Okay, folks, this is the saga of the very excellent Afrika '41 campaign as I've flown it. This is sort of a improved "cut and paste" from the thread in the IL-2 forums, and has many, many spoilers.

The most common complaint about the IL-2 series is that it is "without soul," but to my easily overworked imagination, it's immersive to the point of away-from-the-sim distraction.

First off, I twisted the tone of the campaign from the start, as my Oberst Willi Jedermann isn't a hardcore ace that has a chest full of medals and a long history of glory.

I was reflecting that Oberst Jedermann is supposed to be a veteran of Spain, Poland, BoB, etc., and it got me thinking - in IL-2, campaigns start one's avatar at zero kills and therefore awards medals based on score starting from a null.

It would be assumed that a veteran of previous campaigns would already have an Iron Cross, for example, and so wouldn't receive another one.

Naturally I reconciled the differences between the "legends" of the character.

Prologue:


Berlin, 1 April 1941:

"Herr Oberst, you have quite an interesting record."
"I'm glad you think so, sir," I replied, trying not to fidget; but it's not every day one is being questioned in the Luftwaffe High Command headquarters.
"Born in 1905 of a former Artillery officer in Ravensburg, Joined in 1930, commissioned in Infantry 1931, but transferred to the Luftwaffe after obtaining a pilot's license on your own in England in 1932."
"Yes sir."
"You went to University in Munich?"
"Ja."
"And what did you study?"
Mostly how to avoid food riots, I didn't say, taking "History" as a safer answer.
"And why did you go to England to learn to fly, rather than here in Germany? Were there no schools for flying in Munich?"
"I had no desire to learn to pilot gliders," I replied, my anger beginning to rise. Damned fool! Has he forgotten everything before Das Furer took over the country?
"You went to Spain?"
"Yes."
"And what were your duties, exactly, there?"
"I was air liasion officer."
"But it says you were on flight status."
"Yes, sir, mostly light aircraft."
"So no combat experience."
"In the air, no, sir," I said, the vision of tracers and the flash of explosions around my downed Storch as the Republican squad attacked leaping in front of me. I swear I could smell the cordite at that very instant!
"And after, your first command in Poland."
"A maintenance company for the squadron."
"Not very glamorous or distinquished, would you say?"
"Still, far better than commanding a squadron with no fuel and unmaintained aircraft."
"Then came France and England. What were your responsibilities, again?"
"I was Operations Officer in France and Executive Officer after," I remarked as cooly as I could. I didn't know where this conversation was heading, but I was warming up to the idea of hating this man. The idea crossed my mind that he may not be Luftwaffe at all, but some Reichssicherheitshauptamt pretender.
"It says you performed combat duties over England."
"No, sir, that is not correct. I did not fly over England. I was shot down over France."
"Ah, that would explain the medical leave. Would you tell me, in your own words, what happened?"
Why do that, when the words of the board findings are in your hands, I thought as I said flatly, "Simple enough. Our airfield was attacked as I was taking off and I was hit just I brought the gear up."
"Spitfire?"
"Our own twenty millimeters, who were firing at British bombers."
"The flight academy was for recuperation, then?"
"That and the fact that I have over two hundred hours in the Bf-109, as well as rating in every aircraft outside of multi-engine bombers that are in the inventory." I stared into his eyes, letting that sink in.
"And so you're the adjudant here."
"As well as senior instructor, teaching combat maneuvering and gunnery."
"You've done pretty well for yourself, having been promoted to Oberst without ever doing any real fighting."
I said nothing, knowing I would not be able to control my words.
"Let's turn to other subjects, shall we Jedermann?"
"Oberst."
"Pardon?"
"Oberst Jedermann, as you just pointed out."
"You were married in 1930, just after joing the ranks; your wife's name is Rebekkah."
"Yes."
"Unusual name for a German girl."
"No more than some."
"And her maiden name?"
"Wolfowitz." Swine! He was RSHA, no doubt combing the files of officers looking for those horrible Juden that were such a threat to the Fatherland that we had to close down their tailor shops and send them packing.
"Her address, please."
"In America, New York City."
"America? Why is she in America?"
Because I want her as far away from Germany as I can get her, I almost blurted out.
"Visiting family and friends she has there."
"And why has she not returned?"
"Transportation can be difficult across the Atlantic, and with the war we would not be living together. I decided it would be best if she remained there."
"America is a hostile nation to Germany," he stated, as if it were a well known fact.
"We are not at war with the United States," I observed, bringing color to his face.
"I will tell you what it is; don't question me!" he shouted, confirming that he was indeed part of the Gestapo gang, arrogant and imperious to a man, "Your wife is a Jew living in a hostile nation to the Fatherland!

"She is Catholic," I said as calmly as I could.

We stared at each other, leaning forward in our chairs, and the silence fell heavily around us.

"She is a Jew in her blood, and nothing will ever change that," he declared matter-of-factly.

"Is that why you called me here?" I asked, "To insult my wife and challenge my career? If so, I have better things to do with my time. Cadets are waiting."
"Not for you, they aren't," he smiled, "I am having you reassigned."
"To where?"
"A place to find out where your loyalities lay, if I had my way," he remarked, looking irritated, "but some senior officers have intervened on your behalf. They have a confidence in you I do not understand, but agree that we cannot allow you to be in the position to affect cadets with ideals that run contrary to the nation."

He paused, as if trying to think of way to be as insulting as possible and puff up his importance.

"Africa. You're going to Africa to serve your country in a combat capacity."
"Which squadron will I command?" I blurted out without thinking; this was not such bad news!

He smiled.

"You will not be given a command, Jedermann," he smirked, "you will be sent as a regular pilot filling a regular billet with a note attached to your record stating that you are not to be given responsibility beyond flight leader without direct authorization from Berlin otherwise."

I stood up, fists balled tightly at my side. I do not know what kept me from killing the man with my bare hands at that very instant.

Instead, I simply asked "When do I leave?"

"Immediately. Your bags have been packed for you and already on the plane waiting for you."

"Sehr gut," I said, rage boiling inside me.

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So while the campaign as FlatSpin wrote it has a hardened combat veteran that is taking just one more adventure in a string of them against an illustrious career, my Jedermann has arrived in Africa rather jaded and upset with a black mark against him - and no real combat experience to go with his skills.

At thirty-six, he's an old man in fighter pilot circles, and knows that the real commands go to younger men, and commanders will become younger and younger as the war goes on; if he doesn't get killed in Africa his next billet will probably be a staff position, most likely away from aircraft, such as a logistical unit or perhaps an assignment POW camp looking after Commonwealth pilots.

I try to fly the missions like that, too, sticking to waypoints and the primary target, not taking targets of opportunity off the beaten path, and keeping always the goal returning to the base.

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Oh, and the campaign can be downloaded here: [url]http://mission4today.com/index.php?name=Downloads&file=details&id=2471[/url]