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