**The flight and emergency at the end are based entirely on a random CoD skirmish.** The rest pure fiction, albeit cheesy.

Today was the closest I have ever come to killing myslef through sheer stupidity. I has been one of those days where I really just should have stayed in my pit.

In fact, that was my intention. Knowing that I wasn't programmed to fly until late afternoon, and even then it was only a half hour airtest, I'd had an absolute skinful of beer the night before, first in the mess, then in the pub. Then a skinful of pre-war scotch that some joker had produced back in the mess after the pub threw us out.

0500 the following morning.

Batman: Sir, time to get up. Tea is on the side.
Me: #%&*$# off! Get the hell out, I'm not at work till this afternoon!
Batman: Really? Oh, quite right Sir, my mistake, must have read the list wrong! Sorry!
Me: Read the #%&*$# list wrong! Jesus! Just get the #%&*$# out. If I was as bad at my job as you I'd have been dead #%&*$# months ago!

Christ my head hurt, and I could taste a horrific mixture of beer, cigarettes and whiskey pervading my mouth. I'd never be able to get back to sleep now, so decided to get up and nurse my hangover over a cup of tea and a paper in the ante room. Damn that bloody useless idiot of a Batman.

An hour later I felt vaguelly human again, and being bored #%&*$# decided to cycle on over to the squadron to do some outstanding admin. I was already in a bad mood, and cycling at full tilt into a massive pothole whilst I had my hands jammed firmly into my pockets, as was my style (cycling with no hands worried me a bit, but looked nonchalent as hell, so I was percevering), did nothing to inprove it, as I hit the ground face first.

Thoroughly disgruntled I decided to push my bike the rest of the way to avoid further mishap. I dumped it outside the crewroom and wandered in.

RP: Morning old chap! Rough Night?
Me: #%&*$# off.

I decided another cup of tea before I tackled the absolute clusterfuck that was my logbook would be a good idea, and promptly fell asleep in the only chair that was even vaguely servicable. 30 seconds later I was rudely awakened for the second time that day by the station crash alarm, spilled my hot tea all over myself, and lept up just in time to see the fire engine and meat wagon roar off.

Me: Whats up?
RP: Someone from A Flight back, plenty of smoke, no comms.
Me: #%&*$#. No sign of the others?
RP: Not yet.

The lone Spitfire trailling a #%&*$# of what looked like burning hydraulic fluid was roughly downwind, no sign of his gear yet. RP and I watched with bated breath as he carried out a dodgy finals turn, too high, too fast, and then somehow managed to salvage it at the last second, slamming into the ground on its belly and coming to rest, right way up for a change, in a shower of earth and metal. No fire. The Meat Wagon was immediately alongside, and I saw them lift a limp figure from the cockpit - Uh Oh, that didn't look good.

Ah well, back to my tea, wait for the rest of A flight to turn up. Excpet they didn't - due to a lack of servicable AC only 3 spits had got airbourne that morning - OC A, who'd got badly shot up, just managed to limp back to base and then ploughed in as we watched. He would be ok, despite catching 2 bullets and smashing his face open on the gunsight during his belly landing. The other 2 apparently bailed out somewhere close to the coast after they got bounced by some maruading 109s.

Thats when the boss came through.

Boss: Ah, glad to see you're in old chap. You alright, you look a bit queer?
Me: Fine thanks boss, not queer in the least, just a little worse for wear after last night. Still fighting fit though!

I immediately regretted my last statement as an idea suddenly occured to the boss.

Boss: I know you were meant to be stood down today, but what with losing three aircraft, and for the time being three pilots we're a little short. Feel up to flying a shipping patrol?
Me: Uh.......sure.
Boss: Ok, in that case get kitted up. It'll only be you and RP, but I guess we have to show willing even if we haven't really got the AC for it. I'll brief you myslef. 10 minutes alright?
Me: Yeah, sure.

I said glumly.

Anyway, thats how I came to be over the channel at 20,000 feet, in a foul mood and still absolutely hanging out of my arse.

RP, my number 2 kept edging in closer and was making me nervous.

Me: For #%&*$# sake, we're meant to be in fighting wing. Back off, keep your eyes out, not glued on me.
RP: Roger Charcoal leader. Sorry.

Muttering to myself I resumed my scan of the sky and the sea below. We were probably too high to spot any marauding 110's whcih had a habit of thundering in at zero feet to make a nuisance of themselves, but what the hell. 20'000 was what we were briefed.

Just as I was thinking of calling it a day, with my headache taking on a new intensity, I caught a brief glint on the sea surface below. Hullo, whats this? Then I saw it again - definately an aircraft!

Me: Tally one, 3 O'clock, on the surface, diving.

I immediately put my machine into a steep dive to intercept the speck I had had seen, and just as promptly lost sight of it.

Dammit.

An instant later I heard a roar behind me, felt impacts on the wing, and felt a shower of glass as instruments disintegrated all around me. In a blind panic I rolled hard and then pulled the stick into my stomach, turning as hard as I could. I hit the buffet almost immediately and lost all vision. An instant later I unloaded and rolled the other way, vision slightly returning. As I rolled back the other way I caught a momnentary glimpse of a mottled grey machine with flashes of yellow diving away, but was too stunned to react, just glad he wasnt behind me anymore.

Still throwing my spit around like a man possesed I looked wildly about the sky searching for the next attacker. To my susprise and relief the sky seemed empty. #%&*$#. That was close.

The immediate danger passsed, and with no sign of anybody, including my number 2, anywhere in the sky I turned towards the coast and started to asses the damage. Well, the controls seemed to respond alright. A quick glance at the T's, and P's, which were still intact, seemed to show nothing amiss, but I left the throttle where it was for the time being. My radio and gunsight had pretty much dissapeared and in their place was smashed glasss and a tangle of wires. Dammit, that had been really close.

I started to calm down. Right - lets do a visual check. Remembering the impacts I'd felt on the wings, I checked them first. Fuel was pissing out of both wing tanks and glance at the fuel guage confirmed my fears - It was pissing oput fast. #%&*$#, at this rate I probably had no more than 2 or 3 minutes before I was empty.

Use it, or lose it, opened the throtttle wide, and trusting that my engine was otherwise sound, pushed the throttle through the gate and pulled my nose to for best rate of climb. Trimmed out, I looked again at the coast, which seemed no nearer. OK, OK, no need to panic, think. How far to the coast? No more than 10 miles. Ok, gliding at 130 knots I could do roughly 2 miles per thousand feet - I was already at 10 grand whcih meant I could glide 20 miles. Phew, I wouldn't be swimming at least.

If I could make 20 grand before my engine quit I could probably make it back to one of the coastal airfields. Ideal. I decided to take stock of any other damage - No radios, fine. Looked like the emergency gear Co2 bottle was cracked - ok fine, put the gear down before the engine quits, whilst its still driving the hydraulic EDP. In fact do it as soon as the red warning light comes on - don't want it any earlier or the extra drag might mean I dont mnake it back.

Crossing the coast now, thats a nice feeling. Feet dry at least, at 20 grand, engine still hasn't quit, and red fuel light still not on - this might work out ok. And Hullo, whats this? An airfield? Ideal! Don't know whcih, but It'll do!

At that moment, without warning the engine spluttered and died. #%&*$#. I shoved the nose down and started trimming for 130 knots, time to focus now. Fuel cut-off operated, and throttle closed. No fuel anyway, but better safe than sorry.

positioning for the airfield, coming along nicely, this shouldnt be too difficult, classic PFL, except no room for error this time. #%&*$#. #%&*$#. #%&*$# IDIOT. THE #%&*$# GEAR.

I tried the emergency gear lever anyway, holding it fully down for 20 seconds - nothing, not an ounce of pressure left in the co2 cyclinder. Maybe that was just as well, dont want the gear only half out. BUT #%&*$#.

Ok, positioning still going well, should hit high key bang on 3000 with the field on my right. Thank god its all grass. A bit of sideslip to get to 3 grand in the right position. I really dont want to do this. I could bale. Well, lets see how this goes, but a nice early decision to bale, decide by 2500, if you're going to to do it. Open the canopy, tighten my straps.

No, I'm not baling, this looks good, 3 grand high key, turning across the field, looking for 1500 at low key. Theres 1400 at low key, ok, start the turn early, also too low to bale now, committed. #%&*$#. Keep it in a gentle turn, hold 130 kts. Bit fast, nose up and trim, keep that turn on, looking good.

Bit slow now, nose down, and a little high. Ok, turn away, now back at the field. Speed is good, height is good, this will be fine.

The airfield boundary flashed past beneath me, and I gently raised the nose to arrest my rate of descent, everything including fear forgotten now as I concentrated on touching down as lightly as possible. I registered the Meat Wagon and fire engine roaring across the field from the tower. Good. Hopefully wont need 'em.

I felt the machine wallow, and a split second later, smashed into the ground. A searing pain bit through my face and shoulders as my head impacted the smashed gunsight, glass slicing through my cheek, cheek bone impacting with solid metal. I don't know what happened next really, because the next thing I remember I'm being hauled out of my seat by the biggest Flt Sgt I've ever seen.

Well, well, well. I'm alive. And the machine in not too bad shape either. That could have gone worse!

Wauw, that was pretty intense, the ending had me hanging by my seat straps as well, well done old chap!

Wow, close call DM! It was a bad day that could've gone much worse! Give your batman a kick in the pants when you get back. LOL

"Today was the closest I have ever come to killing myself through sheer stupidity"

I love it when a story starts out bad for the hero, then gets worse! Good stuff. More!

Glad you enjoyed it fellas! Heinkill, it was inspired by your awesome stories - just wish I was near my main PC, I'd have embellished it with a few dodgy screenshots!

darkmouse,

A well-written and imaginative account old bean.

But how could you even dare to suggest that you are actually enjoying this sim? We have had it on good authority that it is unplayable and that such enjoyment is purely illusory. It's people like you that create the causes for argument, rancour and dis-harmony.

Prepare 200 lines of the above paragraph and have them on my office desk by morning - unless you want a posting to 47 Wellesley Squadron in Abyssinia.