it were happening to someone else, and oddly at peace with the notion. In fact, I was quite at peace with everything, feeling very thick and magnanomous. I fell asleep shortly thereafter.

In the morning when I woke up there were two very unexpected things to behold. First, there was a very pretty Catholic nun pouring some water into a glass for me at my bedside, and the second an addition to my one military award:

I quite approve of this Martin fellow. Glad to see he kept his leg about him.

Good job Dart!

Dart, you are the king of AARs for me. Very enjoyable read.

Oh, and I burst our laughing, when I saw the 'Hello Kitty' symbol on the plane the first time.

Martin is doing good.
Nice dead stick landing.


Wheels

Oh, good grief. Mission seven's screenshots were lost in the upgrade to Win7! So the account will be with only one screenie!

You Can't Kiss Your Sister
14 July 1917
0800 hours
Aerodrome infirmary

The next morning I woke up somewhat confused, and it took me a moment to remember where I was. I had been having a dream about that two seater I had set aflame and the look the observer had given me as I drifted out of the range of the machinegun. The dream changed to where I was in his place, looking back at my Nieuport, the flames of the engine reaching around the dead pilot as I stood helpless to do anything about, the flying machine beginning a shallow dive to the earth. The crackling of the wood and fabric as loud as the wind around me, my clothes beginning to catch fire as well.....which is when I woke up.

A pitcher and a glass was beside the bed, and I sat up, pouring some for myself.

It was odd for our aerodrome to have such a thing as an infirmary, especially one as well appointed as this one. Six beds sat in a room with a large stove in the middle, and there were two smaller rooms on one end. The door to one was open, and I could see a young girl sitting at a chair in front of a desk reading a magazine. The other was closed; if it was empty, then we were to only two present. She looked up at the noise I had made, put down her reading, and walked over to me.

Brunette, blue eyes, and a face that looked as if it was very used to smiling. I was smitten! Her nurse's uniform was topped with an odd white head covering rather than the red cross hat most of them wore.

"Good morning," she said in an accent that was decidely un-French, "I thought you were going to sleep all day!"
"You speak English!"
"And you have your wits about you, too," she continued, giving me a grin. I tried to place the accent, which was almost but not quite British.
I made to sit up against the top of the bed and instantly regretted it - my calf objected in no uncertain terms to being used to push anything. She grabbed me under my arms and pulled me up and back with suprising strength.
"Are you hungry?"
"Yeah, actually I am," I admitted, and she smiled.
"Good. I will bring you some breakfast." and with that she turned and walked right out of the room, passing by a window on the opposite side from me as she assuredly headed to the mess.

I rolled over to my left and looked under the bed. Damnable luck, the chamber pot was on the other side, meaning I'd have to put weight on my right to get it. But time was fleeting - I had no idea how quickly she'd return - and I decided on a quick lunge that netted me a gasp and white lights popping in my eyes as well as the pot itself. That taken care of, I pulled my leg up back on the bed from a seated position with my hands and pushed into a comfortable lounge. The small dresser also had a drawer on it, and it was with glee I saw that much of my personal effects had been placed in it.

I was smoking my second cigarette and doing my best to play Solitare on the covers when the doctor walked in.

"Good morning," he greated me, and I did my best to grin at him. The man was short, fat, bald, ugly, and wasn't speaking English. Not an improvement from what I was expecting to walk through the door! I scooped up my cards as he pushed back the sheet covering my leg and unwound the bandages, revealing the wound. It wasn't a bullet hole, as I expected, but a cut as if I had been stabbed with a knife.
"Shrapnel" was the only word I understood, but I immediately grasped what had happened. A piece of the motor or frame had been knocked loose from a bullet and stuck me just like one. He smiled at me and then left with a knowing look in his eye.

Immediately he returned with four large men who looked pretty unhappy, and then opened the door that had previously been closed. He returned with a tray covered with a towel and a large brown bottle. He sat down the tray and removed the towel to reveal all manner of implements, and handed me a five inch long strap that had been made from looping it against itself until it was about as round as one's thumb. He pantamimed that I should put it in my mouth as he had the men help me into the supine.

One man pushed down on my shoulders, one on my hips, and two grabbed my legs above the knee and at the ankles. I nodded to the doctor.

In truth, it wasn't as bad as all that; the doctor was skilled and was quick about opening the wound further, spreading it open, pouring the solution (which burned tremendously) into it, and then stitching it close. The men at my shoulder and hips were hardly necessary, though my leg did protest and jump quite a bit over my best efforts and needed strenous effort to be held still.

Dripping with sweat, I was shaking like a leaf as they put me back to sitting up after fresh bandages were put on. One of the holders shook my hand before leaving, which I took as a measure of strange admiration.

The nurse came in just as I had composed myself with a small basket. Bread, cheese, poached eggs, and a small carafe which was blessedly filled with coffee! She caught the doctor's eye and went over to him; the conversation was in hushed tones, which made me chuckle. It's not as though they were talking about anyone or anything but me, and it wasn't as if I'd understand what they were saying anyway!

"The doctor said you did very well when he took care of your wound," she said as she walked back over to me.
"What is your name?" I asked, drinking in her eyes.
"Sister Ruth," she replied with a smile in them.
"A nun?" I exclaimed, "You've got to be kidding me!"
"Yes, a nun," she replied with mock scolding, "so you're wasting all of your charming schemes on me, Sergeant Martin Miller."

We both laughed, and in short order I learned that she was from Ireland and had joined a convent in France at the age of sixteen just before the war. Her order had taken to nursing duty, and she had been posted with the nearby hospital; they had detailed her here at the request of the Escadrille Commander when news arrived that I was wounded.

Wandering conversation from here to there in no particular direction, an hour flew by and I was a little annoyed to see the aforementioned owner of this flying show come in with Rene close behind.

Giving greetings to the nurse-nun, he passed my bed and made for the doctor's office. Rene had brought a kit bag full of comforts for me, including a fresh uniform and my razor. He reached into his jacket and pulled out my sock-flask, handing it to me with a grin.

"Get that dirty thing out of here!" Sister Ruth demanded, and I laughed, accepting it. I pushed back the socks, which admittedly were soiled with castor oil and smelled slightly of gasoline to show her the whisky flask within. It was filled with brandy, though, and not coffee, which caught me completely by suprise as I took a large gulp from it.

The Commander arrived as I was sputtering and gasping for breath; and he patiently waited for me to recover myself.

"The understanding doctor says you are to be on bed rest for three days and then light duty for the remainder of a month, after which you can resume flight duties."
"Sounds good," I replied, cheerfully.
"I am not an understanding doctor, however," he continued, "and so you have two weeks, if not less, to be ready to resume duties."
"Sounds good," I said again, keeping the same tone. The laughter crept into his eyes, but it was the only hint of any breaking of the serious visage he presented me.
"Sister Ruth, I have a task for you in addition to your normal duties," he asked with a decidedly softer tone.
"And what would they be?" she said back, suspiciously.
"Teach Sergeant Martin to speak French while he recovers; I think it may take someone very close to God to make it happen."
He nodded at me and began to move to the door, but I halted him.
"Sir," I asked, "how did the rest of the flight make out on the way back?"
"Caught by scouts," he shot back, "two dead."

The next nine days were wonderful for me, as Sister Ruth sat with me outside in the warm French summer air and worked through children's books and common items to help me get a grasp on this foreign language. They were ominous days for the Escadrille, though, as far fewer planes came back on each flight than had started out. All of the pilots in my original flight were dead but for me, and many were welcomed to the unit at breakfast and eulogized before dinner. I took to haunting the hangar, cane in hand, and even slipping into the back of briefings. Number 17 looked very sad and lonely, being pushed to the rear and out of the way of active aeroplanes, so I spent several minutes in the evenings just leaning against it and feeling the cloth of the wings and fuselage against my hands.

On the evening of the 22nd the Executive Officer arrived to tell me that my recovery was complete and that I would report for the morning's briefing prepared to fly. Crazy how my thoughts felt conflicted; I did want to fly again, even though my wound was still weeping, and yet I cherished the company of the Irish nun and didn't want it to end. I knew there could never be any romance between us, but secretly I had pretended otherwise.

It was just after breakfast the next morning that she stepped into an automobile that would carry her back to the hospital in Malzeville. I saw her from where I was at the hangars and waved to her. She did not look my way.

One of the very few regrets of my life is that she didn't, as it would have at least been a weak good-bye.

I never saw her again.

23 July, 1917
0900 hours
Briefing area

While we had been knocking down German planes spying behind our lines, the Hun had been doing the same to ours, and we were going to intercept the patrol that had made a dangerous habit of showing up in the same area in the early evening. Reports had put them as a flight of three.

My leg was stiff and grumbled against the pressure of pants, overpants, and boots, and I settled into the cockpit with the help of Rene feeling a little miserable. It had only been ten days, but somehow it felt foreign to me.

I took off sloppily, skidding this way and that, nearly ground looping before I had begun, and struggled to tune the engine to the proper RPM's. The rest of the flight was struggling as well, holding poor position around the lead. The air was smooth, and I frowned. These pilots were more green than myself! Our station keeping was so poor the flight leader lead us around the aerodrome, and looking back I saw one of our planes still on the grass! We crossed over, low, and seeing the cockpit was empty - it had a pilot in it not moments before - continued on our way.

Four pilots instead of five against three or more Jerries, with not enough skill to fly straight and level. I felt a sense of dread come over me.

The landmarks moved under me, and soon we were climbing over the front. I seemed even more desperate than usual, and every air burst was either too close for comfort or made the shape of an aeroplane in the distance. We crossed back over to our side of the lines, then to the German's, and the flight lead waved his hand in the attack signal.

Three Huns alright, in those wooden tubs, diving down towards us. I staggered to the right to avoid their shooting - the Hun always shoot as they approach - and then left, turning back towards them. It was horrible. They seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once, slashing about me, diving on me and climbing away as I spoiled their aim, and having another come from the left or right before I could take advantage.

It was a mess of confusion, and all I remember of it is snatches of machines throwing themselves about like photographs frozen in my mind.

Suddenly a German was on my tail, and turning with me despite my best efforts, his tracers narrowly missing my elevators. I was frantic with panic, not knowing how I would escape, when a flash of brown caught the corner of my eye. British scouts had joined the melee, and the Hun was forced to abandon his murder as a long stream of lead stitched across his wings.

We were saved! The tables suddenly turned, the Tommies dispatched two of the Jerries, and the third made to run away.

My senses returned, and I cut the corner on his egressing curve, firing a long burst ahead of him. I had meant it to spoil his maneuver, as he was much faster than I, but to my shock he wheeled his machine over and into the ground! Whether I had hit and killed him or suprised him to where he had lost control remains a mystery, but I whooped with relief.

A close by shell impacting the ground lifted my Nieuport with its concussion (we were that close to the ground), and I climbed as fast as I could away from it. I spotted another aircraft to my west, and after re-charging my guns, moved to intercept. Thankfully it was another Nieuport, and we circled until we had gathered the others. The British planes, however, had departed for places unknown, and were lost to the blue skies.

Near the double bridges where I had landed on my last sortie, I waved to the rest of my flight and made to fly over Malzeville. I buzzed quite low over the town, looking for the hospital, but didn't recognize it. In a most lazy manner I followed the river south towards our aerodrome.

I almost didn't spot the two German recon aircraft that had flown low in the hopes of avoiding being seen.

My track was taking me head on to them, so I decided to try the German trick of shooting from head on. The firing solution was very easy, but it was an evil fact that these two seaters also had a forward facing gun (which I didn't know), and it was only luck that kept me from being hit. Apparently my own had rang true, though, as the lead aeroplane turned to his right with steam rising thick from his radiator! Swooping low behind the second, I let a long burst find his fuselage, hoping to put down the motor, pilot, and observer. I was rewarded with them diving hard to escape, overstressing their machine and crashing into some trees.

I carefully considered the steamer that remained, coming at him from above and diving hard, shooting for the cockpit. I missed the engine and the pilot, but the observer slumped limp over his gun and slid to the bottom of the well.

Curving to the left, I dove for an attack from underneath but held my fire as I neared. The engine had stopped, and the pilot was leaning left and right, looking for a place to land. I blipped my engine, slowing until I was off of his left wing, flying as if in formation. The German divided his attention between my plane so close to his own and setting his plane down until he was committed to a large field.

His landing was very good; my own a short distance away was acceptable.

I got out of Number 17 with my pistol in hand, limping hard to the recon bird. The pilot was in the observer's position, looking at the body of his second, and didn't resist when I demanded his surrender. He climbed out of the aeroplane quite pale, and only when once on the ground glanced back at where he had been. It dawned on me at the same time that I had come to his plane across open ground from the tail while he was an arm's length from the twin machineguns that lay idle but facing me.

I had him remove his flight gear using the language of hand guns and marched him back to my Nieuport. I had him tie his hands and placed him behind the cockpit seat inside the fuselage, and warned him that I would shoot him if he did anything stupid.* Placing a couple of smallish rocks in front of the wheels, I set for engine start and worked the propellor.

The idea had been that they would be enough to hold the aeroplane for a moment after it started, and that the rocking motion of blipping the engine would free me. Instead the wheels jumped them immediately, and I almost lost the aeroplane in a pilotless crash. I made it around the wing and grasped the top of the cockpit just in time, climbing in like a trick horse rider!

My leg was wet from the exercise opening my wound and ached to the point of distraction, but I didn't care. Let them try to deny that I had shot down these planes when I present them with one of the pilots that had flown one of them!

On the way back the German reached up and touched my side once, but a quick dive followed by a roll to the right quickly quashed any ideas of heroics on his part.

I turned Number 17 about after landing and moved across the grass right up to the hangar where Rene stood waiting. He was very suprised to see that I had a pistol in my hand as he ran up to me, and doubly so when I pointed out my cargo. The German emerged looking somewhat worn from the flight, but stood tall, as if defiant. He said something about "das Commandant," and was taken away by some of our Infantrymen that served as security for us.

Almost immediately afterwards I was summoned to the Commander's office, where there was much slapping of my shoulder and incredulous looks to go with it. Indeed I was still more mad at the Escadrille's efforts to discount my scores against the enemy than happy to be in their good graces.

I was awarded an addition to my medal on the spot, though, and was certain my claims would be taken without controversy.



Dart says:

* I have no idea if a man could fit behind the seat of a Nieuport 17, or if he could if it would interfere with the elevator and rudder controls. Truthfully, I don't care - when I saw the recon aircraft conk out and land, I landed behind him and then took off again, the notion of being able to take him prisoner tickling my senseabilities.

This mission actually had ninety-nine screenies to go with it.

Oh, these are good. Dart ... excellent stories.

Please continue.

It's a shame about the screenies.

Most excellent episode and a "love interest" to boot.


Wheels

Y'all are only encouraging me in the worst sort of way.

Getting Our Feet Wet
27 July 1917
1300 hours
Aerodrome hanger

The afternoon of the 23rd signalled the arrival of a line of clouds, and by the morning of the 24th it was clear that no flying could be done. I took this as a godsend, as half of the cut on my leg had re-opened, and having it re-stitched closed hurt far worse than the initial go-around.

It also itched to no end, which the doctor said was a very good thing.

One of the new pilots to the Escadrille was hanging around Number 17, walking around her as if in admiration, going so far as to work the control surfaces by hand and check the wiring. It looked suspiciously like a low key pre-flight check, and when he put his foot in the well on the side of the fuselage, I hollered at him.

He jumped away as if shocked by electricity, and I fairly well stormed up to him.

"That's my machine!" I exclaimed, "So don't even think about it!"
"I am so very sorry, Sergeant Miller," he said, looking almost afraid, "I was not going to fly your plane!"
"Then what were you doing with her?"
He looked stricken, and then sheepishly admitted "I only wanted to look at a famous aeroplane."
Now it was my turn to look stricken! Some veteran had told him some whopping story in order to make him look like a fool, which was pretty much right up their alley on how to treat people.
"It's not famous. It's just another Nieuport 17 in the Escadrille with an emblem painted on the side as a joke by the Escadrille Commander on me. Go ahead, sit in her and see it's special only to me, and only because I am her pilot."
I was a little embarrassed by the way he scrambled into the cockpit as if it were a treat, moving the stick about and leaning over the sides as if he were actually flying the thing. I decided to leave him to it and go to the rear of the hangar to my quarters.

Rene had somehow come up with some lumber from which a frame was made and stretched with canvas from a tent to form walls, making a room of sorts for me, complete with an actual wooden door. An electric line was spliced and over it so that I had an incandescent bulb for reading and late night sorting of machinegun rounds. They had placed the table which held the coffee and old bread from the mess for the mechanics immediately outside of the door, which I found very convenient.

I was pouring a cup for myself and looking over at the bread, wondering if the small basket covered with a bit of cloth might be hiding some cheese when I heard the young Lieutenant call for me. Turning around I saw that he was coming over with a serious look on his face.

Grand. He had just figured out that he was an officer and I an enlisted man and that my yelling at him and giving him permission to do things isn't how that system works. I'd better act fast or I'd be on report for sure!

I saluted as he approached, and he returned it absentmindedly, looking almost stern as he asked if I would answer a few questions for him back at Number 17.

"Yes, sir," I said from the position of attention (well, almost - I had my coffee cup in my hand!), and went in trail as we retuned to my machine. Once there he took a long look at her and then turned back to me.
"Sergeant Miller," he began, "how exactly can I shoot down German planes and make it back alive?"
He was so doggedly earnest in his question that I couldn't help but laugh. After a moment he laughed, too.

His name was Jaques Lafayette, a distant relative of the famous Lafayette (of which he was very proud and explained his study of English), and very likeable. I was honest with him in that I didn't really have any answers for him beyond what he had been taught by far more qualified instructors than myself, but would tell him what I knew.

If, of course, he would help me in my frustrating efforts to learn to speak French.

In short order we had left the aircraft for a couple of chairs next to the table in the rear of the hangar (no cheese, the basket was empty and the cloth a ruse!) and let the discussion wander from flying to women and sport (as if there was a difference) and back to flying again.

And so the next few days went as the rain fell in sheets, preventing us from flying.

On Friday, the 29th, we did fly to an aerodrome near Touls during a break in the weather; it was unclear if this was a temporary or permanent transfer of operations, and I was thankful that the flight was short. The air was full of chop and drifts, but we managed without an accident. Rene had arrived there earlier with his tools and baggage (including mine, which he bothered to unpack and place for me!) and immediately had Number 17 in the hangar, wiping down the slight rain that had wet her.

The morning of the 30th was the same - more rain, though it looked as though it was giving up the ferocity of the last week, with visibility still very short and the clouds hanging a scant thousand feet above the ground. It was with great suprise that I acknowledged word that we were to report to the briefing area. Perhaps someone was to get an award or promotion; surely they would not re-commence operations in this soup.

I was wrong.



"Sufficient visibility for ground reference flight" seemed hopelessly optimistic, even if they had picked the most obvious of land marks as waypoints. While I was concerned over this, the young pilots seemed positively terrified, going pale as they got the news.

I guess they didn't have the benefit of their first flying lesson being in a rain storm!

They accepted it without a quibble, as was expected of them, but Rene took no such stoic demeanor. The string of expletives was impressive by any standard, and my growing working of French let me understand that it was all a conspiracy against him, as why else would they willfully endanger his aeroplane in such a foolhardy manner?

For the next four hours as he went about his work he maintained a steady rumble of profanity punctuated by short, loud outbursts as if he were the cussing train rolling down the tracks, blowing the whistle when too much steam had built up.

My hopes that there would be an improvement in the sky were dashed as the hour approached, and without any mention of cancelling it, we made to take off.



The two spy planes we were to escort had already done so and circled eagerly for us to get this over with.



As I lifted off I looked left at Tours just over the river, dismayed to see it was mostly obscured by fog and rain. I had no idea how we would navigate in this soup. The good news was that it would take pure luck for the Hun to find us!



We circled the airfield once and then began the climb to take us above the recon machines.





The air was rent with holes, bouncing us around as we made to stay with the lead. The challenging air and the inexperience of the pilots nearly made for disaster!



Avoiding the chance to pile into a another machine, I turned right, slowing to giving them a wide berth, and made to catch up with the the flight leader.



The gaggle dispersed somewhat wildly, and I took the opportunity to fly ahead to the lead, afraid of losing sight of him.




My comrades were struggling to keep up behind us.



The lead slowed, turning, looking down and to his right and paying no attention to us.



This allowed the rest of the flight to catch up, coming in too fast for us and nearly causing another wreck!



Moving right to avoid them, I looked down and actually saw the two seaters we were to protect!






And so we proceeded in an accordian fashion, with the lead advancing forward to clear the way, which left the others behind, only to turn about to stay with our charges, which caused them to bunch up against us, until we had reached the front. At first I thought I was hearing thunder, but the rain was no discouragement for the artillery!



I had been looking about, and began to wonder if I had lost the formation when I saw a plane diving in front of me through the mists!



I instantly lost him in the fog, and looking over in the distance I saw the omnious curl of smoke that could only have come from an aeroplane! I hoped it wasn't one of ours!



Looking about, I was jolted by the sight of a German Scout right below me! It was small wonder how it was that we could fly so close together without noticing one another in these poor conditions!



Blipping my engine, I silently dove down unseen, starting the engine up only when close in, making short work of the trailing Hun.







He went straight down into the trees, and I closed in on the second, hoping they wouldn't realize my substitution within their flight!







He dove, and I with him, even as my bullets struck him. I followed to little use, as he quickly crashed into the trees either injured or damaged in some way I couldn't see through the rain. My wild idea of downing all three were dashed, as I noticed the lead Jerry was far above me, if none the wiser of the fate of his wingmates!



Looking to my left, my breathe left me and a sickness came to my stomach. Whether by damage or accidental overstressing of the frame, a Nieuport suddenly fell apart in the air, shedding wing and plummeting straight to the ground. Willing my aeroplane to go faster and climb higher, I tried to join the melee.





I was of little use, struggling to catch up with little chance of engaging.









Fortunately I wasn't needed, as he was downed by one of my fellow Nieuports!



Latching onto the nearest friendly in a desperate effort not to have to fly through this soup alone, I formed up with him.



An airburst of artillery struck close to him, making me wonder if I would yet have to find my own way home!



Another of our flight joined up, making us three. I hoped that the fourth would find us as well, knowing it was unlikely.



The rain was coming down as sheets, putting up dark walls in the air that would toss us about when crossed.









Avoiding it, I waited until I was past and rejoined.



Whether by luck or fantastic navigation by our lead, the large Tours aerodrome suddenly appeared through the mist and rain!





Even more incredibly, the two seaters had survived and made to land there!



It was simple enough to find our own aerodrome from there, and we circled over it.





I passed over Tours, which I planned on slipping away to later, before making to land.



The wind took me long to the aerodrome, and a downward slope made things even worse. It would be a long walk back to the hangars, and they'd need to bring a truck to pull it back.



The rest of my flight didn't fare much better in landing, likewise sliding down the hill!





But those of us who had made it back home had in fact made it home, which is more than we could say for at least one of our flight.



Gathering in the mess, we drank coffee and brandy in an effort to calm ourselves, pausing between sips and puffs of cigarettes to mop ourselves with towels. The Escadrille Commander looked somewhat relieved to see us and still sad that not all of us had arrived. He questioned us about the flight and it took all of us to piece it together. None of us had an idea of where the lead of the flight I wiggled into had gone, and I was shocked to find out that there had been three of the wooden tubs in the air against the two seaters.

At their mention, four men walked in - the pilots and observers had secured an automobile and driven over to us. They supplied the rest of the information for us, telling the tale of shooting down one of the Hun themselves when he had approached too slowly within their gun's reaches, and that they saw one of our flight fly to the north away from the rest of us, chasing the second. They confirmed the two I had downed, but were similarly at a loss as to where their lead had flown off to.

It was only then that I learned that Lafayette had volunteered to take the place of one of the scheduled pilots and was one of the two pilots that had failed to return. I was crushed by the thought of his death and asked to be able to go back up and look for him. He surely must have been the pilot that had flown to the north, as the idea of his plane simply coming apart on him during his first flight seemed impossible to comprehend. My request was denied, as the weather worsened even as we stood indoors against it.

At dinner he did not arrive and the aerodrome was silent but for the workings of men an machines firmly attached to the ground.

For reasons unknown, I was presented with two more clusters for my medal.

I thought Lafayette might be a red shirt.


Wheels

...and another great story! Thanks, Dart!

Touring Touls
31 July, 1917
1400 hours
Tours Aerodrome

The weather slowly improved all through the day, but high winds prevented flights; none of us were particularly upset at this, particularly after having to go up in a rainstorm the day prior!

It went unnoticed in my flight, but the combination of wind and rain had loosened the fabric on one of my elevators, and I worked with Rene in repairing it. I was holding the bucket of dope while he applied it, my coveralls becoming soiled as he sloshed it at every opportunity.

I scarcely noticed the Executive Officer walking over to us.

"Survived another, I see," he said as he approached, but not in an unfriendly way.
"Well, there is always tomorrow," I shrugged back to him.
"I just wanted to tell you that we will be here for awhile," he frowned, apparently unhappy with my unwillingness to embrace him.
"Any word on Lafayette?"
"None," he admitted, "but he is listed as missing, so there is hope. The pilot that crashed has been identified, and the memorial service will be tonight after evening mess."

The service that evening was noteable only that I understood most of what was said. It might be that my French was improving or that I had now been to so many that it almost sounded like rote that was the reason, but either way I stood silently, doing my best to honor the man.

It's a very cold thing to say, but I felt far less sympathy than I should have to the fallen. None of them except Lafayette had ever treated me with any sort of respect; quite to the contrary, they had been either hostile (standing proud and eager to accuse me of lying and conspiring to denegrate my actions in the air) or all too keen to avoid me. Nothing could silence their chatter than my entry into a room, though I certainly got more than my share of stares as I went about my business.

So I took my own company, and that of the mechanics and armorer, and avoided them. Rene had upgraded my quarters to walls made of wooden panels, oddly completed with a canvas roof, at the rear of the hangar, and apart from taking meals I had little reason to converse with my fellow pilots.

The next morning brought hale weather, and I was summoned to the briefing area:



So once again I found myself at the controls of Number 17, but under decidely better skies!



Lifting off of the ground, I glanced over at Touls, happy to see it wasn't obscured by fog and rain. I still hadn't had a chance to escape the aerodrome and see the city, something I would definately be rectifying after this flight!



Keeping station as we climbed, we soon were over the main Touls aerodrome, a huge place that seemed to have extra aerodromes to support it hanging off the sides!





The flight to the factory was uneventful, but once there I fully understood why it needed protection. It was right next to the front lines, nearly within normal artillery range of the enemy, and a very short flight across them to strike!



The flight lead began a right hand track around the factory, and I with him, blipping to stay on the inside of his turn.



The rest of the flight struggled once again to keep up. I shook my head - it didn't take a genius to adjust fuel and air to keep 2,000 RPM's at the same altitude!



And so it went for quite a long time, circling about with the flight becoming more and more strung out until it was a single file line behind the flight leader and myself! He motioned several times for the flight to form up to no avail. Still, it went quickly between keeping an eye on the flight leader and the rest of the skies for the Hun. I was uncertain how long we rotated about the skies, but soon a British flight arrived to relieve us and we were on our way back home!



I was feeling pretty good about things - for once we weren't thrown into the middle of brawl before and at the mission's objective, and I had only to enjoy the French countryside. Simply beautiful - it reminded me of Alabama between Montgomery and Birmingham with rolling hills with field and woods resting around small lakes and ponds.

I signaled to the flight leader that all was okay and from his motion back I took permission to leave the formation as we approached Touls.





At least I took his signal as permission! If I hadn't seen Touls from the ground, there was no reason this fine day to see it up close from the air! I flew towards the city.





Two aircraft were also flying over the city, no doubt sight seeing themselves - or perhaps circling for a landing at the Touls aerodrome.



As I flew under them, it became clear they weren't supposed to be here!





You had to admire their nerve. With all the traffic in and out of this major hub, they had bet they'd be mistaken for French or British machines, and certainly I was very suprised to see them!

I reversed as they went over me and began to climb.







They knew they'd been found out and the observers began to fire as soon as I was within their arc:



This was a mistake for them, as I simply dove under the guns, denying them their chance, and closed within striking range.



Each time I climbed to gain true with my gun, though, the lead would descend, giving his gunner a chance at me.



Forcing me to dive as well to avoid the fire.



I decided to try a different attack, turning right and then back at the rear Hun to the left, making an S shape and firing as he crossed my path.







It worked! Looking up at the German, I saw that I had shredded his upper wing!



A sudden blow to my head made me blink hard and dive away. In my haste to make another attack, I had opened myself to the lead machine's observer. I had stars in my eyes and a terrible pain, but I was still alive. I made for the large aerodrome beneath me.



A large section of the upper wing frame was missing to the right and left of the cockpit, chopped clean away from a machinegun round, and I landed without incident otherwise.



Once on the ground I removed my gloves and reached up to my leather helmet. Something was sticking out of it on the upper left side, above my ear right at the crest of my skull. Without thinking, I pulled it out to see it was a piece of the ribbing that had flown with such force at being struck that it had served as an arrow! Blood immediately began to flow down the side of my head, and I clamped my hand down hard on the spot. The medics soon arrived and helped me from the aeroplane.

Soon stitched up against the swelling knot under the wound, I was forbidden the pain elixir given to me for my leg wound and out of anger for being so stupid, insisted on flying Number 17 the short distance back to our own aerodrome. The Escadrille had been telephoned, of course, and I was met by a relieved looking Commander and a very angry mechanic.

"It was very brave to attack them by yourself," the Commander commended, "and a flight of scouts has been dispatched to shoot them down." And with that we exchanged salutes and I made to my quarters.

"Are you an idiot?" Rene exclaimed, "Every other plane in your flight comes back without a mark and clean guns! And look at yours! I'll be working all night to repair this, and you'll be up cleaning that gun!"
"Rene," I smiled, almost pleading, "I have a screaming headache. Leave me alone."
"Martin, you are lucky the Germans knocked you in the head," he shot back, "it saves me the trouble of doing it myself."

True to his word, he returned to my quarters carrying the machinegun and everything needed to clean it ten minutes later. Every half hour or so he'd peek in to see if I was still at it, and when I was done with the gun he presented a case of rounds and cloth belts for sorting. When I protested, he softly but firmly said that I would be kept up all night long, as often men with even minor head injuries who went to sleep right away refused to ever wake up.

Wheels

Marvellous!

Visitors And Empty Chairs
9 August 1917
0900 hours
Touls

I had finally made it into the city of Touls, having been pleasantly suprised that the paybook they had handed me along with all my other credentials came with actual pay! I had insisted that Rene come with me, and we had walked about the streets sampling the sights and the food of the small restaraunts that dotted them, enjoying the summer air.

Much of the menu was short, owing to rationing, and I strongly suspect the steaks we had at dinner were horse; still, it was very nice to sit at a table that seated less than ten - or on a chair that didn't fold up to be put away in the corner of my quarters!

We got a lot of strange looks owing to the bandage I sported on my head instead of a hat as well as the fact that we were enlisted men with our own car, which the Escadrille Commander had loaned us. Though Rene was married, he had absolutely no problem spending the time required to fully appreciate the girls walking around town!

We had come in the morning this time in order to follow up on a rumor that a certain butcher had some beef to sell, but it turned out to be spurious. So we decided to simply sit in the square outside of the cathedral there and have some coffee. A truck drove slowly through and had passed us when a man in the back of it began to yell at the driver to stop, using the coarsest of language when it kept going. When it did stop, a nearly empty kit bag flew onto the cobblestones from the back and immediately after it the fellow that was riding there.

Rene and I were highly amused at the spectacle, and then both stood when we saw who it was that caused such a scene.

Lafayette had returned, looking the worse for wear in a filthy, tattered uniform, but was all smiles and hand shakes. Ordering wine to toast him, we listened as he unwound his tale.

He had in fact chased after the Hun that day until he became lost in the weather, forced to fly lower and lower in a vain attempt to spot a landmark. With his fuel running low, he spotted a town with a large cathedral, and thinking it was Touls, landed in a field nearby. It wasn't! In fact, he had landed behind German lines - thirty kilometers behind German lines - and had spent over a week hiding in woods and the cellars of people willing to give him refuge for a few hours until he managed to find a river that crossed the front. Gathering up his nerve, he waited until the darkest part of the night and swam past the German lines nearly undetected. He was forced to get out and crawl through crater after crater on his belly to transit no-man's land over the course of a day and a half, when a French patrol found him. From there he had hitched rides on whatever transport he could until he met up with us.

Why he hadn't of gone to any Regimental Headquarters and have them phone our Escadrille was simply a matter of his youth and lack of clear thinking - he turned pale at the realization that the last two days of his begging for the back of a truck was an unnecessary addition to his adventures.

Still, it was a grand tale and we were very glad to see him back.

Rene brought him up to the present with the Escadrille and my own exploits in a most negative light, marking each day with the damage I had done to Number 17 or the maintenance required to it. Lafayette enquired about other pilots, but to be honest I didn't know them and had to admit as much.

"Ever the solitary Ace, Martin," he laughed.
"I'm no Ace," I scoffed.
"Oh?" he said, surprised, "I thought for sure you had downed enough for that."
"No," I corrected, "I need two more."
Rene sprayed a mouthful of wine onto us, as if he were caught unawares by a very funny joke, but was instead reduced to a coughing fit.
Before he could explain what had made him fountain, a motorcycle made its way across the square, pulled up next to our table, and the rider told us to report back to the aerodrome immediately.

Leaving more than enough money on the table, we made for the car and a short ride later had made it back. Arriving at the anteroom to the Escadrille Commander's office, we were intercepted by the Exec.
"Lieutenant," he deadpanned, as if Layfayette hadn't been missing, "your uniform is atrocious, and you are unshaven. Change it at once and then report back to me. Sergeant Miller, the Commander is waiting on you; go right in."

Since the door was open, I knocked on the frame and entered as the Commander waved for me to sit down.

"I have a decision to make, Sergeant," he began speaking in French, "and I want to know what you think about it."
"Okay," I replied in that very American word.
"Tomorrow you will have visitors, and I'm not sure how to deal with them."
"Visitors?"
"Yes, visitors. First a man from the papers, and then someone from the AEF."
"AEF?"
"The Americans. They seem to have heard a rumor that one of our pilots isn't really French, and have been trying to lure all Americans into their Escadrille now that they've finally come to their senses and joined the war."
"Oh no."
"Oh, yes," he smiled back. "Do you want to talk to them?"
"Hell, no," I immediately answered.
"Well, I have an idea," he said slyly, "and I want your opinion on it..."

It was brilliant. It was fantastic. It was elegant in its simplicity and sure to be a winner. We shook hands and toasted brandy over it.

"Get your aeroplane ready," he advised as I left, "I'm clearing you for duty and you're to fly with a sortie tomorrow."

That night I was in great spirits, though my little Lieutenant friend was quite dour.
"He put me on report, can you believe it?" he said over and over, and no matter what the diversion we came up with to pass the time routinely came back to cursing out the Executive Officer.

The next morning we were both in the briefing area, seated at the back, taking notes:



Afterwards I joked with Lafayette that he had a three in four chance of staying in our lines, as the wind was coming south and the lines ran east and west, which would blow him into friendly territory.

For the first time they involved me in the briefing, asking which position I wished to fly. Fifth, of course, in the junior position, I replied, annoyed. The games the other pilots continuously played were tiresome in the extreme; what did they think I would ask for, flight lead? I wouldn't give them the chance to slap me down if I requested anything else. Layfayette would have the number three position, immediately to my front left.

Formed up on the turf, we had to wait for a pair of British SPAD fighters that decided to circle our aerodrome as if to land, but in short order they got the message of repeated flares and cleared out.



Lifting into the air, I noticed a convoy of trucks on the road moving to our little base. No doubt the visitors that would be waiting on my return.







Two recon aircraft were high above us, and I incorrectly guessed it was they we would escort.



The flight leader ignored them, though, and I found that I had to catch up with the flight when they went straight on rather than climbing up to meet them!



Rene had done a great job tuning my machine's motor, though, and I soon caught up, having a steady 2,500 RPM's without any strain coming from my rotary!





The twins we were to shepard were lower than us, having just taken off from the main Touls aerodrome!





The trip was uneventful, and as always I enjoyed it until the first sight of the ugly scar of the front lines came into view.



Always a horrific sight, I caught myself wondering about the villages and towns that had become blown to their skeletons, laying dead and shattered in the middle of the catastrophe. Would they be rebuilt after the war, or torn down the rest of the way and abandoned in an effort to wipe clean the memory of this terrible conflict?



We doubled back over the craters in order to stay with our charges, the airbursts flowering in the air as a warning.








Finally we were across, which wasn't much of a consolation, as it meant we were on the enemy's side of the lines!



Every air burst looked like Hun scouts to me, and I was thankful for my silk scarf; without out it, my neck would be raw and bleeding from all the looking about!



We circled once more towards the muck below, having run ahead of the two seaters.



They flew low, too low for my liking, but they had to in order to clearly see through the camouflage the Germans were so good at placing.





With the spying eyes of our friends over the front, we made once again to circle.



Looking back, though, I saw two scouts approaching from the east!



Waving a warning to the rest of the flight, I turned towards them, uncertain as to which side they were on.



Definately the Hun! I let them fly underneath me, unwilling to dive on them and either wreck my machine or give up my position on them.



Turning to the right, they split directions, each taking a different tact on me.



The scout to the right seemed to be the one trying to keep a steady turn and climb, with the other staying lower, and so I leveled about to cut him off.

Looking back to see where the one that went under me went, I was in for something of a shock.

The German was looping up towards me, trying to reverse onto my tail.



Frustrated that there was no way that he could execute such a manuever, he fired, no doubt as a spoiling attempt - it would be a very unlucky pilot to be hit by such an unaimed burst!



I put my nose up slightly to slow and let him fall away beneath me, noting his wingmate to my left.



He stuttered from a right hand turn into a left, having attempted to climb back too soon, and I decided to dive in for him.



Looking back at my Nieuport driving in on him, he desperately turned right, but I had only to tap the blip switch to have him in my sights.





He spiralled into the ground just off of the treeline.



Looking about for the second German, I saw that he had more than his share of problems as the rest of the flight swooped down on him!



I came around as he reversed, watching him desperately trying to escape over the front lines.





I tracked him as he turned, flying conservatively, until he presented himself right off of my nose!



It was five to one, however, and I was content to simply build up speed and let my comrades in arms shoot him down.





They seemed to be unwilling to strike at him, however, and I closed with the enemy scout.







Of course as soon as I was near enough with my hand on the trigger ready to fire, tracers sped past me from behind!



I blipped the motor, slowing slightly, allowing whomever it was that wanted this aeroplane's scalp to take it.



But there was no follow on attack! Perhaps it was an ill conceived snap shot, but I saw no Nieuport behind us and once again closed as the German crossed my nose.







He was very good, shaking off my pursuit as I fired a few bursts. I stilled my guns (and my breathing) as one of my flight flew straight at him!



It was by luck neither collided and poor aim that the German wasn't downed!



That foolish maneuver completed, I again chased closer, ignoring the flash and thunder of artillery that struck around us.





I fired a long burst into his aircraft, and as he slowed and I climbed to maintain position, it was clear he was going to go down very shortly.



Another pilot came in from my left rear, firing a long burst of his own.





Staying high, I was astonished to see we had knocked his rudder completely off his tail!



Backing off, I stayed with him as het closed in for the final, fatal blow, perplexed to see a Nieuport crumpled on the ground before us. Surely it wasn't part of our flight!



My French fellow didn't fire! Whether out of ammunition or a machinegun jammed, he simply closed in behind the German.





More incredibly, I moved to re-charge my own gun and discovered I was out of ammunition! We had no choice but to stay in the only safe place - behind the German - and wait for him to crash (or run away if he were joined by others).



Thankfully it did not take long for him to tumble into the mud below.



Looking about, we found that the skies were empty but for the pair of us, and we made for home. I noticed something very odd about the way the aeroplane was being piloted in front of me.

He was flailing about with the elevator, as if struggling or wrestling with it for some reason.







As we approached our aerodrome, he seemed to be sluggish at the stick,





He turned too hard for his final leg.



His plane bounced from the turf just as he met the downslope that marked many a botched landing.







I made another turn, frowing for what I had just witnessed, and approached at a shallow angle across the aerodrome.





Rolling to a stop, I shut the engine down as the hangars stood empty - everyone had already started running down to the crashed pilot.



I got out of my aeroplane and walked around it in a cursory check, and ignored the claxton of the ambulance as I continued into the hangar.

Rene was in my quarters in dress uniform, wearing Sergeant stripes, aviator's wings, and a war cross with four oak leaf clusters. He looked very nervous and uncomfortable. My fatigue and distress of the flight left me at once and I began laughing, a deep belly laugh that rolled out from deep within me.

I had forgotten the ruse we had planned, and while I thought it was a stroke of genius, Rene looked as if he were going to be sick.

When I finally had control of myself, I bowed deeply to him and then with a flourish of my arm pointed towards the door.

"Your audience awaits, Sergeant Miller," I said in my best French.

He swore at me, scowling, and then stomped out and made towards the headquarters.

It was only after he left and I had shed my flight gear that something terrible struck me. Of the flight of five, only two of us returned, and one with a terrible wreck that meant the pilot was injured. Normally such things were beyond anything but a curiosity to me, but Layfayette had been the number three. I rushed out at once, shirt tails and untied boots, to have both my best hopes and worst fears confirmed. Lafayette had indeed been the one to make it back, but he had been injured in the fight and the crash and rushed to the hospital in Touls. The grave look of the Executive Officer did not give me much hope.

The evening brought good news on two fronts. First was that my pilot friend would not only survive but recover, and second that Rene had not only impressed the newspaper men but completely convinced the American aviator as to Sergeant Miller's French heritage.

After the all too common memorial I was presented with yet another addition to my medal.



Afterwards, I sat alone at the table in the mess, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. It was very easy to do so, considering all the empty chairs available.

I am still looking forward to each AAR.
Another good one Dart.


Wheels

Gosh, these are superb.

Truely amazing Dart!
Reading up on Martin's exploits is about as good as flying a sortie myself. This is suspension of disbelief at its finest!

Add me to your list of fans. I'm very much enjoying these, it's making me want to actually start a campaign. Neoqb should hire you. Seriously.

Enjoying this superb report about the aerial adventures of Martin so much, I couldn´t resist any longer and got me a copy of RoF.
Without Dart´s wonderful AAR, I probably would have passed on that fine sim simply because it didn´ t have caught my attention.

Now I only need to dust off my old flightsim equipment and learn to fly these beautiful biplanes.

WOW!! great story Dart! Your writing skills are second to none.

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.