Oh dear, oh dear! Victoria Cross for Toby. That will go straight to his head. Thank you, oh fairest of the Gong Fairies!
MFair, great idea to introduce Camille back into your narrative. It will be interesting to see if Luke’s charms will win her over. Also, I am glad Frank made it back down before adding a large icicle to his aeroplane, although I wouldn’t want to shake his hand to congratulate him this achievement, knowing what he had to do to keep it in.
Lou, that Bishop appears to be one annoying git. How did he manage to live this long I’ll never understand. Did he really join the RFC of his own accord, or was he “passed on” to keep the boys in the trenches same? Good thing Swany’s there to keep him in check.
It is the new year and it feels like the bash ended only a few hours ago but it appears the fireworks are about to resume. The flight’s been ordered to take out the observation balloon south of Monchy-Le-Preux. Toby’s head was still swimming either from lack of sleep or a lingering hangover. While en route to their target, the ‘B’ flight chanced upon a pair of enemy two-seaters over La Bellevue and followed them east as they were retreating. This was some new type of aeroplane Mulberry has not seen before. Thankfully they were not Rolands. They looked more like Aviatiks but with less angular wings. Mulberry caught up to the trailing plane and managed to send it down in a vertical dive south of Arras. The enemy gunner punctured his petrol tank in the process and Toby had to make an emergency landing. Holtcombe, who has just returned from leave got the other Hun. It seemed the pair of them were hungry for a victory after a long period of bad weather. Their claims, however, were quickly dismissed since no one could agree on the airplane type. The blow of such blatant injustice was softened somewhat by the announcement that Toby would be the next recipient of the coveted Victoria Cross. The obligatory celebrations started early that evening and did not end until ... hard to say.
Fullofit: Nice vid Rene has a knack for capturing the human form on canvas after close examination of the subject.
U guys have No appreciation for Fine Art. As Rene explained to his model, His painting style is Obvious " It is Advance Guard of Abstract Painting ". Instead of the Impressionist style of Monet and Manet or of the Portrait style.
Last edited by carrick58; 01/02/2002:21 AM.
#4502349 - 01/02/2012:03 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: May 2012 Posts: 3,686RAF_Louvert
BOC President; Pilot Extraordinaire; Humble Man
MFair, what did the Major expect? When a man's gotta go a man's gotta go. He's lucky it was only number 1, in particular when you're sitting behind a rotary day after day and sucking in all that castor oil mist spewing back at you. That can cause a whole 'nother bathroom emergency.
Fullofit, is Toby trying to get sent home in a box? Parking himself directly in the line of fire of those Hun G/Os and hanging there while they bang away at him is a good way to do it. Fortunately it was his windscreen that got holed - this time.
Carrick, I do have an appreciation for fine art. There is nothing like a superb painting - and that work of Rene's is nothing like a superb painting.
#4502384 - 01/02/2002:37 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Captain Swanson was in deep trouble and he knew it. What he did not know, but desperately wanted to know, was his location. Where the hell was he? He'd never been lost in his life, not even as a child tramping around in the woods of northern Minnesota. His sense of direction had always been excellent and he knew how to read the sun and moon and stars, as well as the subtle signs in nature that can serve as a compass. But there was no sun, nor moon, nor stars, and the only sign nature was providing at the moment was the blinding snow streaking past him at eighty miles an hour. As for a compass, it was the very instrument that had gotten him into this mess. That, and the freezing blizzard he was now caught in the middle of.
It all began when he left Stow Maries shortly after sunset and headed out for a lone evening patrol along the coast from Southwold to Margate. The winds were light out of the west and only a wisp of snow was falling, despite the heavy gray clouds that hung between 5,000' and 9,000'. He climbed above the first cloud layers and out of the flurries only to discover another layer towering above him at 18,000' or more. However, he could catch glimpses of the coastline now and then through the lower cover so he decided to press on to the north-northeast and his first way-point. He surmised that the gap between the two cloud decks could provide an excellent covert route for any Zeppelin intruders that might wish to slip across for some mischief, and he wanted to be there to catch them if they tried.
Swany was still a good twenty miles away from Southwold when things quickly started changing for the worse. The winds picked up and the temperature dropped, and the gap between the clouds started to close. The Captain decided it would be prudent to turn back, so he swung round to the south-southwest and set a course for Stow Maries. As he did so he decided to also climb and see if he couldn't get above the storm for at least a portion of the return trip. However, he realized almost immediately that would be impossible as his wings were icing and it was all he could do to maintain his current altitude of 10,500'. He continued homeward, switching on the cockpit light every five minutes or so to check his compass heading. It was all he had to go on as the ground was obliterated from view. He was also losing altitude slowly due to the icing and he was now back into the snow, which had gone from flurries to a full blown blizzard. He switched on the light and checked his compass again, and that's when he noticed it - tiny, sparkling crystals behind the lens, shimmering in the faint cockpit glow. A wave of fear swept across the young ace as he reached down and tapped a gloved finger against the instrument. The needle did not budge or waver from its south-southwest point. Swany banged his fist against it now, several times, hard. It was stuck tight, moisture must have gotten into it! The Captain paused a moment and took a deep breath of the frigid air, in an attempt to calm himself.
"OK now, think, you need to get below da clouds and see if you are really on course", Swany said out loud to no one but himself, and God.
He throttled back the V-12 and watched the altimeter as he slowly descended through the storm. 9,000' - 7,000' - 5,000' - he was straining to make out the ground. 4,000' - 3,000' - still nothing but snow. Suddenly, just under 2,000' he caught a glimpse of what lay below, and it terrified him to the core. Black, inky, rolling waves capped by deathly gray spray, in all directions!
"FAEN, FAEN, FAEN!" Swany cursed at the sea and the snow as he climbed back up, away from the watery grave waiting for him below. He had no idea how far he was from the coast, or which direction he was actually heading, so he did some quick figuring. He'd been heading north-northeast initially; he then swung around to what he thought was south-southwest; the winds were trying to push him eastward. His best guess was that he was heading south, maybe, and if that were true he should turn to starboard and continue on as he would eventually hit the English coastline somewhere. He still had about two hours of fuel so he had some time to work with. And now that he was at a lower altitude his wings had stopped icing. He pounded again on the treacherous compass - it continued to mock him with its south-southwest heading.
A nerve-wracking, heart-pounding hour slithered by as Captain Swanson continued on, dropping down every ten minutes to see if he could spot land in any direction. But it was endless, stormy sea rolling beneath him each time. He wondered if he should change course, but thought better of it. Without any sense of north, south, east, or west, and in the blinding snow, his current direction was as likely as any other to bring him to land. Another ten minutes and more precious fuel gone, Swany again descended in hopes of spotting salvation. He strained his eyes, trying to divine any horizon at all through the streaking snow. There was the sea coming back into view, waiting like a watery vulture to claim him. But what was that? Shoreline?
"YES, by Godt, that's land!" Swany shouted.
He dropped down closer and could make out more detail. The snow was actully thinning a bit the lower he got now. The Captain swung around and picked out a field that looked a reasonable spot, skillfully lining up on it.
"Careful now, careful. Don't want to kill yourself botching the landing after all this."
The B.E. settled softly onto the ground, the heavy, wet snow slowing it quickly to a stop. Swany shut off the fuel and the magnetos and watched as the prop windmilled to a halt. He then sat in the stillness and the quiet, and thanked the Almighty for his deliverance. The snow was falling gently on him now, rather than streaking angrily past. There was nearly no wind at all here, wherever "here" was. Several houses stood nearby, and after undoing his belt and climbing down from his mount, the Captain began slogging towards the nearest one. As he approached he saw the front door open and a figure appear with a lantern. The figure started towards him and as it neared Swany could see it was an older man, perhaps fifty or so. The fellow called out to him.
"Hallo. Wie is daar?"
Swany was shocked and stopped dead in his tracks. Was that - German? It didn't exactly sound German. The fellow called again.
"Wie is daar?"
There was nothing for it now. Swany swallowed hard and yelled back, "Do you speak any English, or parles-tu Français? Mein Deutsch ist nicht so gut."
"Aah, are you British?" came the response in halted English.
"Yes, yes I am, well, American actually. I was lost in da storm and landed here. Where - where am I?" Swany asked, hoping for the best, but expecting the worst.
"Strype", came the one word reply.
"Strype?" Swanson questioned. "Where is Strype?"
"Nederland - what you call, ah - Holland", the fellow shouted back.
(to be continued)
The blinding snow streaking past at eighty miles an hour. Below, nothing but black, inky, rolling waves capped by deathly gray spray
YES, by Godt, that's land!
The Captain swung around and picked out a field that looked a reasonable spot.
Careful. Don't want to kill yourself botching the landing after all this.
The snow was falling gently now, rather than streaking angrily past.
#4502434 - 01/02/2007:28 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Fullofit, stop taking those chances! It’s a long war. Hope the celebration goes well. Carrick, I recognize the girl in the portrait on the right. Lou, that was excellent. Ready for part 2.
Sgt. Frank Lucas Bertangles West January 2nd, 1917
All flights were cancelled. The squadron was allowed to sleep late. Once awake and fed, Frank was thinking of that beautiful creature in Ameins. “I wonder if I can swing a trip into town” he thought to himself. His hopes were dashed however when the Major announced that all pilots were to be at a briefing at noon. “Well, sh%t! Frank said to Sears. Sears laughed. “I think you had intentions of going into town for a little feminine company ol’ boy.” “Well you can’t blame me can you?” Frank asked. “I don’t know! I don’t even recall what the girl looked like. As I think of it now, I don’t recall much of anything from that night.!” Frank laughed. “No, I suppose you don’t.”
At the Majors briefing the squadron found that they would be discussing tactics and the Pup’s advantages and disadvantages in a fight until the weather clears. “Well I reckon Me and you will be listening but We sure ain’t got much to say” said Frank. “Why do you say that?” Asked Sears. Frank looked at him and skoffed. “Hell, the only scrap me and you been in was with a damned balloon! And if you remember, it didn’t put up much of a fight!
Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear or a fool from either end. BOC Member since....I can't remember!
#4502442 - 01/02/2008:08 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: May 2012 Posts: 3,686RAF_Louvert
BOC President; Pilot Extraordinaire; Humble Man
To Swany's misadventure, call me crazy for risking my veteran DiD pilot, but I actually flew the assigned night sortie despite the snowstorm I had to take off in, and decided then and there to do it without the compass, in order to simulate what it must have been like when such things happened to our RL counterparts. I've read in at least two different pilot accounts over the years of how they'd become lost over water after getting caught in a winter storm, or thick fog, while having an untrustworthy compass. It was truly a white knuckle flight and I honestly had no idea if Swany was going to find land again or not. When he finally did I was beyond thrilled. After he was safe on the ground I switched on the in-sim map and discovered he had indeed set down on the coast of the Netherlands near the little town of Strype. Great stuff!
#4502453 - 01/02/2008:58 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
I was cleared for a Solo flight since e/a machines were heard over the Trenches . I had only been up for a short .time when I spotted movement under the Storm clouds that made up the ceiling at 3000 meters Almost ran into the Bosche machine turned and got off a string of 9 rds away then he pulled up into the cloud base and was gone. Barely made it back in . Spent the night drinking Snap Dragons with wine chasers.
Last edited by carrick58; 01/02/2010:42 PM.
#4502491 - 01/03/2002:18 AMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: Nov 2014 Posts: 2,593Fullofit
Sorry Lou, Toby was just excited, or eager, or both to finally bag a Hun after a long period of bad weather (and shooting only at balloons). That is some “adventure” Swany has got himself into. Better get him some clogs to blend in with the locals. And a compass. Looking forward to finding out how he’ll get his heinie out of that one.
MFair, Luke is my kind of guy. There is a war going on, but he has his priorities straight: get the woman, shoot the bad guys, get a drink, pee on a strut. He has his work cut out for himself.
Carrick, don’t listen to them, you just continue to capture those young ladies ... on canvas, although I hear body painting is all the rage right now.
No flying for Toby today. Atrocious weather conditions for the next 2 days.
"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys, The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain, From out of my arse take the camshaft, And assemble the engine again."
#4502495 - 01/03/2004:08 AMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Fullofit, heartfelt congratulations on the award of a VC to Toby. He can put up the ribbon immediately, of course, but he would likely receive the medal from the King at the investiture ceremony. I think the next such occasion was held at Buckingham Palace on 5 February 1917. Perhaps we can get a London story out of Toby! And that New Year’s Day attack on the DFW – you have more guts than Dick Tracy. With my luck I’d have lost three pilots in the time it took for that machine to go down. Tell Toby to watch himself.
Lou, I really enjoyed the vignette about Bishop. By the way, I’m hoping to make it two Stowe Maries in February when my son and I are driving from London to Harwich en route to a battlefield tour in the Netherlands. If we get to stop there, I’ll be sure to send you some photos. You really outdid yourself in the next episode. Getting lost over water like that must have been terrifying. It would have been too simple to fly directly into the North Sea in that weather without knowing what had happened! One of the marvellous things about this sim is how engrossing it can be even away from the front lines. Yours will remain one of the most memorable flights in Woff history!
MFair, I’m starting to think that Frank Lucas is a typical Southern politician – shaking hands with the unemployed! Well done.
Carrick, I do believe that Rene has started a new school of French painting. A very, very special school.
An Airman’s Odyssey – by Capt James Arthur Collins, VC, DSO, MC
Part Ninety-Two: In which I confront a dreaded task
We spent the last afternoon of December 1916 decorating the mess for a festive dinner. Ian Henderson had left a wonderful surprise for us before departing for HE – a large tureen emerged in the arms of the mess steward and Major Rodwell read a card that Henderson had left for us. “For those of you Sassenachs and colonial settlers requiring an introduction to a better (i.e. Scots) way of life, let me present you with a proper Atholl Brose.” The Major explained that Henderson had begun preparing this treat in early October – a potent mix of heavy cream, oats, honey, and several bottles of fine whisky – all stirred and turned and fermented into a milky, sweet, soothing, and highly alcoholic delicacy. It made an afternoon spent creating paper chains and bunting a delight. Ackerman from A Flight was particularly taken with the mix, and had us all in stitches by going down on one knee and crooning to Captain Watley “Pale Hands I Loved beside the Shalimar.”
Our dinner guests included many of the chaps from 27 Squadron. We had a splendid pork roast in a Madeira sauce, followed by plum pudding and drunken speeches. The PMC supplied the obligatory Christmas crackers with paper hats and noisemakers. And at midnight we persuaded a slightly tipsy Hansel to give a rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” Our C Flight was on for patrol at eight the next morning so I did not make too late a night of it. After firing every Very light we could find into the night sky I sat with Hansel on the step of the mess building for a last cigarette before bed.
“That Hun from the Roland was a good sort,” said Hansel out of the blue. I nodded. “It’s really rather rotten, isn’t it, sir? Having to shoot at the fellows, I mean.”
“It is,” I replied. “But the king gives you seven bob a day for doing it.”
Hansel smiled. “Yes, but it’s still a rotten thing to do. I shall be glad when the war is over, though.”
“And then what will you do?” I asked.
“I really don’t know,” Hansel replied. “Flying really is topping, and war flying is a topping sport. I wish only that we didn’t really have to shoot the other chaps.”
I let my head sag between my knees. “Hansel, for God’s sake! Those fellows are shooting at YOU.”
“Oh but sir, they’ll never hit me. I’m absolutely sure of that.”
I stood up. “Get some sleep,” I said. “We’re putting that idea to test in the morning.”
It was a crystalline blue morning, the first good day in a while. Our task was to patrol the line from Arras north to Lens. We climbed to eleven thousand feet and crossed into Hunland east of Boiry St-Martin. A mile or two over we turned north. Only a couple of minutes later, I noticed sunshine reflecting off something far below. I banked one way and then the other. Then I saw them – a large formation of enemy scouts several thousand feet below. I waggled my wings and turned about to count the Huns. We were four – Child, Orlebar, Hansel, and me. There were seven Huns, dark in colour with their nasty black crosses painted on white squares. Even from this distance one could tell they were Halberstadts.
I hesitated. Five of the Huns were spread out in a wide V formation. The other two were a little behind and above them. We would be outnumbered and a little lower than I would like, but I thought we might be able to surprise and destroy the two trailing Halberstadts before their mates were able to turn about. Still, there was a nagging doubt. One does not win wars by listening to one’s fears, I told myself. And down we went.
The two trailing Huns were alert and before we got in range they broke left and right and began to climb towards us. I glanced left at Child and Orlebar. Child was turning left to pick up the Hun on that side. Orlebar, however, was turning beneath me and heading for the Hun on my right. I looked right and saw a black smear of smoke paint the clear blue sky. A collision! I hoped against all odds that there were two Huns involved. But then a yellow panel of canvas with a bright red white and blue roundel caught the sunlight as it tumbled lazily in the air.
It was Hansel’s machine.
As a young boy back in Saskatchewan I had been a good pupil in school. Our schoolhouse was a single room with children from the age of five to the age of thirteen. The teacher had advanced me a year and still I led the children of my age in our final marks. There was one boy, Bogdan, who took an intense dislike to me. He teased me relentlessly and missed no opportunity to give me a cuff in the schoolyard or to steal my lunch or knock the cap from my head. Bogdan was three years older than me and was built like a threshing machine so I didn’t fight back or protest much. It seemed pointless. Then came the end of my third grade school year. On the last day of school we received our reports and mine was one to be proud of. The teacher, Mrs Hardinger, even gave me a book of stories about the Empire as a special award. But as soon as school was let out, Bogdan followed me and snatched the book away. In that instant I “saw red” as they say. All fear vanished and I wanted blood. I chased after Bogdan and jumped on his back. He swatted me to the ground, but I leapt back to my feet and punched him in the face as hard as I could. He staggered back with a roar but had no time to retaliate. I was on him with both fists flailing and knocked him back against a tree. There I grabbed him by both ears and smashed his head on the tree trunk again and again as hard as I could. Mrs Hardinger came running from the school house, having been called by several children. She tried in vain to haul me off Bogdan but I was determined to smash his head open like a coconut. I barely heard her screaming at me. In the end, a passing farmer helped her break up the fight and Bogdan ran off spitting curses and threats.
My school days -- me (far right) and Bogdan (fifth from right)
I had never reacted like that before or 1since, but in this instant I was back in that moment. Now there were six Bogdans, for the other five Halberstadts had seen the collision between Hansel and their colleague. For nearly five minutes I fired first at one and then another German machine. It was foolish to get into a turning fight with a Spad yet that is exactly what I did. I did not have the patience to zoom away and turn back. I wanted blood and I wanted it right now. One of the Huns spun away. I hit another with a full deflection shot as he tried to turn back at me. He to put his nose down and headed east. I saw Orlebar entertaining two more Huns. Child was nowhere to be seen but neither was the Hun he had been engaging. I turned about yet again and saw a Halberstadt heading towards Orlebar. I was on him in a second, the sun at my back. He did not see me until I fired from a mere thirty yards away. The tracers plunged into his machine all around the cockpit. The Halberstadt rolled on its back and tumbled earthward, clearly out of control. I watched with satisfaction until it smashed into the ground far below, making a third column of smoke beside those of Hansel and the Hun he fell with. This was my twenty-fourth victory, but I did not feel victorious.
"I was on him in a second, the sun at my back."
It was customary when a pilot fell to go through his things and make sure that nothing unseemly was sent home to the family. Items of flying kit were typically claimed by members of the flight. Normally I would have performed this sad duty. I could not face it and delegated the job to Child. But there was one task I could not delegate. I opened a bottle of Yukon Gold and, pouring myself four fingers of neat whisky, took out my pen and writing paper.
“Dear Mrs and Mr Hansel,” I began...
#4502532 - 01/03/2001:52 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: May 2012 Posts: 3,686RAF_Louvert
BOC President; Pilot Extraordinaire; Humble Man
It was shortly past sunrise and Captain Swanson was sitting down to breakfast with his Nederland hosts. After his harrowing flight and miraculous landing late the night before he had been mentally and physically exhausted, as well as frozen to the bone, and despite the shocking revelation of being in Holland, all he had wanted to do was sleep. The fellow who discovered him had recognized this immediately and after getting him inside and next to the fire, and after a quick round of introductions, had offered Swany lodging for the night. The young airman was most grateful and once shown his room had barely removed his flying kit before collapsing onto the soft, warm, down-filled bedding and falling fast asleep. The rich smell of fresh coffee woke him up some eight hours later.
"Here you are Captain Swanson, I hope it is to your taste." The charming words had been spoken by Neska de Lange. A trim, handsome woman, likely in her early forties, with light brown hair neatly pulled back under a white linen cap, and deep blue eyes that a man could get lost in. There was no question what her husband, Inspector Hubert de Lange, saw in her, and why he'd taken her as his wife.
"Thank you very much Mev-rrrouw de Lange. That is how you say it, Mev-rrrouw?" Swany asked.
Neska beamed, "Good! You will learn to speak Nederlander very, umm, promptly I think. Better than my English."
The Captain cheerfully replied, "You are too kind", as he took a sip of the strong, dark coffee to which a drizzle of hot milk had been added just before Neska had placed it in front of him.
"Oh my Lord, this may be da best cup of coffee I've had in my life!" Swanson exclaimed.
"I am so glad. I will have breakfast ready in just a moment", Mrs. de Lange replied proudly.
"So, Inspector de Lange, I'm still not clear on just what my status is here in your country. I would be most appreciative if you could sort it out for me further." Swany took another drink of the delicious brew.
"I will do my best, but again you must excuse our English."
Police Inspector de Lange was a tall, commanding-looking gentleman, with a voice that put one immediately at ease. It was likely the combination of these qualities that had helped him become most competent, and respected, at his job. Despite being fifty-one, the way he carried himself and moved could make one think he was a good fifteen to twenty years younger. He'd been attached with the Rotterdam Police for the past two decades and now served in a semi-retired role as a liaison with the local coastal and border police.
"We are a neutral country you see, and most proud of it. As such, we do not permit ourselves to take sides, and beyond our borders we do not help or hinder any of the, ah - what's the word, oorlogvoerend, um - belligerent parties." Inspector de Lange, looking a bit frustrated, took a gulp of his coffee.
"Would you like to continue this is French, Sir? You said you were quite fluent in it", Captain Swanson proffered.
"No,no", Hubert grinned, "I wish to practice my English if you don't mind."
The conversation was interrupted at this point as Neska set full breakfast plates in front of both her husband and her guest, then set a third one for herself. Each held several slices of fresh, lightly toasted bread slathered with a thick apple sauce, (which Swany learned was called 'applestroop'). Next to these were wedges of a wonderfully mild, salty cheese. And to finish off the plates, a small strip of cured ham. Coffee cups were topped off and all enjoyed the meal as the Inspector continued his explanation.
"As I was saying, since we are neutral we cannot allow ourselves to have favorites in this war. We act, not only as a buffer, but also as a, ah - haven. We must take in refugees, but we also must detain belligerents who cross our borders. You, Captain Swanson, are a belligerent I'm afraid, and therefore must be detained. Do you see?"
Swany finished off a second slice of the toast and applestroop, washing it down with more of the wonderful coffee, before replying, "Well Inspector, if I am allowed to enjoy meals like this during my detention I don't think I'll mind it a bit. Mev-rrrouw de Lange, this is all most delicious, thank you."
Neska smiled, then blushed slightly at the compliment.
"So Inspector, how long am I to be detained before being sent back to England?" the young ace asked as he took a bite of the cheese wedge.
"I'm afraid you don't quite understand Captain, probably due to my poor English", Inspector de Lange stated apologetically. "You will be here for the, ah, what is the term - duur van de oorlog - the, ah, duration of the war."
(to be continued)
#4502553 - 01/03/2004:22 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Raine, Bravo! Excellent writing. So sorry about Hansel. I remember a tussle with a bully at school in very similar circumstances, when I was about 5. I'm sure many of us have similar recollections
Lou, the whole war in captivity?? Of Course, Swany is plotting his escape already I hope! There must be cargo ships bound for England, or flying windmills, or something. Get yer clogs on and get going!
#4502556 - 01/03/2004:40 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)