Afrika '41 Campaign (IL-2: 1946)

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.

==================================

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.

=====

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

[Note: pics will be put in later, as I'm wrestling with my hosting company and my site is down; similarly, AAR's get longer and more involved as the campaign progresses]

My second day here and the Brits managed to sneak into the mix on a shake-out patrol just off the base!

I had no idea the situation here was this grim!

I understand why the Italians in their biplanes just seemed to disappear when the Tomahawks showed up, but it was disconcerting to say the least.

At any rate, my flight made a good showing of themselves - no doubt a shock for the Tommies - but I was a little chagrined that I had to take matters in my own hands and shoot down three myself. Hans in the number three plane certainly owes me a beer for getting that Tommyhawk off of him.

Certainly we're going to have to tighten up and improve tactics, flying higher and faster, and be on the lookout for late arrival of the enemy. I spotted two of the enemy crashing the party after it was well on the way, and had it not been for the good fortune of a half loop going the right way they would have bounced and killed me.

The airbase is a mess. Planes parked everywhere, stacks of supplies jammed all around, and men like bees around them in the hot desert sun trying in vain to disperse it all. I'm sure there's a system in place, but to me it appears the Oberfeldwebel is simply moving the piles around to keep the men busy. The Luftwaffe is putting ten kilos in a five kilo sack - not that they have a choice.

Later today I'm going to drive around the base and check on the defenses; any bomb dropped on us, no matter how poorly aimed, is going to hit something!

I've grown to dislike the desert on only my second day, a reticence that I doubt I'll overcome. The airstrip is little more than packed sand that blends in with the surround that makes landings a tough affair when the sun reflects off of it. I hope nobody was watching my arrival or realized it was me that stabbed rather blindly for it with a stall and a nasty thump.

One interesting thing - there are a large number of captured aircraft at one end of the airfield. While they look sturdy enough, I find them inferior to our own planes. That means that we only have to be better than the men flying them, not the aircraft!

Morale will be critical in the fight. Thankfully the three victories today have put to rest the questions of whether Herr Oberst from the flight academy is worthy of combat command or only fit to wipe the noses of cadets (which I suspect they feared). The men have replaced the mildly insolent Professor of this morning to a smiling Suchergebnisse over dinner.

I must say that being the school master in this classroom is going to be much harder than the clean lecture halls and manicured aerodrome of the academy.

Today I am an Ace, though I have mixed feelings of it.

The Commandant gave me a desert-ready aircraft to take up with a wingman (Hans insisted to be my number two - I may regret ever having cleared his tail!). Like everything here, it is old, looks old, feels old, but has suprising teeth behind it.

I don't know if the ground crew is playing jokes or if it's just the Gottverdammit place, but I had to remove a lizard from my helmet before flight. Scorpions in my boots in the morning, flies on my food at lunch, and now lizards in my helmet. I'm fully expecting snakes in my coffee after dinner.

The mission was a simple patrol over our ships in the hopes of catching a British seaplane, but nothing is ever simple here.

First, the Italians made no mention of their own seaplane over the ships - if it wasn't for the fact they're using good German aircraft, there might have been some unpleasantness.

Second, they made no mention that the Tommy recon flights are preceeded by a fighter screen. It was only our good fortune that we were blocked by clouds in such a way as to see them without them noticing us.

The Englanders are still using a three ship "Vic" formation here, which is disconcerting. I ordered Hans to engage freely, and picked up on the tailing plane as they went after the Italian. Hans jumped behind the second plane, and though I was concerned, said nothing. I might get a free shot before he was in danger.

Luck held and I closed on the number three as Hans fired at the number two. It was a simple ten degree deflection at 300 meters, and he was hit just at the cockpit right at convergence. The sparks and orange flash of the cannon rounds made me blink, and horrible chunks of the P-40 flew off to my right.

The enemy slowly rolled into a dive and plunged into the sea.

Hans had the number two pouring oil, smoke, and fuel thickly behind him, and I called for him to rejoin rather than waste rounds. The plane was dead. If the sea didn't get it, the desert would.

The lead enemy either lost sight of us or had specific orders, as he had disengaged from us and was harrassing the Italian seaplane, who himself was slavishly circling the ships. Perhaps he was trying to get the gunners in position, but I definately was not envious of his position!

The Tommy didn't see me swoop in after one of his runs on the Italian (he only hit with withering fire) and a quick burst at thirty degree deflection at 250 meters disabled his engine. Incredibly, his wingman had attempted to climb up to us and was rewarded with his engine bursting into flames!

A heavy black dot lay on the horizon to the East. The enemy seaplane!

Still smarting from my first encounter where the Brits had fighters come into the battle late, I made a diving attack to the front of the four engined behemoth and extended long. I smiled and then grimaced when my intuition proved right - there was a fighter trailing our target!

Hans and I engaged the fighter at high deflection, and I got lucky with a hit to his wing! The aileron fluttered behind him and I could see a gaping hole right before I zoomed past him. I ordered Hans to finish the job and turned back to our primary target.

From five hundred meters I saw something drop from the wings - bombs! Either by bad aim or an effort to gain speed with me behind him, they missed wide of the ships as I closed up.

This plane was unknown to be outside of the roundels that marked it as a target, and I was unsure if it had gunners, how many, or where they were positioned. I gingerly approached from the low seven o'clock position and was rewarded with tracers from the rear and side of the plane.

Bringing the plane to five degrees deflection in my sights I fired into the rear of the fuselage, peppering from the rear of its wing to the tail. The tracers coming the other direction ceased.

I began to climb, only to be rewarded by more tracers from the top of the enemy's plane. A gunner on the top! I came out the side and snaked back in, keeping 300 meters between us, and walked my rounds through his position.

The big plane slipped, trying to avoid my fire, as I lined up again, now freed of it's defensive threat, and concentrated on it's number four engine on the right wing. The cannon clicked, empty, and I hoped the machineguns would be enough. I altered my aimpoint to between the two engines on the wing, guessing it was where the fuel tanks were.

I fired a full twenty seconds into that spot until I was rewarded with flames, a long bright column of flames that only come from gasoline, that validated my assumptions of its design. Hans rejoined, flying off of my wingtip, as we stood off and waited for the inevitable. She simply fell apart at the heat, buckling and spinning into the water. I counted three parachutes.

They found the Tommyhawk with the disabled engine in the desert off the front lines, but the pilot had escaped into the desert before the patrol arrived.

That's six planes to my credit in three days; the squadron commander placed the Iron Cross around my neck as I landed and thumped my back as if we were Americans or self congratulating drunkards after a long night.

Still, the picture of my guns raking that seaplane and the horrible silence of the guns (which meant the silencing of the men behind it) that was coldly satisfying and the knowledge that somewhere out there in the sand and rocks is a man walking about the desert with no more than his flight gear doesn't make me feel much like celebrating.

Not to say it's all maudlin soul searching!

Since there is no summer issue to be found, I've taken to wearing a blue mechanic's coverall while flying, which the men find endlessly entertaining. It's thick enough cotton to keep me from freezing, but wonderfully thin enough to keep me from roasting while waiting for take-off. I have found that the cooler I am on the ground the warmer I am in the air, as perspiration tends to negate the insulative properties of most clothing.

It caused some consternation with my Crew Chief, Vunner, who saw me preflighting from a distance with my back turned towards him. He came running with a large wrench in his hands, and if I had not turned around in time I do believe he would have struck me with it - and no doubt killed me. He's a Schwartzwalder, thick as an oak and strong as an ox, and one of the best I've ever had care for my aircraft - if a little over protective.

Gruss Gott, I smiled at him, and I thought he was going to have his heart jump from his chest!

We both had a good laugh at it, and I pretended not to hear him mutter something about verrückt schwaben as he walked away.

Tomorrow we have another "short familiarization flight" to the south of the base over the desert hills that grow out of the sand. I've come to take that as code for "combat patrol against undetermined, but certain contact with unknown numbers of enemies"

What a terrible day!

I eagerly await the briefing when they start telling the truth! Enough of this "shake out" business, it's all a lie!

The intelligence officer showed some as I landed and made himself scarce - I suspect the reason he isn't giving any warnings is his head is up his...

We almost lost Gerhart today.

First, the Italians don't seem to have any sense of planning or tactical sense. They're either in the middle of the fight shooting almost randomly or running off to who knows where!

I circled the field, awaiting my flight to take off and we shortly got into good formation. Twenty minutes into the flight and four aircraft approached from the southwest at approximately 2,000 meters altitude, and I brought us into the sun and high of them.

They passed under and to our left and I ordered the attack, as they were more of those damnable P-40's. We wheeled about as they dove in pursuit.

Apparently they saw a group of Italians down low that I had missed (they were behind us at maybe 500 meters) and it became a nightmare of slashing attacks and tracers of all colors. An Italian nearly shot my engine out, the white tracers flashing to the right of my nose, and I climbed out of the battle.

I spotted a lone P-40 climb out as well, and rolled over to him. A lucky shot at high deflection brought smoke piling out of his engine and he dove into the waiting arms of our Allies. They pounced on him unmercifully.

We proceeded on course, again climbing and reforming. I performed an S track, looking behind me and counting our planes. Two, three, four, five, six, seven aircraft total climbing up to take position.

Of course we are only a flight of four!

I turned our flight and ordered the attack - Tommie was trying to slip into the formation!

Cool customers, the English, but they would pay for their arrogance today.

I twisted over and climbed high, inverting and then rolling level behind an enemy. Three hundred and fifty meters, twenty degree deflection, and I tapped the trigger for the machineguns to get him to manuever. Incredibly, I saw a spark on his wingtip! He rolled and climbed, and I with him. Five degree deflection, rising shot, two hundred meters...and the most incredible thing happened.

His plane exploded.

I had read that it was possible, but it was shocking to witness. I blinked hard and pulled up, almost inducing a stall out of panic as chunks of his aircraft were all around me.

Gerhart was screaming over the radio for help as I rolled to look down. A P-40 was sitting off of his tail firing a stream of red tracers at him. An ugly thin line of smoke and glycol streamed from his plane as I grimaced and pulled against the stick. 400 or maybe 450 KPH with only 200 meters to pull up after the attack. Slicing the air like a knife, she was a heavy cleaver as with both hands I strained to pull the stick back.

My aim was true, though, and the P-40 spun from the impact of the cannon into his right wing and he failed to recover in time to avoid a ridge sticking out of the sand.

Ping ping thwack ping ping and red tracers flashing past the cockpit!

Where the hell did he come from?

I slipped hard and rolled to see behind me. The enemy had attacked obliquely from my right and continued to the left. I continued the roll and pursued while calling for the flight to attack. We dove together and then climbed in a brutal turn...I must confess I blacked out momentarily, shaking my head as the effects wore off. Fortunately I was climbing at the time!

I lost the Englander, though, and repeated my command for the flight to attack. They responded heartily that they were already engaging.

A plane climbed hard towards me, and I cursed. My comrades were clearly engaging a different bandit from the one I intended!

I rolled high again to avoid a head on pass and performed a half loop to give me the Tommyhawk's tail. He tried the high turn they seem to prefer, but this time I was expecting it and fired a burst at ninety degree deflection, letting him fly through the bullets. I must have struck home, as he went into a flat dive.

I broke the wire and went to full military power. Enough of this fellow, I was going to shoot him down and be done with him, even if it meant having the mechanics rebuild this engine afterwards.

I was on him and poured machinegun fire at him from a long 350 meters but with almost no deflection. Sparks all around and bits of his airframe trailed behind him. I began to close and fired with my cannon. His right elevator fluttered past me as they ran out and only the machineguns vibrated my plane.

I saw the canopy fly free and let off the trigger. Unfortunately I could not stop the bullets already in the air as he threw himself out of his cockpit.

And right into their path.

Horribly he went limp in the air, tumbling without a parachute onto the rocks below.

I called for the flight to reform once again, ready to go home, when I noted that Gerhart was still trying to fly with us! Idiot!

Of course his engine ran out of oil and coolant almost as soon as he climbed to us and he was forced to ditch onto the sand. We marked his position and radioed to the airbase. Both he and the aircraft were recovered late this afternoon.

We chased a 110 as well, approaching cautiously until we saw the band on his fuselage.

Landing was without incident.

Approximate enemy force encountered - twelve to fourteen fighters; five shot down by our flight, confirmed destroyed, and likely four by the Italians (estimated).

Dearest Sophie,

Sorry for my delay in writing, but it's been a terrible couple of days.

Thank you for the photographs. It was good to see everyone took time off from the war effort to have a outing. Oh, how I miss the Bodensee! And it's good to read the sausage is as good as it ever was in Ravensburg!

By now you've probably heard of Johann's death. If you could go the three kilometers to [censored by Luftwaffe] and express my condolences to his mother I would be grateful. You can tell her he died bravely and will be missed.

The morning started out not so badly; we were sent to attack some ships that the [censored by Luftwaffe] at [censored by Luftwaffe] had [censored by Luftwaffe] to sink. Sometimes I feel there is nothing our pilots cannot do, as we were fitted with bombs under our fighters and skipped the bombs on the waves right into them!

There were enemy fighters guarding the ships, and after sinking their wards we sent them to the bottom as well!

It was decided that we immediately turn around and attack again. Enroute to the target we intercepted some Englanders over the coast and began a fight. We are rarely outnumbered, but this time it was against us. We're as good as any two British planes, though, and climbed into the attack. I managed to down one aircraft but had three on my tail. Johann came to my rescue, breaking them off and shooting one down in the process. He gained the attention of three more himself, and I tried very hard to come around to cover him. He fought valliantly, downing two more before his engine simply froze up due to enemy fire and they pounced on him unmercifully. His death was quick and no doubt painless.

If you received word that I was injured, think nothing of it. The British made a lucky shot on my plane and I was knicked in my shoulder. Unfortunately, I was forced to bail out of my plane and banged my head on the canopy. I picked up quite a goose egg for my stupidity. Still, I am fortunate and was picked up shortly by a patrol, and remain on flight duty.

You may notice that we have a new censor officer, [censored by Luftwaffe], that has taken to his job with a passion. It is good to know we are protected from divulging secret information unknowingly, such as the location of our airbase, [censored by Luftwaffe], or our commander's name, [censored by Luftwaffe], and even vulgarities such as [censored by Luftwaffe], [censored by Luftwaffe] and [censored by Luftwaffe].

With all my love!

[censored by Luftwaffe]


=====

Officially, Johann died rather badly without scoring a single kill. He had missed with his bomb on the anti-shipping mission and picked up some rounds from a Hurricane that was over the ships. I managed to kill the plane on his tail, only to have to do it again thirty seconds later.

When we were intercepted by fighters on the repeat mission, his plane was shot right after the merge, catching fire. Horribly, it didn't crash or explode, but took a sweeping curve across the sky ablaze, roasting Johann alive in the cockpit with his screams over the radio driving us insane.

My engine was hit, pouring smoke and sparks and filling the cockpit until I couldn't see the holes the British had put all through it. I bailed out, fearing Johann's fate.

My bomb rang true on the initial attack, and I managed to down three fighters while my flight claimed three more.

On the second sortie, two made it back, heavily damaged. Of the eight fighters I counted at one time against us, we downed two (one by myself).

On a personal note, I will be ever so glad to leave this "airfield" they scraped out of the desert for a more proper one.

[edit]

You may note that the number of enemy planes I report in the AAR's is different from what's actually in the mission. I'm writing what I thought we were against at the time, which isn't always accurate; on review of the tracks I've come to realize that I over- or undercount planes by about a third on any given mission. Often I mistake planes that have egressed away from the battle only to rejoin as reinforcements, or double count aircraft in a fight.

I have arrived at a base along the coast, shaking that horrible scorpion infested "base" scraped into the sand. It was rather amusing to see that they had a poor fellow in a JU-52 fly my wing on landing with some poor sod sticking a movie camera out of the open door. They showed me the film last night - and the sand has already scratched the film!

I took a long swim in the ocean to get the dirt off of me, followed by a quick shower to rinse off the salt. Certainly I would have raised eyebrows on any proper beach, as I brought along a bar of soap!

Today was certainly eventful!

Yet another infamous "familiarization" flight, which caused us all to laugh out loud in the briefing room. One of the new pilots didn't get the joke; he soon found out that it was at our expense - but the price wasn't too high. There was also another flight preceeding us, so it wouldn't just be the four of us.

We climbed to 2,500 meters altitude along the coast and kept good order until we reached the front lines and intermittent 20mm flak came up to meet us. The boys were a bit disturbed by it and broke formation! Cursing, I took a broad turn to see where they went and spotted four dots moving across the water of the river that defines the lines very low - and red tracers!

The British were strafing our troops right under our noses!

I called for the attack and dove, accellerating to over 500 kilometers per hour and pulling the stick back slowly but firmly. At the last instant the enemy saw me and ruined my aim. Rather than his engine, I gained only hits on his wing. He wheeled over, but I left him to climb back up. My number three cried out - in trouble already!

Turning, I spotted the Hurricane lining up on him and red tracers reaching out for my comraden; This simply would not stand!

I took the shot at 300 meters (closing) and five degrees deflection, and the Englander's plane simply fell apart as my ten second burst of machinegun and cannon riddled him.

But now tracers were flashing under my right wing, and I split S, looking back. I swear the British pilot was actually smiling as he tried to follow in his Hurricane. I called for my wingman and broke right, rolled, and broke left. He did a very good job following, and sweat began to fill my goggles as I broke left again and dove. My wingman attacked from the side, missing, but it was enough to get him off of me. I climbed, extending away from the battle, and turned back in.

A Tommyhawk flashed in front of me!

Now it was four against seven, and once I again I called for the other flight I knew was out there. The responded that they had arrived to the party and were engaging.

A quick snap shot and I holed the wing of a P-40, watching him invert and dive away. Leaving him, I went after his wingman who was curving around a cloud. I guessed at where he would come out and climbed over the mid-air fog, rolling left and diving when I saw him. Miss and miss! Worse, machinegun rounds pinged against my airframe, forcing me to roll out. A damnable Hurricane!

I slipped hard right, avoiding his fire, rolled left and then slipped right. He wasn't expecting that! I raked his plane from less than a hundred meters, and he dove out of the fight.

Suddenly I was alone in the sky.

I called for my flight, but they seemed to be quite busy - and having a good time of it. They were almost cheerful as they called out their victories.

I saw two of them flying towards the coast, low, and moved over to rejoin...only to note they were biplanes! I dove hard past them, and smiled when I saw they were British Gladiators. A few quick cannon rounds to the engine and they'd be done.

The flight began to rally around me and I ordered them to attack.

The tail Gladiator took an immediate hit and began smoking, so I went after the lead.

My slashing attack was good, and the English biplane was behaving well for me. I pressed both triggers hard...only to realize I was out of cannon rounds! Fabric shredded on the top of his wing, striking down through to his radial engine; it was not enough to down him, though.

I recalled the advice from the Great War pilots - aim for "meat and metal" on the enemy, as little else matters. The rest of the flight concentrated on the smoking wingman, allowing me a tiny duel.

He was a good pilot, wasted on a biplane, as he twisted and turned to avoid my fire. Time and again I put machinegun rounds into the front of his plane, somehow missing the cockpit but shredding his upper wing. How it was holding together was beyond me.

A few more passes and he was rewarded with a gaping hole in his lower right wing as well.

He slowed. I don't know if my hits to his engine were working or not, but he began slow turns, trying to wheel about to get guns on me. Finally he dove hard, and I after him, trying for the sight picture onto this canopy. He climbed with me right on his tail, each of us slowing in the vertical. His plane grew before me until it was all I could see. We were going to collide!

Kicking rudder hard left along with the stick, I cursed as my plane slid underneath him, missing by inches, bringing him behind me. But he was as shaken as I was, and did not take advantage. I rolled away and climbed. I placed a long stream of rounds into his plane one more time, shredding yet more of the center of his top wing. I had to be hitting his engine!

He slowed in the air and made for the beach behind our lines.

I took a quick circuit of the area. My flight reported no more fighters other than the lone wounded Gladiator, and I ordered them to return to base.

Coming back to my English friend, I decided to have some sport with him. Dropping flaps (and hearing that horrible warning horn) I eased behind him, squirted a few rounds into his wing, and settled on his wingtip right at the stall.

Now it was clear his engine had been hit hard. He was losing altitude and far too deep into our lines for hope of escape. His landing on the beach was a very good one. I circled, calling in the position for his capture, and climbed as he sat inside his aircraft.

I'll ask the troops to cut a roundel from his wing for the squadron briefing room and have a chat with this pilot tonight.

One of the pilots passed to my right and dove hard. I called for him to wave off, but he strafed the Gladiator, heedless of my orders. It burst into flames! Cursing, I saw the pilot jump from the inferno safely - but I had lost my trophy!

The Commander, after much heated debate, reduced the pilot's claim of a full kill on the Gladiator to a shared one. Lord spare me from glory hounds; I'll be sure never to allow this man into my flight, and will do my best to see him transferred away from this airfield.

I am told the Englander was wounded in the attack and won't be allowed visitors until tomorrow. I'll bring him some tea and have a chat with him.

Additionally, it seems the Hurricane I hit on my initial pass shortly crashed thereafter near our positions. The pilot was killed, unfortunately, as he cartwheeled into some large rocks.

Apparently I'm to receive some sort of medal for reaching twenty-two confirmed kills as well. I'd prefer a hot shower and a decent meal that didn't involve fighting off a thick blanket of flies.

The crunch of the sand under my feet as I walked back to my aircraft was keeping time with my singing, and I was sure that the soldiers on the truck making their way down the road would think me mad from the sun.

But I couldn't stop from laughing and singing a silly song from my childhood as I looked at the large rough square in my hands.

Fate is a fickle thing, and not without its sense of humor.

We were to escort the Italians on a bombing mission, and had encountered yet more British fighters. I managed to down one, which was pretty good considering how well the rest of the flight dealt with them! I had made quick work of the Hurricane and turned about to see three others falling from the sky - the battle lasted only seconds with no injuries or damage.

Forming back up, we made for the bombers again, overflying the enemy airfield and turning to the coast.

Four large planes were below us and flying to us, and I banked high to confirm they were our charges.

They weren't! Roundels on the twin engine planes - Beauforts! I ordered the attack and dove, aiming for the fuselage nose and the cockpit and missing! Coming low, I edged in at forty degrees and fired, striking the right engine.

Tracer flew from the top of the aircraft - a gunner! A quick tilt left to pour machinegun and cannon into his station silenced him; but he managed to hole my oil cooler as his last act. Enraged, I held the trigger down at a hundred meters, firing even after flames erupted from the right engine.

Oil pressure was dropping quickly, so I began to climb as quickly as I dared over the beach. Ten or fifteen kilometers behind enemy lines, low, with a damaged engine and possibly some fighters around.

The engine began to grind, but I paid it no heed. I was at 1,500 meters and with enough power to continue to climb. My wingman appeared off of my left side, matching speed and shaking his head as he surveyed the damage.

I could see the river that defines the front line here and hoped they hadn't made an advance recently. With a little luck I might just make it!

1,700 meters, 240 KPH, and the river just before me through the oil covered windscreen....and the engine ceased completely.

At least it didn't catch fire!

I pointed the nose downward just a touch and began to glide towards our lines. A 20mm Bofors clacked away at me, but he was too far for accurate shooting. Still, I ordered my wingman to climb and return to base, as there was no need to take unnecessary risks.

The delta at the split in the river seemed wider and wider as I ghosted across the sky and the altimeter moved counterclockwise. The beach fell beneath me, making me smile. 500 meters altitude, plenty of airspeed, and level ground next to the coast road on our sides of the lines!

I did a respectable belly landing next to the road - no use in walking any further than I have to - and got out to have a cigarette while I waited for the inevitable truck to take me back to the airfield.

Oddly, where I landed looked familiar to me, with a large white rock next to the road on the other side of my aircraft, and a bend in the ridge to my left.

And then I knew why!

Not two hundred meters away was blackened object in the desert, sticking up out of the desert like a thorn bush. An airplane shaped thornbush. The Gladiator I had shot down the day prior!

I fairly well ran to it, heedless of the heat, like a schoolboy to the candy shop after class. I couldn't believe my luck!

There, about five meters from the skeleton of the fuselage, was a whole section of the left upper wing, intact. It must have blown clear when the gasoline tanks exploded, sparing it from the flames. I pulled my survival knife from my boot and got to work immediately, making jagged cuts until I had freed the roundel on the upper surface.

I got my trophy after all!

Smoking another cigarette, I pictured hanging it on the wall of the officer's mess when I returned.

In the two hour wait for a ride, I made a note that I must carry a canteen of water and some food in my plane from now on. If forced to ditch again, it may not be next to an often travelled road.

=====

The doctor refused me a visit to the British Gladiator pilot. He was more severely wounded than I thought, and they were forced to amputate one of his legs at the knee. A fever has taken him, and the nurse says he is delirious.

The doctor says he will be fine in a day or two. The look of the nurse when he was talking said otherwise.

=====

Today I stood my first inquiry board from the lone side of the table.

We were ordered to intercept some fighters that were attacking Italian bombers while on patrol and climbed to 3,200 meters, heading east.

The Hurricanes were above us, coming straight on as we flashed over our allies, and I ordered the attack as I climbed sharply. Incredibly, the Hurricanes didn't change course, perhaps thinking we were too far below them, and I lined up a shot from underneath at ninety degree deflection.

A hit! The Englander's plane shuddered and dove, engine smoking furiously, and I saw the canopy come off as he abandoned his mount before it caught fire.

That certainly caught their attention, and they dove down on us, forgetting the Italians.

In the distance, trailing, was a flight of Me-110's, and they joined the fray, intent on taking a fighter role and some of the notice that ground attack fails to garner in the dispatches.

It soon became an ugly affair where I spent as much time avoiding the tracers from them as I did the British. My brothers seemed heedless of anything around them but the Hurricanes, filling the radio with all sorts of needless chatter - exclaiming victories I didn't see in the sky or screaming for help the second a Hurricane approached their six, no matter how unlikely it would be that the enemy would get a shot.

I backed off in the interest of safety, and watched from a thousand meters away.

One of the Hurricanes slipped into a turning formation and began to fire at the tail of a 110, and I saw smoke from one of his engines. I dove into the melee.

My shots rang true, and the Hurricane twisted violently as cannon rounds tore rents into his left wing. I went high and then back down to finish him...only to see tracers flash past my right wing. The damned 110's, over eager for a kill, were shooting at him with me in front of them!

I looked back but couldn't see where he was. Surely he could see me, though! More tracers flashed past me and I pulled up to climb out of his line of fire. He could have the kill; I just wanted to get home alive.

There was a horrible crunching noise and my nose bucked down and to the right. I continued to climb and looked to right to see a 110 wheeling into the ground, a section of his left wing missing. The rudder did not respond, so I looked back, pressing the pedal hard - but it wasn't there!

I abandoned the fight and returned to base.

The ground attack pilots were incensed at the loss of one of their own, and demanded a full inquiry. My pilots defended me, having seen the whole thing, and confirmed that the other pilot should not have pressed so close with me just 150 meters off of the tail of the Hurricane, nor should he have fired.

My plane had the "right of way," so to speak, and in fact he had struck my plane, not the other way around.

I was cleared, naturally, and in fact was more angry than scared of the proceedings.

The flight commander has given me a forty eight hour pass in order to "settle my anger" and suggested I not be around the airfield during that time. As if I have someplace else to go! The mechanics have built a shack next to the sea, outfitting it with a table, chairs, a bed, and a phonograph player (which is a secret I promised to keep, along with their verboten "Swing" records); I think I'll take them up on their offer of the retreat.

Excellent read! I can't wait for the pictures.

My forty eight hours was cut down to twenty-four, which was fine by me. I spent the whole of the day sealing the cracks of the shack with newspaper and bits of stuff I could find against a horrible sand storm.

In the morning it lifted and my batman came to fetch me. I guess I must have looked all the rage when I left, as he arrived with a thermos of coffee and a pack a cigarettes in the sidecar of the motorcycle and knocked as if the shed were a grand suite in a hotel!

With the settling of the sand, our ground forces started to push against the British and wanted some air cover against bombers and fighters. Heavy contact possible, though the storm probably had a number of their planes grounded.

We winked at each other and feigned concern, as we long ago decided that the opposite of whatever the intelligence officer said was more likely to be true.

A flight had proceeded us, and as we formed up they began to chat up a storm about enemy contacts, with one of them having to abandon the fight and return to base.

Our new number four man, Fritz, had engine problems on takeoff and had to return to base. It would just be the three of us.

Tightening up, we climbed to 2,800 meters, set throttle to three quarters and opened our radiators to full to keep the engines cool. The patrol area lay ahead, and I called for line abreast formation just to see my boys. Hans, my ever faithful wingman, waved to me with hand and wings and I smiled back.

We made one circuit, taking in the clouds and the sun and watching the tracers against the ground as our forces moved into positions below. Some withering AA fire came up to meet us, but I suspect they were more interested in the column of panzers than three Bf-109's just out of range!

To our east I saw four dots begin to grown on the horizon. Cutting left, we went to meet them.

Since the damnable Italians never say where they are or where they are going, we took a cautious approach. The Hurricanes flashed past us on the right, and I ordered the attack, turning right and towards them.

The Hurricanes split into pairs, one going right and level, the other left and climbing. I advanced the throttle to full, resting it against the emergency wire. The lead of the pair turned right, but his wingman was too slow. Five degree rising deflection at 200 meters (closing) and the flash of cannon against him caused me to blink! I pulled up hard to avoid debris and pushed the stick down. He was still in front of me, so I thumped him again! His plane started a slow diving turn, smoke pouring from the engine, and I faded right, looking for his lead.

Hans cried out that he had shot one of them down!

Tracers encircled me and I rolled left, looking back. The Hurricane had fired too early, from a good 400 meters, and the few rounds that hit had no effect on my aircraft. His closing speed was fast, though, so rolled right and pulled the stick up, full left rudder until she began to wheel about, rudder neutral and stick slightly downward - Herr Immelman would be proud! I kicked the rudder hard right, stick right and forward, and twisted her as she dove, neatly reversing again and giving me the tail of the Hurricane.

He dove hard, right down to 500 meters altitude, but I was right on him, anticipating the climb he wuld have to make to clear the small ridge in front of him. Levelling out rather than give me a clean rising shot, I'm sure he was working his neck double time looking for me.

I rose from his blind six at 250 meters and fired with both cannon and machineguns, negligible deflection, and raked his plane from tail to cockpit. I whooped as my fire tore the canopy off of his aircraft, sending it fluttering off to the side to follow all the other bits of his aircraft.

I pulled high and rolled left, looking down.

The pilot was still in the seat, looking up, no doubt dazed and shocked from having the top half of the canopy ripped off. We were close enough that I could see his mouth form an "O" and then close as I grinned back.

He immediately jumped out, all arms and legs flailing wildly.

Hans was back at my wingtip and we looked about. Gunter was nowhere to be found, and there were no more Hurricanes in sight. I called for a status, and he gave the standard "engaging bandits now." After five minutes I told him to rejoin over the patrol objective.

The gun camera footage will no doubt be classic Gunter: a thousand rounds fired and tens of them hitting. But this time the Hurricane was smoking badly, and we'll try to get confirmation of the kill somehow.

The first Hurricane I struck belly landed near the British position. Confirmed kill of the aircraft, but no pilot to remove from the other side.

We took up the rest of the patrol until reaching a quarter tank of fuel and returned to the base without incident.

It was quite nice to have a simple mission with quick but simple combat that results in no casualties.

Fritz was killed due to a mid-air collision! According to the story, anyway...I have no idea how he actually got shot down - haven't looked at the track.

====

"Fighter sweep!" Hans whispered knowingly, grinning.

While I am getting more and more tired and frazzled from the constant grind of missions, Hans seems to be more and more in his element; perhaps the Iron Cross to go with his fifth and sixth kills has something to do with it. The few newly arrived pilots seem to be in awe of him, and gather around him like pigs to a trough, trying to eat up whatever slop he can put out by way of wisdom.

From scared starling screaming for help as if I were his mother to noble eagle of the skies standing guard over the chicks in three weeks. All it took was some gasoline, bottled oxygen, and the death of six men.

The new sparrows flee him whenever I come near. The Schoolmaster and the Tutor, they call us; but it's really the other way around - I've given up conducting training, placing Hans in charge of the chalkboard and sticks.

Ignoring the way he's sewn his Iron Cross to his left breast pocket, I shake his hand and get the gist of the mission: we're to take up two of the newer pilots on a fighter sweep of the same area of the front our forces are pushing that we've been to before.

"We'll give them a real familiarization flight!" Hans laughed.

"And you'll be the number three, Hans," I decided, "with a starling on your wing."

He frowned. It will be only the second time he's not been my wingman since arriving here, and his first as a lead.

Still, the look of relief and awe in the new pilot's face when he heard that Hans would be his leader made him stand ten feet tall and did quite a bit to mollify him.

We made a respectable formation and headed out to the patrol area, full radiator and 70 percent throttle, easing up to around 3,000 meters.

Incredibly, three JU-52's crossed the sector, flying at 2,500 meters unescorted and in formation! What madness - they'd be easy prey for the P-40's and Hurricanes that frequent this area. I suppose the Army needed supplies dropped pretty badly. We left them to their fate, continuing south.

As we crossed to the flat sand over the ridges the radio rattled with calls for help - in Italian! Not understanding a damned word of it, we swept our eyes all over the skies.

Hans waggled his wings and pointed to his two o'clock. Tracers mixed in with the clouds below us, off three kilometers, red and white.

I turned and ordered the flight to attack, and forgetting it wasn't Hans off my right wing, instructed my wingman to attack freely. Swooping down, I aligned poorly onto a Hurricane and didn't even bother to press the triggers as I flashed past his tail. Up and right, a climbing turn, looking back for him, he vanished.

Making a mental note of where I thought he might be, I scanned high and spotted two shapes flickering right at the inner edge of a cloud in front of me going from right to left - Hurricanes! I turned left a bit and cut their turn, fading behind and to the right the second plane, coming up high in a sweeping roll all the way over and back to his left.

He dove to escape and then climbed with the distance closing. We went straight through the cloud above, but I was now close enough to make out his silhouette in the fog. Up through the top into the blue, he was at 100 meters and three degrees deflection. His left wing separated with one burst of the cannons and he cartwheeled back down into the mist.

Coming right, leveling off, I regained airspeed and looked about. A shape was flitting within the edges of the clouds to my south. I set up for the attack and dove, guessing my intercept point and ambushing straight through the wall of white below me.

I emerged in perfect position to strike, scaring the hell out of the....Italian, who, since we have arrived to do some actual fighting, is running away. Damnable luck! Half loop and return to the combat area, I look about, finding no one. Drifting between the columns of white, I scan the sky frantically. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a dirty smudge in the cotton and move left.

Ah, a Hurricane!

I'm invisible to him as I cut the corner, the mist collecting on my windscreen, and come out behind him. A quick burst of my guns from 200 meters out at five degrees deflection and he dives into the rocks below, engine on fire.

I climb to 3,000 meters and call for a status. The skies are clear of the enemy! We reform and I look down to my fuel gauge. A quarter tank - where did it all go? I bring the formation to the north, towards home, climbing to 4,000 meters, and release them to return to base. I want some time to simply fly alone.

Naturally, no sooner did I split off from the formation three dots grew in the horizon to the west.

Putting the sun to my back, I moved to investigate. It was the Italians, returning to base, and I zoomed down and came short on their right wing, falling into formation. Odd planes, with an open canopy and a bulge for the radial engine and another up to the cockpit. They made no movement as I slipped in - either they weren't looking or recognized my Bf-109 - and I left them for the airfield, arriving as my flight was getting into the pattern.

I called for permission to land and cut to the front of the line. Slipping and cutting the approach curve short, I was a little too fast and dropped full flaps.

My landing was a bad one, with the right gear buckling from a flare that was too high, and wheeled hard around. She looked okay (other than the snapped gear and the scrapes from scrubbing the sand), but would definately be out of action for awhile.

I rode the ambulance that arrived back to my tent and laid down without taking off my gear (save the helmet) and went immediately to sleep.

Ground attack. Well, perhaps it is best, with my wingman still without a kill and only one sortie under his belt. Hans has one of the starlings as well, and we line up with our bombs underneath.

Open radiator, 20 degree flaps, and start the engine. The control tower clears us immediately, though a Storch is overhead, flying in the same direction, and there's some truck traffic. Hopefully they know we have the right of way.

The Italians are bringing along bombers and fighters as well, and we're to join up with them.

Everyone's at idle, temperature looks good, and I advance the throttle, rolling long to take off and fading left to set a circle to allow everyone to form up.

The Italians are low ahead, flying JU-88's from the look of it, heading straight away down the coastline.

The radio crackles to life, and the Storch wings over back towards the base. Those aren't Italian bombers outbound, they're British bombers coming towards me! My eyes are saucers as I see four Beauforts flash past my right wing, followed by two Hurricanes diving behind them.

Banking right, I see Hans on takeoff just as the bombs drop. A huge flash and dust in front of him and I wince - only to see him fly right through it! They missed him!

The Hurricanes bear down on the Storch and I pursue back over the runway, heedless of the tailgunners of the bombers above me, full throttle, but I am too late. The Englanders murder him and his copilot and bank right.

I follow, furious, and close on the number two British plane over the water. He splits to the right, his lead to the left, and I close. My first shots are off, catching only his tail, the second burst wide, and force myself to relax. Closing, he tries desperately to evade, barrel rolling and going dangerously close to the water, but I am with him. He attempts to force scissors, earning some machinegun rounds as he crosses my nose. I roll with him, hitting him with two bursts of machineguns and cannon. The stress of his last barrel roll was too much against the damage I was pouring into him, and the wing separated, splashing up next to his watery grave.

Looking back, his number one was 600 meters off and closing fast. I climbed right and kicked rudder as he closed, slipping and forcing the stream of red tracers to miss. He went past my tail on the left, and I reversed rudder, rolling low and coming back high against him. He pulled into a hard turn, doubtless losing sight of me, and climbed. One hundred meters, twenty degree deflection on a rising shot, and his engine erupted into flames as I hammered him with cannon. I saw the parachute in the air, and bitterly hoped the sharks would eat him.

A Hurricane flashed over me, and I pursued, coming over the beach. There were two other planes as well, high and diving in. Bands on the fuselage - friendlies! I shot once at long range to get the Hurricane to turn with no effect. The two other planes - a German and an Italian, rushed forward, attacking.

Hans' strained voice filled my ears - he was in trouble! Looking to the water, I saw a stream of ugly black smoke coming from an aircraft and two other planes behind, high and turning to dive. I reversed course; the Hurricane over the beach was well escorted, and my flight was in trouble!

Cutting over, I confirmed it was Hans that was smoking and the British were in pursuit. They turned into me, and I nearly head on, showing them my presence. They needed to come after me, not my wounded number three.

They ignored me, winging hard to get onto Hans' six.

I had a tough decision - go after the British lead and spoil his attack and risk his number two shooting me in the back, or play it safe and work from back to front. Red tracers streamed out from the lead to encircle Hans.

I slipped hard, flying obliquely, and fired at the English leader, scoring hits but not downing him. It was enough to break his tail. Tracers flashed past my own cockpit, and I rolled to avoid them, ensuring that I would go in the direction of the number one.

The British pilot must have thought that I would naturally break off and work his wingman, and moved to strike down Hans. But I was lost of my senses and pressed forward, firing my cannon into his plane and sending him to the bottom. His own number two moved in, but from poor position, and I dove low and then rolled high behind him. He crashed into the ocean after a short burst.

Hans glided to the beach, ditching next to the fitter's shack by the ruins, and I called for my wingman.

The kid was high over the airfield, hammerheading while a Hurricane strafed the airfield. Attack! I yelled, and followed him as he finally slashed downwards. Staying off his right wing, I witnessed some of the worst gunnery every performed. Ten degree diving deflection on a level target and he shot from too far a range and missed every round on a three second burst.

Sighing loudly, I lined up and fired a quick burst into the Hurricane, forcing him to roll and turn right against the coast and the rocky ridgeline. I cut him off and fired my machineguns again, damaging his engine and forcing him to roll away from me. By some miracle he avoided crashing into the ground - I'm sure he picked up the scrub brush here in his tail wheel! and curved north towards his lines.

I called for my wingman to rejoin to put him in good attack formation, and then ordered him to attack the Hurricane. I would force him to shoot down this Tommy, even if I had to deliver him on a silver platter.

Again my starling missed! I slammed my left fist against my leg and lined him up again, telling him to rejoin, and damaged the Hurricane even further, making him less able to manuever. Perfect position...Attack!

Incredibly, the Hurricane was again untouched! I was wondering what more was needed - an orange paint scheme to go with the flight path of a towed practice sock, perhaps - and had him try again.

We were nearing the front lines, marked by a wide valley, and the Hurricane would be a perfect target. I ordered him to strike, trying to sound patient.

Machinegun and cannon erupted from the 109 from zero deflection from two hundred meters closing on a level target - and still he missed.

Fortunately, the Hurricane was forced to maneuver at the last (most likely to avoid being collided with), and brought himself too low to climb back over the cliff face in front of him. He smacked the rocks and shattered pieces of his plane slid to the floor below.

I landed at the base hastily.

Hans was uninjured. His wingman scored half a kill (it was he with the Italian I left to their business). My wingman was credited with his first half kill. Had he hit with even one of his rounds I would have given all of them to him. I wrote down his name - Joesph Meuller, and put a secret mark by his name in my log that would remind me he is an incompetent, and therefore a threat. Hans' starling, if he survives the week, might be worthy of learning his name.

====

The British pilot in the hospital tent was sitting up, alternating between a grimacing look of pain and one of amusement. The doctor and nurses were busy treating the minor casualties of the bombing raid, ignoring the Englander, the three shapes under sheets laying next to the door, and myself.

Still in my flight gear, stomping into the ward, he gave me a startled look, first to my eyes and then to the pistol on my webbing. He sat up straight as my hand went past it and into my pocket.

I sat down next to him and offered him a cigarette and my lighter.

"Oi, Fritz, you look like we put you through the ringer!"

I nodded, lighting and cigarette, and looked at him.

Younger than myself, but older than some rookie, his brown eyes were cut with the very same wrinkles from staring into the sun looking for contacts. I reached into my side pocket and pulled out my flask.

One drink for me, and I handed it over.

He hesitated, then accepted.

"Bloody schnaps," he grunted afterwards, and handed it back.

"I hear the Americans are coming," I replied, "and so soon we will have their whisky to drink to go with French wine and Polish vodka."

He laughed.

"Just don't count on Scottish single malt, Fritz."

"Jedermann," I smiled, offering my hand.

"Miller," he said as we shook.

The head nurse rushed us, furious.

"No smoking! What's this? No drinking! Do you want to kill him! Get out!"

"Shut up," I offered as an alternative course of action.

She picked up a length of wood near the stove with a look of murder in her eyes.

"Herr Oberst, raus!"

"Best go, mate, she's the Attila of Huns!"

I stood up slowly, and walked casually from the tent.

=====

The next mission was a simple patrol along the coast. No contact for once; we wondered that night if the British hadn't taken a holiday.

The squadron commander called me into his office, a partition of the tent off the briefing room. I had a feeling I knew what it was about.

"Hans, take a seat," he said kindly as he returned my salute.
"Yes sir."
"Oberst Jedermann is doing well in the infirmary," he began at once, "he is physically uninjured."
"Excellent!" I said, meaning it. Oberst Jedermann had saved my life on my first combat sortie, taken me as a wingman until he felt I deserved to take a lead of my own. He has even trusted me with conducting training for our new pilots!
"The doctor says it is simple shock and some dehydration; he has been sedated."
"Ah."
"Hans, tell me what happened."
"Ja wohl," I started, then paused to collect my thoughts, "we were escorting the Italian bombers at 3,000 meters altitude, making an S around their path to stay with them but keep up combat speed. They began their attack when we spotted some fighters low."
"Did Jedermann see them?"
"No, sir, I did, and he ordered the immediate attack."
"You say he didn't spot them?"
"He couldn't. He was turning the wrong way and they were under his wing."
"But you could."
"Yes sir, I was in the number three spot and hadn't started to follow yet.
"There were four of them, and we dove to the north to intercept. The Oberst reversed in his dive, unfortunately, and no doubt confused by the Italians who were scattering all over the damned place."
"They say they were continuing the attack on ground targets, heedless of the enemy."
"Clueless, more likely!"
"That's enough of that talk."
"So, he began to climb just as two Hurricanes were coming up behind him. I'm sure he spotted them, as he steepened and slipped vertically, avoiding their fire.
"They were right on him, sir, dead six, no deflection, and I was sure he was a dead man!"
"Really?"
"Absolutely! And then he did the most amazing thing - he snap rolled his aircraft in the vertical in the opposite direction, tumbling it in the opposite direction! There was no way the Englanders should have missed him, but not a single round struck his aircraft!"
"Go on."
"Well, the plane departed flight, naturally, going into a flat spin!"
"The 109 does not go into flat spins."
"Sir, his Messer went into a flat spin at around 2,000 meters altitude, straight down at an amazing speed! I was sure then that this would be his death. The Oberst was clearly going to black out, and I don't know how, but he was moving the controls of his aircraft all about and even gunning the engine to get out of it, with the British flying about him, trying to shoot him!"
"They were shooting at him while he was spinning?"
"Oh yes! But again they couldn't touch him, and I was dealing with my own Hurricane and couldn't help. To be honest, I didn't think he'd recover anyway!"
"But he did recover from the spin."
"At around a thousand meters the spin became more normal, but too fast to stop by any other pilot. I saw his flaps come out and then his gear - you understand sir, he lowered his gear at five hundred meters!"
"Perhaps he had lost his senses."
"Impossible! At five hundred meters the spin resolved itself, bringing him nose first to the ground, nearly inverted. I still can hardly believe what happened next, and I saw it!"
"And what was that?"
"The Oberst retracted the gear and nosed up in controlled flight at less than 100 meters altitude, and pulled up his flaps, turning back towards the enemy!"
"And did he engage the enemy?"
"Sir, he immediately shot a Hurricane down, climbing from underneath and blowing the wing right off of it, and assisted with the downing of two more, directing us to the last one that was pursuing the Stukas!
"He called for us to form up, as the enemy was either destroyed or departed, and when at ten kilometers from the airfield, ordered us to land."
"His own landing was remarkable."
"Yes, I saw that, too. Undoubtably his aircraft was damaged from the stress of that spin, and he flared too high."
"It's estimated that his landing speed was under 150 kilometers per hour! It's a miracle that his landing gear did not break!"
"Sir, it appeared as though the brakes were locked shut, or a large rock chocked him, as he was wheels down on the sand and the nose simply came forward."
"He rode the propellor hub for five meters before the aircraft flipped onto its back, Hans," the commander said smoothly.
"I understand it is not destroyed, sir."
"Actually, it's out of action for two weeks; the engine will have to be rebuilt, the tail is damaged, and the cockpit had to be cut away to remove him."
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you for your candor, Hans. Do you have anything else you'd like to say?"
"Well, Oberst Jedermann never paints kill stripes on his aircraft, and my count is probably off."
"Yes?"
"That Hurricane, was that number forty?"
"Thirty nine."
"Och. I keep counting that one that he gave to Mueller!"
"It is his kill. Mueller's gun footage shows him firing just before the Hurricane crashed into the cliff face, and Jedermann's own film was somehow destroyed, so we have to go on his statements."
"Yes, sir."
"I have a question, though, that you may want to consider, thinking as a future squadron leader, and you need not answer now."
"I'll do my best."
"Jedermann's beginning to show signs of fatigue. After this mission and his hospitalization, what would you, as commander, do? The doctor says he should be taken off of flight status."
I didn't need to think about it. I gave him my answer immediately, as it was obvious.


=======

The morning sun shined through the open tent flap and onto my face, waking me. I was in the infirmary ward, still in my flight suit, barefoot, with my gear on the floor beside the cot I was laid out on.

"Good morning, you #%&*$#!" said the English pilot, grinning from the bed across from mine, "I see you lived through the night!"
"So I have."
"More's the pity. I fancy one of your boots and wrist watch. Mine's broken."
I sat up, aching over my whole body, and tossed my watch to him after unfastening the band.
"Thanks, Fritz!"
"Jedermann," I corrected, "Oberst Jedermann."
"Lay down!" shouted the nurse from across the room, "And no talking!"
"Bring me two glasses, nurse!"
"And no smoking!"
"Excellent idea!" and I withdrew my metal case from my breast pocket. It had an odd dent across it, and I had to force it open. Throwing a cigarette to Miller, I lit my own before tossing the lighter to him.
She stormed out of the tent and immediately returned with the Squadron Commander and Hans behind her.
"Bloody hell!" Miller exclaimed, "They've brought the CO in on a smoking violation, and quick!"
"Shut up," ordered the commander.
"I know I picked the right side to fight for..." he said sotto voce before laying down and turning on his side away from us.

"The doctor, Herr Oberst," began the commander, "thinks you warrant a medical suspension."
I could feel the blood run from my face.
"Hans and the others in the flight had a different idea of what to do with you."

And I was awarded the Knights Cross with Swords.

=======================

(A week later)

Finally we're doing things properly; rather than going up in single flights of four, we're putting up three flights to give us air superiority. We'll patrol beyond the front, almost to their airbase along the second ridge, fly the back end of the front, and then cross back over in from the coast.

The Intelligence Officer has once again shown his incompetence; he's going on and on about "drawing the Brits into the sky" while enforcing radio silence for the last week. When I asked him why we haven't been putting up a lot of traffic he looked at me like I was a moron and actually said that we didn't want to let the enemy know what we were up to!

At best we'll catch the regular patrols they send out rather than committing their forces for the showdown we need to have to cull their numbers.

Better still, he's suggested we fly in the mid morning, putting the sun to the high east and at our disadvantage.

We formed up in good order, stacking from 2,000 to 2,500 meters diagonally to around 4,000 meters across. The clouds were intermittent and below us, topping at 1,500 meters.

It was, as I predicted, a very lonely flight as we crossed the front lines and I made the turn behind their lines towards their airfield. The second staffel cracked the radio.

"May we engage the bombers below you?"

Ach! Nervy Brits! They had stuck to the cloud cover underneath us where our first flight couldn't see them!

"Attack at will," I said, sounding as bored as I could.

We turned back to watch the three bombers fall in shreds to the desert floor, and I called for the flight to reform.

Crossing the front lines, four dots ahead on the horizon. The number two staffel was in best position, and I released them to engage.

What a mess! The British were in three flights of four, uncoordinated, but we weren't much better, and it was a confusion of planes wheeling at 1,000 feet spitting tracers at each other. I split-S for a Hurricane that flashed over me, banked left, then right, and fired at 100 meters from forty degree deflection, rising. He burst into flames as I rolled clear of him. A smoking Hurricane was in front of me, climbing to disengage, as two more moved against Hans and his wingman in the third flight.

It was nothing to apply slight rudder, five degree deflection, rising, to chop the smoking Hurricane in two, cut left, and engage the Englander on Hans' tail. The last of my cannon sent him into the rocks below.

Someone was shouting into the radio in a panic, so I looked about to see another Hurricane take a wild ninety degree shot at one of ours. Fat chance of getting hit, yet this Lion of the Desert was squealing like a stuck pig.

What a merry chase! The pilot realized that he had the attentions of no less than six of us, and whipped his plane all about the skies, no doubt relying on the adreneline to keep the blackouts at bay as my fellows took turns sending withering fire at him. I stood back to watch as they repeatedly were denied solid hits as he toyed with the ground.

An Emil nearly struck the ground in pursuit, and I jumped into the fray to finish this fellow off before one of our own killed themselves.

Lacking cannon, I was reduced to trying for a cockpit shot, ninety degree deflections as he tried desperately to scissor. His engine began to smoke and he rolled low in a wadi, hoping to have me overshoot and give him a chance at my belly, but instead I elected to roll right and cut back in left, handing him a full twenty seconds of machinegun fire for his trouble.

He tried to go high, but his machine was spent. Too slow, too little power, and the sands claimed him on its rock lined ridge.

We landed without incident.

Three bombers, twelve fighters (two and two halfs for me) for a loss of one. That stupid Mueller crashed during the melee with no others around him, no doubt in a panic. I will have Hans write the letter, calling it practice; in fact, I could not write flowing prose for him without becoming physically ill.

==========

Putting my head in the hospital tent, I saw a familiar face sitting next to the wounded British pilot - Herr Oberst Karl Straub, fresh from the Fatherland!

"Willi! I heard they had sentenced you to this hell!"
"Klaus, what did you do?" I asked, grinning, "Was it the wife of anyone I know?"
"Miller here says you have been fraternizing with the enemy," he said, switching to English.
"Ja," I admitted, "It does me good to see the low quality of their pilots."
"Stick it up yer arse, Hun," Miller said, as if offended.
"Why is he still here?" Klaus asked.
"Oh, no transport, and he's a Sergeant; no priority for him."
"And you are in no hurry to send him off."
"Actually, I don't have any authority," I admitted. "I'm a flight leader and forbidden to command anything more than that."
"Rebekkah?"
"Ja wohl."
"Well, it was a matter of time only," he said, resigned, then lightened "But cheer up, your new Executive Officer is a fine fellow with a keen sense of looking out for those who perform for the Fatherland rather than simply fit in the check marks of National Socialism."
"Oh, no."
"Yes, Willi, you've not gotten rid of me!" he stood clapping his hand on my shoulder, then turned to Miller. "I've been hounded by Jedermann since Spain. Everytime I get a posting, no matter how far away I think I am, here he always is waiting."
"Bloody good for you," Miller deadpanned, "but did you bring cigarettes?"

We laughed.

======

A few days later Klaus and I shared a quiet moment next to a small fire we had set next to the ocean.

"You look tired, Willi."
"Give it a month here, you will, too. There are bed bugs and sand to keep one awake."
"No, I mean really tired. The Commander is concerned you're losing your edge."
"Forty three confirmed kills in two months, Klaus. I'm pulling my weight."
"Maybe too much. I have a little mission for you."
"There are no brothels here," I grinned, "Unless you count the sheep of the Islamic herders. It's not my style anyway."
"No, a 'recon' mission to a little oasis to the south of the base. There is a ruin there and a rough airfield."
"Surrounded by British flak batteries, no doubt."
"No, but I hear the water is cool and clean," he laughed, "I want you to fly down there, land, and scout out whether or not it is suitable for an emergency base, or at least a recreational area for our troops."
"Who am I taking with me?"
"Nobody but yourself. There is a shortwave radio in the small hut just inside the compound, and rations, a generator, and a grammaphone with contraband records in the main tower. Listen to some verboten swing, relax, and call me every day at 1100 and 1900.
"It's an order, Willi."

The next day at noon I took off for the oasis, being met by a flight of three unescorted JU-52's at the midpoint to my destination. I made a mental note to meet the pilots. This is the second time I've seen them flying in an area where the British patrol in strength unescorted; they must be madmen to do such things.

Circling the oasis, I frowned at the site. Trees, trees, and more trees. Finally I picked out that a narrow strip of palms had been cleared coming off of a draw. I'd be threading the needle on this one.

The radio crackled faintly with the sounds of combat, but it was far away from the sounds of it, and I settled in on my approach. Full flaps, gear down, slip down the wash in the ridge line, avoid the brush in the center, and gently touch down, ignoring the trees standing off of my wingtips. I ran her long, gentle on the brakes, and spun her around to face the other way at the end.

=======

Two days later, sunburned and feeling very much at ease with myself (regardless of the slight hangover from a discovered bottle of whisky), Klaus was on the radio to demand my immediate return.

It took me two hours to find the crank handle for the starter - some idiot had placed it under the seat in the cockpit - and another half hour to figure out how to get it out without damaging the canopy.

The take-off was much better than I had hoped for, and I returned without fanfare or adventure.

Great Stuff!!!!!!!!! THanks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Beautiful writing Herr Oberst! As you point out, the real key to immersion is within us and our own capacity to inhabit the sim world. This campaign creates a remarkable location.

Just reread the last report. That touch about the crank handle was a good one. Makes the LW seem much more human when people misplace things. this was a very relaxing, almost soothing report to read all in all.
I'm amazed how many people have read this already. Obviously word of your writing prowess gets around. I enjoyed your TS article, BTW. Very pertinent and fun to read through.

Brilliant read.

Nice job, but as a native german speaker I'm not fond of some errors in the use of the language...


If you want to straighten out some terms, I'll be glad to help.

Native German speaker myself here, and I couldn't care less about any slight errors in the use of language - it has been a most entertaining and delightful read, really excellent! Vielen Dank, Herr Oberst!

Heretic, you may have a problem....the only smatterings of German I learned was from my schwaben parents.

Sunday comes a very important episode, a thrilling ride with a plot twist involving our one legged Flight Sergeant.

Swabians!

Aaaaaargh!

*Runs away in fear and terror*

Well, the other half of the family are Schwatzwalders.

I figured folks would have picked that out with the Ravensburg reference.

I'll have to find out a way to work Bad Schussenried into the tale.

Ain't that just the same?




Old school buddy from there getting assigned to the squadron?

Heretic, the hats are waaayyyy different! Hint: look for the ones with the red, avoid the black.

Erm....okay...

Behold the Bollenhut!

http://www.media-bw.de/en/thema/734127_90ca9e3cb2.jpg

Sunday finery, as a single man one should look for the red hat and avoid the black ones.

[back to the missions, which I'm going to write out of order, switching the next two]

The Intelligence Officer pulled me aside outside of my tent, a strange expression of both pleading and arrogance on his face.

"You've been talking to Flight Sergeant Miller," he said, with a hint of accusation.
"I think of him as a trophy of sorts," I replied as smugly as I could.
"There is a problem with him, Oberst."
"Go on."
"We can't find a record of him anywhere in our files."
"I doubt he has a Luftwaffe passbook," I said with a wink, "Try cabling London rather than Berlin."
"That's just it, our agents in England can find him listed nowhere."
"Well, he's just an old Flight Sergeant; I doubt he's made the dispatches. They had him flying a Gladiator, after all. Probably a third rate reservist called up for duty in the backwater of the war."
"It could be, but we're not sure."
"And this is a matter for me how, exactly?"
"I want you to talk to him some more, find out more about him, see if he's who he says he is."
"Who else might he be?"
"The British are missing a Squadron Leader, a Major. They are saying it was a routine crash, but one that happened on the same day as Miller's capture."
"I doubt that the Englanders would risk a Squadron Leader by having him in a Gladiator. And Oberleutnant, there is no such thing as a routine crash. Please remember that, as you are speaking to a pilot."
He stood there as if I had slapped him.
"Very well, I'll talk to Flight Sergeant Miller."

I saw him propped up in a chair outside of the dispensary, enjoying the morning shade.
"Oi, Fritz, care for a smoke?"
"You have been given cigarettes?"
"Now that you offer," he said with a grin, "I accept."
I couldn't help but laugh, and after tossing him my pack and a lighter, tilted my thermos towards him.
"Tea?"
"Bloody hell, you're joking!"
"The front is moving," I said casually as he offered his cup, "this should tell you the direction."
He frowned.
"I have been to England, you know, in flight training before the war."
"Shame you didn't break your neck."
"I almost did, but in a motorcycle accident," I admitted, "I was unused to whiskey at the time."
"London pubs will do that to you."
"Actually, it was in Birmingham, of all places," and he snapped his gaze to me at the mention of the city, smoothly trying to cover it by taking in a long draw of smoke. Curious.
"Have you ever been there?"
"Never," he said flatly, deadpanned. Poor fellow, lying simply didn't suit him very well.
"They've got you out of bed," I observed, changing the subject, "you are healing well."
"I'm not growing my leg back, if that's what you're asking. You bast*** made sure of that."
I laughed. The man was nothing but gruff talk and insults; I truly liked him.
"I've a sortie to fly, Miller, presents to deliver to your boys that came all the way from Berlin, and don't have much time to chat. Enjoy the day."
"Happy crashes!" he called out as I walked away.

The Oberleutnant was pins and needles as I walked into the briefing tent.
"Herr Oberst..." he said, jumping up from his seat.
"Relax," I said, "he's from Birmingham in England, and such a terrible liar there's no fear of him being so clever as to hide his identity. Cable Berlin and have them check the rolls of those called up from there; I'm sure he'll turn up."

======

The mission today is an accursed ground attack. The briefing started out as all the others - five minutes of propaganda, as if we couldn't see what was going on. Great advances along the front, the British in full retreat from their side of the river, and the final blows to their rout assuring complete victory. Just as they have been for the last two weeks. And yet we do not hold one square meter of the opposite shore.

The glorious bombers that have been murdering the Tommies by the thousands have done such a wonderful job that we are strapping bombs under our fighters to attack ground targets rather than escort the bombers themselves. I suppose it's been such a grand success that they'll be escorting us!

Enemy contact is determined as possible, they said. Hans gave me a look and rolled his eyes. We had long taken all estimates and tripled them. "Unlikely" means "Likely," "Possible means "Probable," "Probable" means "Definate," and "Definate" means...well, they've never said "Definate." I doubt they would say we would definately see an enemy aircraft - even a parked one - if we were attacking their airfield!

Hans would be leading a flight patrolling south of the target area, while I would be taking mine, loaded with bombs, over the target area. The Italians would be striking a half hour before us, so look out for their planes returning from the area.

We laughed out loud, and felt ashamed for it. Their Bredas would be easy prey for Hurricanes and Tommyhawks if they got caught, and had long odds of making it back from the mission. I can't say anything bad about the bravery of their pilots, but I wouldn't trade places with them for anything.

So I found myself on the sand once again in one of Flight Two's Emils with a cursed bomb underneath.



We took off in good order, and soon were in formation nearing the target. Naturally, it was "Possibly" covered by multiple fighters that were "possibly" shooting down Bredas as fast as they could fire .303 machineguns:



But since the flow of the battle was away from us, I decided that we should dive, drop bombs, and then zoom climb back up and join the real battle.





My wingman exclaimed that my bomb had hit the road and trucks exploded (why wouldn't it?), and I climbed and rolled the aircraft over, too late to save a Breda from being engulfed in flames:



Continuing the roll, I brought my guns onto a Tommyhawk and tore the right elevator from him with my cannon:





Turning my attention away from him, my number three was shouting that he was shooting down an Englander, and I looked over in horror to see he had neglected his prey's wingman!



It was a long shot, 400 meters, 30 degree deflection diving, but my shots rang true and he was clear, the British plane dropping out of view.

Hans' voice rang over the radio, "He's down, Professor," and I smiled under my mask. He must have heard the fight and come as quickly as he could. I didn't look around for him, as I had more than enough to worry about, having drawn the enemy's full attention:



I rolled it over hard in a modified split-s, more of a curving dive to avoid him, watching as he went low under my left wing.



I reversed directions and glanced back - he had zoomed under and to my right, extending - and was shocked at the sight:



The Hurricane was on me in perfect striking range, lining up on me. Desperately I rolled to cut across his sights, giving the greatest deflection against his certain gunnery, but it was no use!



Machinegun rounds peppered my aircraft, chipping the armored glass in the front, punching holes in the flat of the canopy; I pressed myself hard against the seat and incredibly was spared from being holed myself. I reversed the roll, coming high and then down hard, putting him in my sights.

Diving, five degree deflection, 200 meters, and I fired with machineguns and cannon:



A snapshot, less than a second, but enough to cause him to limp away from the battle.

I climbed high, throttle at eighty-five percent to cool the engine, suddenly alone, and spotted two planes moving to my left. Hurricanes!



Slowly I worked my way into their blind six, closing as the turned along the coast, looking for us:





Half a second more and I would collect the wingman, but out of bad luck he glanced back and saw me!



Diving hard and to the right away from me, I pressed on to his leader; I simply could not surrender altitude for one plane only to leave another higher!



The leader dove hard, no doubt warned off, but this time I pursued!

Two hundred meters, fifteen degrees deflection, diving...



Rightfully panicked, he dove as hard as he could, trying to avoid my fire:



One hundred and seventy meters, five degree deflection left, diving, and he went straight into the sea:



Hans spoke in my ear. "Very nice...I finished his brother to your right!"
"Danke."
"There's one more ahead...shall we collect him?"

Truthfully, I had had enough. My arms were like soft taffy and my eyes were stinging from sweat. I was certain I was out of cannon rounds and low on machinegun. But still, Hans had more than enough to finish any job I might start.

"Contact eleven o'clock," I said.
Hans laughed over the radio that "This should be easy. The Tommyhawk is missing an elevator!"

It can't be, I thought to myself, that pilot would surely have returned to base.

True enough, though, I climbed into his blind six and fired from three hundred meters, ten degree deflection, climbing:







Out of cannon, my machineguns sparked along his fuselage.

Diving hard, I pursued, closing to point blank range:



I grinned as the perfect shot presented itself. Forty five meters, five degree deflection. Maximum velocity of my machinegun rounds to penetrate any armor and his engine:



I pressed the trigger....

....and my guns were dry.

Shouting profanities, I rolled high and to the right. Hans slipped in neatly and finished him off.

We landed without incident.

Two confirmed kills, one damaged, one shared. Some trucks destroyed.

My flight survived all pilots, two damaged and withdrew without telling me, the third became lost over the desert during the battle and returned with no rounds expended.

I will find out which of them it was and find out how this could happen.

=====================

[question: do the pics A) show for everyone, and B) add or detract to the story?

Pics are showing fine for me. I was feeling tense as I read this one. I think the pictures are great and help us to visualise the combat. Must be a lot of work though and come to think of it, they do take away somewhat from the 'speed' of the narrative. Of course they make up for it with visuals so it's a coin toss really.
I REALLY liked the start of this one and especially the briefing section
-"The glorious bombers that have been murdering the Tommies by the thousands have done such a wonderful job that we are strapping bombs under our fighters to attack ground targets rather than escort the bombers themselves. I suppose it's been such a grand success that they'll be escorting us!"
Looking very much forward to the next gripping isntallment!

Pictures are coming in fine , adds a little color to the show. Excellent read and you might get me going .... as soon as I tear myself from FMB.

[Mission stuff next time....gotta take time out to build in some back story]

Standing on the wing, looking at the shattered canopy that lay open on its side, I glanced downward to see the sand beneath the airplane through the floor of the cockpit. It was a miracle I wasn't hit by the .303 rounds. The plane would be back in action tomorrow, though, as it wasn't anything that salvaged parts and some patching wouldn't fix.

The paint was new, but I saw that this was the aircraft I had flown on my sabbatical to the oasis - the same scratches were on the instrument panel. Suddenly I remembered that I had placed a small package underneath the seat, and checked for it....still there! Scooping it up and placing it under my arm, I headed for the maintenance hanger in search of my oversized mechanic.

"Vunner!" I called out as I crossed through the open doors, "come out!"

Silence.

He must be in the mess. I turned to walk back when I heard a small noise in the back of stacked crates in the corner.

Pulling my pistol, I crept forward. My mouth went dry and my heart thumped. This is not Spain, I thought to myself, and you are not behind enemy lines. I tilted my head around the corner, tense.

A pilot was sitting on a ten liter oil can, his head buried in his hands, still wearing his flight gear, motionless. I stepped out fully, pulled another can out, and sat next to him. Suddenly aware of my presence, he raised his head and looked over.

And promptly fell on his rear from trying to stand up too quickly!

I grinned but did laugh as he brought himself to his feet and then to attention, staring straight ahead.

"My apologies to the Oberst," he said firmly, "I did not hear you approach."

I looked up at him, not moving from my seated position. His eyes were puffed, and his cheeks rubbed to a blush.

"Sit, Leutnant," I said, not unkindly, "relax. I owe you an apology for sneaking up on you."

Incredibly, he did just that, his back and shoulders bowed as if in defeat. He stared at the floor beneath him.

"First mission, Leutnant....?" I asked as more of a statement.
"Schiller. Ja wohl," he said, and looked as if he might begin to cry right then!
"You know, we all are terrified our first mission. Eventually one simply becomes scared near to death."
"I don't believe you," he blurted out, "it's just something superiors say. Hans, I mean Oberleutnant -"
"Squealed like a stuck pig the whole of his first combat sortie," I interrupted, "as he will freely admit."
"But you don't understand, Oberst Jedermann, I..."
"You ran away without firing a shot, and then claimed to have gotten lost."
"You know?"
I laughed.
"Do you think you're the first to do so? You're not so special, Schiller."
He looked up at me.
"At least you didn't try to cover it up by firing your guns into the sky."
His eyes shifted back to the floor.
"I thought the gun camera would give me away."
"Och. Most footage shows nothing but sky, didn't you know that? Half the footage that is of claimed kills doesn't have so much as a cloud in it! My fourth confirmed kill was at sixty degree deflection and the camera got none of it! It was another plane's photos that proved it."
"Still..."
"Listen, Leutnant, I'd rather have a pilot that is scared on my wing rather than some fool who isn't. We had just the young pilot like that not two weeks ago, full of bravado and talk without a brain in his head. Eager to fight, diving in without thinking, firing with his balls instead of his brains."
"Where is he?" Schiller asked.
"Dead, and I can't say I shed tears for him. He was a danger to everyone in the flight."

Schiller's grey eyes looked up once again at mine.

"Do you want to fly?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied immediately.
"No, Leutnant, I mean fly as a fighter pilot."
"Yes," he said again, then looked to the ceiling, "if anyone will have me on their sortie after this."

I made up my mind instantly.

"Well, nobody is going to have you as a wingman, Schiller," I said sternly.

He snapped his eyes back at me, a mixture of suprise and anger, but said nothing.

I let the silence hang for a moment, standing up.

"Because as of right now, you are my wingman, do you understand?"
"Ja wohl, Herr Oberst, he said, bringing himself to his feet.
"Get out of that gear, wash up, and get some food and then rest - but not before telling Oberst Straub I've reassigned you. Tell him it is for 'Polish reasons' - you needn't know what that means, just pass the message along. We fly again tomorrow, and I need you on your top form."

There is something about how a man walks when he feels he has been given a new lease on life, a certain measure in the step, that is undeniable and recognizeable, even from the rear. Leutnant Schiller had such a gait.

===========

Entering my tent, I was suprised to see Vunner sitting in chair, feet propped on my cot, asleep.
"ALARM!" I yelled as loud as I could, with the expected results.

That was two I got to fall on their rears today! Three more and I'll be an Ace!

Rather than popping to attention, Vunner gave me a dirty look as he set the chair back up and sat back down. I threw him the package from the airplane, which he caught, looking interested.
"Stole it from that oasis," I remarked, "Swing record, bottle of whisky, and some figs I took off a tree."
"Danke sehr," he said.
"Bitte. Now why in God's name are you in my tent and not in the hanger getting my plane repaired for tomorrow? I don't want to borrow one they've got laying around."
"There's one of your 'starlings' in my hanger, though judging by the way he was hiding, I'll take him for an igel."
"Oh, he's no hedgehog, Vunner; he's a pilot."
"I just wanted you to know where he was so you could ground him or send him away or whatever you do to cowards. He came back without firing a shot, blubbering all the while and acting scared."
"I already talked to him, as I was in the hanger looking for you."
"And...."
"And he's my new wingman, Vunner, so I'll hear nothing more bad about him."
"But...."
"And you'd better let the other enlisted know that I will take any slur against Leutnant Schiller as an insult against myself. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Herr Oberst."
My good friend and our Executive Officer, Oberst Klaus Straub, poked his head into the tent.
"Am I interrupting?" he asked, "I just had an interesting conversation with one of our new pilots..."
"Why is everyone so concerned about my new wingman?" I smiled, softening my voice, "Vunner was just asking about him."

"I'd best be going, sir," Vunner said, standing up.
"Very well, Vunner," I accepted, then added, "but I was wondering if you might have some whisky I might borrow, as I think I may need some tonight."
"I happen to have a bottle right here, sir."

"Why can't I ever get an NCO like that?" Klaus bemused as I accepted the bottle and reached for two glasses.

======

0200 hours

The barest sliver of light came from under the tent flap to the dispensary as Staub and I approached it unsteadily.
"Shush," he said too loudly.
"Oh, shush yourself, Klaus," I shot back as he weaved into me.
The nurse was standing in our way just the other side of of it, arms crossed.
"Don't you ever sleep?" I asked.
"She's a vampire," Klaus advised, "they don't need sleep."
"That's stupid, she's here in the daytime, too."
"Maybe she's not very good at being a vampire."
We both laughed.

"Raus," she said firmly, pointed back to the door.
"Moment, bitte," I slurred, pushing past her and sitting on Miller's bed and his arm, judging by the way he jerked over to the other side.
"Oi," he exclaimed, "get off me, you drunk Hun bast****!"
"Miller," I said, "we are on to you."
"Yes, we know everything!" Klaus added as he nearly fell over, grabbing the end of the cot in time.

The Flight Sergeant looked at once scared and defiant.

"It was a clever rouse, claiming to be a Flight Sergeant," I continued.
"But it was only a matter of time until we found out who you really are!" Klaus chimed in.

The nurse, overcome with curiosity, couldn't help herself.

"Who is he?"

"This, nurse vampire, is...." I said, but the effort of trying to keep a straight face wouldn't let me speak.

"Air Marshall Hugh Dowding," Klaus finally declared, and we both fell to the floor, laughing.

Getting to our feet, we saluted Flight Sergeant Miller and weaved our way out, the nurse hitting us with her clipboard.

I do not remember making it back to my tent.....

The tale is well written with that peculiar bit of humor that only Dart can convey. Well done! Can't wait to read more of this.

Hat's off also to FlatSpinMan for setting the stage our tainted Oberst is playing on. S!

~~~

It appears you have the hosting thing figured out (wish I had visited sooner to learn of your troubles in that area). For future reference, look to Lunar Pages (Google them). Good host; inexpensive and feature rich with fat bandwidth and storage, and all the proper doo-dads available.

That's it!! I am never again writing another AAR. I will never be able to satisfy myself. Dart has set the bar waaay too high!

Ah, I'm jealous that such a fine writer isn't on our EAW forum.
Such a love of the story is evident. My congratulations.

"Air Marshall Dowding"

LMFAO!!!! LOL!!!

Oh man I had tears in my eyes... lol..

Gods this has to be one of the best AARs I've ever read.

I became dimly aware of my batman standing over me, holding a wet cloth, as I swallowed the hot air around me. My shirt was wet with the desert sun turning my tent into an oven, the heat wrapping the whole of my body as a glove.

"What time is it?" I asked as I gingerly sat up, putting a hand to my dripping forehead.
"Nine o'clock, sir," he deadpanned, "Brief in half an hour."
I took the towel from him and rubbed it on my head, letting it rest on my neck. I noticed he had placed a small bag on the crate I had taken to use as a night table and nodded to it.
"A liter of water, aspirin, and some bread," he admitted.
"You're a good man....could you pull out my clothes?" I asked as I pulled the empty bucket from under my bunk and began relieving myself.
"Yessir," he said as he began unpacking my trunk with fresh laundry, "I heard you had a rather late night."
"And so I did," I said back, stiffly.

Saying nothing more, he left my tent and I set about washing in a basin and shaving, cutting myself rather badly on my chin. The sting of the styptic pencil took some of the attention from my headache, though, and I washed down the four aspirin with as much of the liter bottle as I could. Taking small bites of the bread, I made my way to the briefing tent, making it with five minutes to spare.

Still, I was late by the looks of the room, and sat towards the back. Hans and his flight had taken the front seats, while my would-be flight was sitting apart from each other. Both newly arrived, they might not know each other's name....and Schiller wasn't exactly popular with his comraden. He didn't help himself much by popping up like a cork and nearly knocking over another pilot in his rush to sit next to me, moonfaced as a schoolboy with a crush.

Guten morgen, Herr Oberst! he said too loudly.
"Shut up," I murmured back, my head pounding. This was going to be a rough mission, regardless of what the enemy might or might not throw at us.

Hans turned in his seat and smiled, winking at me, and then pointed to his chin, as if to tell me I had something stuck to it. I gave him a hand signal the Italians had taught me, which made him laugh.

The Operations officer stepped forward to signal the beginning of the briefing, stepping back for the Intelligence officer. Several pilots groaned as he pulled out his notes.

"The weather today is hot," he began, to mock gasps of shock, "with intermittent cloud cover over the target area with a base ceiling of 1,200 meters, reaching to 1,600 meters. Winds are light to moderate in a westerly direction.

"Enemy activity has been light through last night and no fighters have been seen this morning at all. It is possible that the British are either holding their aircraft in an effort to establish local air superiority or to intercept our bomber flights returning from the front."

We all sat up, leaning forward, silent. Could it be that our "spy" had finally gained some common sense - or at least had someone else work up his briefing notes?

"It is also my personal opinion that it is also highly likely that our - and our brave allies' - efforts in the air, on the ground and at sea have crippled their supplies to where they are unable to launch sorties at all."

Ah ha! Somebody is working up his intelligence briefs for him, and from the sound of it, he doesn't like it!

The Operations officer stepped forward:

"This morning's mission is to escort the Italian Breda bombers over the coastal river area, where the Stukas will just be finishing up. They report no fighters present. Oberst Jedermann will command a flight of three - himself, Schiller, and Ganz. Hans will take his flight of four to the south, patrolling here (he pointed at the map to a region that would place him well outside of supporting range to us) in case the British try to sneak in to attack the bombers on egress.

"Rendezvous with the bombers will be here. They will be flying over at 1000 hours, and Jedermann's flight will take off and join, flying at 1,200 meters."

"And if we are met by strong enemy resistance?" I asked.

"There is a flight of Italian fighters that may be able to come to your assistance. The priority is the safe return of the bombers. If you have to, draw the fighters to the south and then try to disengage."

"Clear," I said, nodding.

Schiller tried to whisper to me through the rest of the brief, and I kept shushing him - I was keen to know where everyone else was and what they would be doing.

Afterwards, we gathered together outside of the briefing tent, waiting for the truck to carry us to the aircraft.

"Ganz," I greeted, "welcome to Afrika. Stay tight, keep off the radio if you can, and don't do anything stupid. Call for help if you need it, and don't get greedy. Keep your head on a swivel.

"Schiller, stay on my wing unless otherwise told to do otherwise. I have a bad feeling today that has nothing to do with my hangover.

"I want to take a close look at these Breda's when we begin, so don't be suprised if I fly ahead to check them out. Just join up; they'll be going slow to give you a chance to catch up to me."

"Let's give them hell!" Schiller said enthusiastically.

"Let's just fly the damned mission and get home, okay?" I groused back. The sun on the sand was hurting my eyes, and I was actually looking forward to breathing in the metal tasting oxygen from the mask in the Messer.

The truck arrived, and in short order we were in our aircraft, dutifully lined up on the packed runway. Schiller lost all of his bravado at the sight of them, and looked positively sick as he climbed unsteadily into his seat. No time for second guesses, I ordered to start engines and we were idling at five minutes to rendezvous.

I spotted the Italians coming over the airfield and immediately asked for clearance to take off, then quickly catching up them:



Odd looking aircraft, but distinctive, which should help in case something might go awry. For all my bluster about the Italians shooting wildly, it would not do for me to shoot one of them down!

The push to the front was serious, and I dipped my right wing to look at the lager by which our forces were staging from and heading out:



Climbing high to the right, then cutting back left over the bomber formation, I looked back to see my starlings a full two kilometers back!

"Rejoin," I cursed at them, getting a contrite "Vitamine!" from Schiller. My airspeed was low, accounting for my maneuvers, and they cut the distance easily.

Fading towards the coast, I watched the shadows of the Breda's against the sand, then turn towards the cliffs, and finally across the river to drop their bombs. Quite a bit of chatter, but they seem to have struck their targets:



Straightening out, I lead the flight south, thinking to cross the second line of clouds before us, turn towards the coast, and then back towards the base, keeping watch over the bombers and hoping we'd not be met by the enemy.

Of course it was not to be, for no sooner than I looked up I saw four black dots on the horizon. I called for reinforcements and told my flight to engage.

The Hurricanes had better sense than to take our cannon fire head on, and so sought to simply climb up over us:



The two on the left were a miss to me, but I had designs on the right pair. Closing range of two hundred meters, sixty degree deflection blind rising, I guessed at the location of the number wingman, using the leader as a guide, and pulled the trigger:



Bad luck, I only got a chunk of his wing!



Cursing, I rolled high and right, seeing him dive in a spiral, most likely in a panic, and his number one moving left. The first pair had gone right, and I gave pursuit. The wingman broke left at my approach, but his number one went the other way, leaving him unprotected.

Tommy, I thought to myself, I think he meant your German right!

Closing, I began with machineguns, two hundred meters, twenty degree deflection:



He slipped to get a look back, but this only slowed him and showed him that I had his measure:





He tried to dive away, but it gave me the near zero deflection shot I was looking for at a scant 100 meters...I let fly with the cannon and an elevator fluttered away from him:



I pressed the attack, guns and cannon, until his plane was no more:





I could see his flight lead in front of me, crossing to my left at fifteen hundred meters, and prepared to engage when I heard Schiller's voice on the radio, small and weak.

"Help me, somebody help me!"

Looking around, I saw a 109 with two Hurricanes in close pursuit to my north at around a thousand meters higher than I.

"Schiller, break right, they're firing!"



"Please...I need help!" he cried, pleading, and I growled under my mask.

"Break right and low, Schiller! Right-And-LOW!" I yelled.

And yet he flew in a climbing arc, presenting an open target for the Englanders:



"Oh, God, why won't you help me! I need help!"

"BREAK RIGHT, SCHILLER, DO IT NOW!" I screamed, and amazingly enough, he did so, straight at me and under my plane.

I savagely ripped my plane to the left to clear his six, watching him do the one thing that he shouldn't.

"Mother...." he wept into the microphone.

As he climbed straight up.



"ROLL RIGHT," I shouted, "RIGHT AND DIVE, HE'S GOT YOU!"



The Hurricane was within fifty meters, no doubt throttling back and slipping to gain the killing blow onto Schiller, but I had a shot. I might hit Schiller, but probably not.

One hundred and twenty five meters, closing at fifty kilometers per hour relative, eight hundred meters per second muzzle velocity...he would be clear when the bullets and cannon arrived to push the Hurricane off of him.

Careful aim, tiniest of squeezes on the triggers, no deflection....

The Hurricane exploded.



I had killed Schiller.

I should have known better. It had happened before...the cannon had ripped through half empty fuel tanks and ignited the fumes inside to where a fireball ripped the Hurricanes into shreds. At that distance, the Hurricane acted as a huge flak burst, tearing Schiller's plane apart as well.

And I had killed Schiller twice over.

Once by putting him on my wing when I should have grounded him after his demonstration of complete fear, and then with my own guns.

My mouth opened to howl but no sound came out. I blinked hard away from the blast, willing myself not to look at the burning debris of two planes streaking to the ground, as I saw four dots on the horizon just as I heard the warning of incoming fighters to the west.

There would be no time to mourn or to chastize myself, as this fight had only just began...

[second half of the mission later this week. OMG I'm such a softie, I've been putting off writing this AAR as I didn't like what happened!]

[The darned .ntrk file has one "position drift and correction" in it. Of course it's where I kill Schiller - in the actual mission the crosshairs are on the explosion, but it's so dramatic I couldn't leave it out]

Great report Dart, I`m on my 34th mission now, been lucky so far, lost 3 planes, but survived to fight another day, really enjoying this campaign. Puts

"I had killed Schiller". Love the matter-of-factness, then the self-reproach for what had seemed like an act of kindness earlier. This is probably one of my favourite installments so far.
I can see you spent some time exploring this mission - there's a lot going on and I'm pleased you noted it all. Don't dilly dally with the second half. I'll be checking daily.
Puts - good flying. I don't count how many planes I use up. Of course I often just abandon my plane mid-flight to see if everything else is where it should be.

Ahem.

It's OK FSM, they are a bit slow in the South..give him time ;)

Yikes, I'm outta town.

I'll write it up this week and put pictures with it this weekend.

Flatspin can bear witness - these missions burn themselves into hard memory for me, and the write up will match the .ntrk pretty closely.

I've got to weed through them, though....since I record every flight I take, even QMB, the titles are back up to quick2289.ntrk even after I've archived them three times to restart the count. Lots of fun to go back to the first .ntrks I made when FB first came out....

Good lord man! Record every flight?! What, are you trying to improve or something? One of those "learn from my mistakes" types, eh? I should have suspected.

Looking forward to the next one.

Cant wait!

"I am running out of patience."
-A. Hitler, 1938
-FlatSpinMan, 2007

Okay, okay, I'll do it tonite! Sheesh, I was out of town....

Shaken from the explosion, I barely noticed the shadow cross over my cockpit, and continued my climb, turning to the left.

Hurricanes!



I called out to Ganz to watch out, and was chagrined to hear him whoop that he was diving in on one....the lead Hurricane...leaving himself open for the wingman!



"Break! Break Ganz, Break!" I called over the radio.
"One second and I've got him!" Ganz called back.
"One second and you're shot down!" I yelled, my voice cracking. Was I to lose my entire flight?

I rolled right and then left as the British lead went left and right, helping his number two get a bead on Ganz. I cut hard and hoped to get in a quick burst..



I fired across his nose just in time, forcing the wingman to break left. Time to extract some revenge...





Continuing my turn left to hopefully keep Ganz alive, two Hurricanes were turning over the ridge towards me.



I had little choice but to meet them, hopefully crossing to their side and then a half-roll onto their six.

But they weren't interested in passing over or to the side of me. They charged head on!



At three hundred meters I let fly with my cannon, they with their machineguns. It was all a blur of the vibration of the guns, flying debris, and then a hammer to my face that nearly knocked me unconcious...



One eye open against the pain and I had the image of a Hurricane not 25 meters from my nose, nearly inverted, as I squeezed hard on the trigger and closed both eyes.



Everything was red on my goggles, my head aching, a strange numbness under my mask and warm liquid filling my mouth, making it hard to breathe. The mask came away in my hand without effort, falling from my face and I spat red on the console.

Blood. A lot of blood.

No time for that, though, I looked over and reflexively turned the aircraft. One of the Hurricanes did not survive our merge, and I saw him strike the desert:



My face had gone numb, perhaps from the cold of the altitude, though my eyes were swelling rapidly.

Time to go home.

To my north, however, lay what looked like seven reasons why I would be delayed:



They pounced on me at once, and I found a Hurricane 150 meters from my tail, turning for a shot:



A stream of bullets rattled against my aircraft and a soon a trail of fuel from my right tank. His wingman joined in the chase, and I found myself in the reverse of a position I had had with the English so many times before:



I broke hard right, then left and dove, hearing the screams of someone that sounded very much like myself as the g-forces pressed on my head, throwing blood down my neck and into my coveralls.

"Help...I need help..." Ganz cried out.



I felt light headed, almost as if I were watching from outside myself, as I turned into the fight, thinking nothing at all. A Hurricane flashed above me as I pulled up from under the trio:



I lazily turned into the Hurricane and pulled the triggers:







It was as if I were dreaming, the echo of Ganz's cries for help sounding a million kilometers away, as I turned left to see them turning onto him:



I only saw a silhouette of an aircraft, and closed:



Missing badly, I closed, firing once more...



A small voice was calling out that I was shooting at him over the pounding of my own heart and it snapped like cold water in my face that there were two radiators under the wings of my target - I ws shooting at Ganz!

I broke left and low, making for home.

A formation crossed in front of me, big unusual planes that seemed odd and still familiar...



I rolled right sloppily to see they were Bredas trying to escape the melee!



I leveled out and began a gentle climb to the north and home base. I do not recall anything of the remainder of the flight save a glance at my final approach:



They say I managed to land the aircraft successfully, though I nearly hit an aircraft that was attempting to taxi to dispersal.

=========

I awoke in the hospital tent in the evening, with a huge bandage on my face and the otherworldly sensation of morphine floating me between thin sheets. Blankets strung around the bed walled me off, and I croaked for some water.

The doctor slipped into my makeshift room, grimaced, then smiled.

"You are a lucky man, Herr Oberst," he said.
I simply looked at him.
"A piece of the armored glass struck you in the face."
"Nose," is all I could say.
"The tip of it was gone, sliced right off, along with a centimeter of the cartilage. I've stitched you up and we've given you a liter of blood to replace what you'd lost."
"Ganz."
"Returned to base safely. He says you saved his life by warning him of an Englander on his tail by shooting at him."
"Schiller."
"Dead."
And I wept. I do not know if it was for him or for me. But I wept, a deep quiet sobbing that rang a sorrow I had never known before.




[edit]

Happy little sortie, wasn't it? Now do you know why I've been putting off writing it, besides being busy as all get out?

Poor Schiller. C'st la guerre.

And to think in a month the USA enters the war and his wife is in New York City.

Poor guy, the war doesn't seem to be going so well for him.

Damn Dart, this is primo stuff!

So when's the next installment?

[one week later]

Verwaltungsaufgabe

If ever there was word that sends chills down a pilot’s back, it’s that one:

Administrative duty.

Still wearing a ridiculous bandage that wraps around my head to cover my swollen nose, I was finally released from the infirmary after three days of laying on my back and quelling the thirst that comes with the morphine.

It is a horrible inconvenience, getting in the way of everything from eating to smoking. I’ve set it alight twice!

The commander has set me to cleaning up the training records and the inventory, both which are impossible tasks. The officer in charge of instruction before me clearly was putting anything down to keep appearances, pre-dating training to “keep ahead.” He himself received the required training on hygiene four days after his death from a strafing attack – which isn’t as impressive as being instructed by an officer that had been killed the week before that.

Who knows, perhaps the training was conducted in the heavens, and everything is perfect!

Most of the lies have been set to some sort of correctness; I’ve marked those that were beyond hope as “Missing/Destroyed.”

The inventory is another matter. Since we’ve become a traveling circus accountability has become impossible. Some things are left behind, others found from previous squadrons of all nationalities – our side and the enemy’s – to where we are operating with a mishmash of tools, plates, stoves, and tents.

The mechanics have taken to adopt a jealous protectiveness to their tool boxes that borders on insanity. In order to keep peace, I have taken to private inventory with each of them by surprise. Otherwise they hide their most treasured tools in order to keep them a secret! Some are lacking a third of their required set, while others have two or three of everything (and additions from Italian and British sets). I was somewhat proud to see that Vunner, my mechanic, fell into the latter category. We’ll have to crosslevel some of it, naturally, but I imagine it will be at the point of a pistol.

The kitchens are a nightmare. I had never noticed during my meals that most of what is used isn’t from the Fatherland. Italian stove, British pots, local plates. I ignored it for the most part – who cares if the coffee comes in an RAF mug so long as it’s worth drinking!

The infirmary was perfect, naturally, except for some stretchers of international origin.

Hans returned yesterday from a sortie that left him unable to get out of the cockpit on his own. He took on four Hurricanes over the river by himself, getting one before being riddled with .303 rounds. Ganz jumped in the fray, and after some ten minutes they managed to escape, downing two more of the British. It wasn’t until after dinner and a few rounds at the officer’s tent that he regained his swagger. Ganz remained quiet throughout the revelry, which was unusual for a young pilot that had saved his flight leader and chalked up a victory in the bargain.

“It’s all luck,” he said to me to the side of the party.
“What’s all luck?” I asked.
“All of it,” he frowned, “it’s all luck.”
“No, Ganz,” I assured him, “it’s not all luck. Skill counts.”
“A stray flak round, a flash on a cockpit glass, a jammed gun – it’s all luck that makes one live or die.”
“That is why we never fly straight, keep looking around, and mind the maintenance, Ganz,” I replied, “to keep the risks down.”
“The last Hurricane, he should have killed me.”
“What happened?”
“I cleared Hans’ six and looked back to see the Hurricane right behind me in perfect firing position, but he didn’t fire. I saw his face plain as yours, and he was furious that his guns weren’t working.”
“Probably out of ammunition.”
“Luck.”
“No, he was unskilled and wasn’t keeping track of how much he fired!”
“Lucky for me he didn’t.”
“In two ways, Ganz.”
“Two?”
“Yes,” I explained, “Lucky for you he lost his head – and lucky for you that now you will always know how much ammunition you have left!”
We both laughed.
“Ganz, I believe we make our own luck for the most part. The rest is up to God.”
“Don’t you worry?”
“Why should I?” I lied, “I’ll have you to bail me out if my luck runs out!”

I don’t think he was convinced.

The stitches across my nose are to come out when the swelling goes down in a week or so. The doctor did a very good job. The scar will be ugly, but the tip of my nose remains on my face.

The deal I have struck with the commander and the flight surgeon is that when I can put on and remove an oxygen mask three times in a row without having tears involuntarily roll down my cheeks I will be placed back on flight status.


Our forces have pushed across the river, and the British are putting up a desperate fight to keep from being routed. Their new tactic of ensuring local air superiority with separate but supporting flights is becoming more difficult to deal with, especially since we’re spread thin trying to support the general advance. Meanwhile, I stay on the ground counting spoons and checking pockets for hidden sets of pliers.


[another week later]

Finally I am back in the cockpit! I passed my little “test” yesterday thanks to Nurse Attila and a local anesthetic she administered in secret. I don’t understand why she came to me with the idea and the syringe, but it worked like a charm. Our flight is to remain below 3,000 meters altitude regardless, so it won’t matter; besides, Nurse Atilla gave me an injection a half hour ago.

I took the bandage off before strapping in, causing Vunner to give a shout. It’s still a blue and red mess, and swollen a third larger than it would be!

Excellent.

I'll put the actual mission in tomorrow....

I was wondering if anyone was actually still reading this monster.

Keep 'em coming

This is wonderful. Brilliant writing talent.

Respectfully

krise madsen

When did this sneak up here? I hadn't noticed the last installment until just now. Good writing as ever, Dart. Keep them coming if you can spare the time. If not, I'd at least like to know how you thought about the end of the campaign.

I was beginning to wonder if the pressure of events were starting to take its toll on me. Certainly I found myself taking longer than normal preparing for the sortie, fingering the gear as I put it on. My steps from my tent were slower and closer together than I wanted them, and my eyes were on the ground before me.

I turned the corner to the flight line and saw my plane, Vunner standing to the ready to assist, and the rest of the pilots standing by the ladders, facing me. Even the two maintenance flights that were only to orbit the airfield held sentinel for me.

An amazing thing happened. Emotion drained from me as the heat from the sun warmed me completely, and I was walking briskly to my aircraft, head up, accepting the hand up to the wing root from my grinning mechanic.

The growl and whine of the engine that started true rumbled through my body and I managed a weak grin as the canopy locked into place over my head.

I was calm and without fear, for I was home.

The mission was a sweep of the front lines in strength, protecting the bridgehead over the river and consolidating our hold over the town that was still burning from combat.

Hans lead the second flight of four above us and to the west, while we split the beach at 2,500 meters altitude. Ganz tucked into my right wing, and we scanned clear skies as we approached the patrol area. The sun lay high before us to the east as we squinted around it, though, so we were on high alert.

The radio crackled cries for help. The maintenance flight had been bounced just south of the airfield and were struggling to shake them off! I moved in a slow turn to look back for tracers, debating whether to go to their assistance.

"Tommyhawks out of the sun!" Hans shouted and I looked back to my right. A flight of four P-40's slashed through their formation, scoreless, but they extended and climbed back up for another attack.

I immediately called for our flight to engage, and we wheeled right. A terrible mix of planes instantly formed into a mess that I couldn't sort out from two thousand meters. As I made it to the combat, a P-40 flashed in front of my nose. Rolling right and diving after it, I closed to 200 meters, twenty degrees deflection as he started to climb.

"Oberst, break right!" Ganz cried out. I rolled hard, cut right, half roll left and flinched as his plane rushed a wing length past me. I had cut him off and nearly forced a collision. Machinegun and cannon ripped through the British plane, smoke pouring from the engine, as he kicked rudder and dove to the right.

"Out," Ganz simply stated, and I slipped right behind the Tommyhawk and finished him.

Climbing into a right hand turn, tracers flashed over me. I rolled into a split S and a left hand turn, looking back to both sides.

Nothing!

Where was he?

I called for help, and Hans' voice confirmed he was making his way towards me. I broke right out of instinct, and a Tommyhawk dove behind me, a Bf-109 in chase. I moved to assist, but wasn't needed - Hans riddled the P-40.

Looking down, I saw a Tommyhawk low below me, making for his lines. I called it out to Ganz, who was high of him, and watched as he rolled down to quickly dispatch the Englander.

Like so many times before, the skies that were so full of the enemy were suddenly empty.

Forming up, we regained altitude and made back towards our base.

"Bailing out!" called a pilot as we saw tracers to the south. The maintenance flight! I had completely forgotten about them. We continued to climb and made our way along the coast to the south.

The two P-40's crossed above us at an altitude of 4,000 meters. We were a full thousand meters short of them! They ignored us and continued on, no doubt at full throttle and max climb themselves.

It would not stand.

Ganz and I turned about to follow, climbing on their low six to keep out of their vision. Radiator two fifths open, full throttle, slowly gaining, I looked down to confirm a half tank of benzene in my tanks.

Minutes ticked by as we crossed 3,800 meters altitude and Hans called out from our left that he had found two stray British planes and was engaging with his flight. We wished him luck and continued on.

Eight hundred meters and closing, grindingly slow, the P-40's were on to us and continuing to climb away, hoping to make the cover of their anti-aircraft screen.

Six hundred meters back and two hundred meters lower, I aimed high - forty degrees deflection - and squeezed off a burst of machinegun fire. Incredibly, I struck home!

The lead plane broke left, panicked, and we pounced.

Diving hard, the P-40 stretched the distance. The amazing dive speed of the Tommyhawk had me swearing as I was forced to watch him shrink in my sights. Ganz whooped in my helmet's speakers as he brought down the wingman and I cut my dive angle.

As the Tommyhawk pulled up, I got a snapshot that missed by centimeters, but forced him to turn hard left, burning off energy.

I dove beneath him in a rolling turn and rose on a fifteen degree deflection shot at two hundred meters. Shredded chunks of aluminum fluttered through the air and he went level. I saddled up behind him, one hundred fifty meters and five degree deflection and pressed the machinegun's trigger.

The canopy flew into the air and the pilot immediately followed.

We formed up once again and returned to base, taking stock of the mission.

Of ten total planes in the air, four were lost outright and two damaged, if one included the four machinegun holes we found in my elevators, to a loss of eight on the British side.

Hans had bailed out on the lines, and we expected his return shortly and celebrate the three kills that were to be credited to him (which included to half kills).

One and a half kills were credited to me, and two and a half to Ganz.

I made my way back to my tent and lay down on my cot, exhausted, and fell straight to sleep.

[sorry, no screenies, but the track was corrupted!]

I'm glad you continue your fantastic job providing us with a great and inmersive history....

Thanks!

Eeeexcellent, keep em coming.

I walked into the supply tent with a rucksack over my shoulder, waiting patiently for our officer and his NCO to finish with a minor disagreement over the placement of gas masks until throwing it on the makeshift counter they had set up.

“What’s this?”
“Flight suits,” I replied, “Put them on.”
“Are we flying?” the Feldwebel asked, hopefully.
“Not today,” I deadpanned. “Put them on.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m an Oberst and you’re not.”

Shrugging, they began to remove their shirts.
“No,” I said flatly, “put them on as you are.”
“These are winter flight suits!” they complained.
“Yes, they are. And you are going to wear them for an hour, which is less time than my pilots are forced to wear them.”
“I understand, Herr Oberst,” the junior officer began, “the supplies haven’t-“
“Put. Them. On.” I interrupted.
So they stood, silently, sweat pouring off of them as I made them count minutes down.
“You may remove the suits,” I said, satisfied.
“With all respect-“ the officer started, but I once again interrupted.
“Until my pilots receive appropriate summer flight suits, I will make it policy that you two will wear these during the entire time one of our flights are in progress, from take off to landing. I will select which flight you will be wearing the suits for.”
“We expect a shipment of summer flight suits in the next few days, Herr Oberst.”
“Then your discomfort will be temporary.”

The next morning I stopped by the infirmary tent, carrying a small sack. Flight Sergeant Miller was propped up in a chair outside of the door, eyeing me with interest.

“Guten Morgan,” I greeted him.
“Hello, Fritz,” he shot back, “What’s in the bag?”
“Care package.”
“Red Cross comes in a box.”
“This is not from the Red Cross, you insolent Englander,” I growled back, throwing it in his lap.
“Cigarettes, matches, crackers, and a tin of meat paste,” he inventoried, “Am I going somewhere?”
“Not you,” I answered, “though you may not be here much longer.”
“No blindfold in here, so I take it I’m to be shot in the back of the head?” he asked, baiting me.
“Don’t be stupid, Miller,” I shot back in a dismissive tone, “I’m being repositioned.”
“Reassigned to a labor battalion?” he asked, hopefully.
“Hardly,” I laughed, “though it’s none of your concern. I simply thought to leave you with a few luxuries before I leave this base.”
“Why?”
“Because I am a German officer, and we believe in treating people correctly.”
“And the Polish and Czechs?”
“As I said, we treat people correctly, not equally.”
“Sounds like a lot of tripe,” he observed, then spat onto the sand to his side.

We matched glares.

“I heard you lost one of yours,” he said, breaking the impasse.
“Yes, he was forced to bail out on the lines and has not returned.”
“Then we’ve got him,” Miller concluded.
“Probably not,” I countered, “he’s probably holed up with the locals and making his way back.”
Miller looked at me with amusement.
“You’ve better hope our boys got him rather than the locals. They’ll strip him of anything they can use and leave him in the desert and you know it.”

The Executive Officer came running up to me.
“Jedermann, what the hell are you doing?”
“Talking to Miller.”
“The flight to the new airfield left half an hour ago!”
“What?”
“Don’t you know the time? Where is your watch?”
Miller held up his left arm, pointing at it with his right.
No use in running – late is late – I walked to my tent with Klaus in tow, geared up, and had him turn the crank to start the engine.

The flight was routine, excepting two things:

A group of Ju-52 cargo planes flew in from the coast, scaring me half to death! I aborted final, full throttle, to intercept, thinking they might be bombers!

No ground crew were out, so I was forced to taxi to the dispersal area myself on an unfamiliar airfield after a very respectable landing right at the stall (I was concerned that the runway would be hazardous). Owing to the fact that one cannot see straight ahead when on the ground, I nearly ran straight into a parked Bf-109! I finally made my way to the right place.

The commander welcomed me without any additional comment.

I called back to a very relieved supply officer that the cargo planes were unloading a crate labeled “Suits, Flight, Summer/Tropical.” The manifest indicated that they had been transferred from Norway.

excellent read - great job m8

this whole AAR needs to be compiled into one sticky without comments

One of the best AARs I've read in a while.

I second the sticky.

Dude!!!

The last AAR was really nice, thanks!

Great Work, as a noob to the simhq site i just spent my afternoon at work reading the whole thing.

Looking forward to the next one.

Sounds fair enough to me, mctav, making you work New year's Eve.

Yeah Flat, cant complain about getting double time to sit on my butt reading AAR's

Found this one late, but it is a very nice read. Thx!

Well..

Is Dart keep working on this AAR?

I have seen no movement on this topic and on his page...
I hope We well see another AAR from him..I love them

I've been TDY off and on for the last three weeks.....two more to write....

Good to hear you're still at em. Cant wait for the others.

The last week has been eventful, to say the least. So eager to press the British, the Luftwaffe has scraped out yet another Gottverdammed flat spot and declared it an airfield before properly equipping it.

I found Vunner putting up camoflauge netting for my aircraft and swearing at the Oberfeldwebel to get the maintenance tent up and get the petrol out of the 30 degree sun. My own tent will have to wait.

A quick turn around had us in the air to escort arriving JU-52's full of supplies; they were harrassed by Hurricanes that we easily ran off. I scored one kill that was barely worth mentioning.

Ganz scored two, though, and has become as insufferable as Hans.

We've all become resigned that Hans is either dead or captured; our Intelligence officer is naturally clueless as to his fate.

My tent was erected at midnight by Ganz, Reichter, and myself after we had installed their own. It was only a few hours of sleep, but it was nice to be on a cot instead of in the hammocks the maintence crews seem to enjoy.

It wasn't yet light when I was awakened and stumbled to the briefing tent.

The British were building up supplies for a counter attack, and the Italians were going to bomb it at dawn. We were to escort with just my flight, as we'd taking off in darkness and arriving at the target at the first hint of light; we'd be returning with the airfield most likely lit up to aid in landings. Vunner, ever resourceful, has cut barrels in half and placed five centimeters of fuel in the bottoms, as we have no electricity for the standard lights.

We sat in our cockpits at 0400, waiting for the Italians.

At 0500 I got out of my plane to relieve myself.

At 0600, the control tower began waiving a green flag frantically.

This is Italian for "pre dawn:"



We started our engines and rose up after them as they crossed the field.



We formed up in good order, with Ganz on my wing, making an S track over the bombers, varing our altitude from 2,000 to 2,500 meters to stay with them.



We were soon close to the objective, 20mm anti-aircraft fire coming up to meet us; I brought the flight wide of it, on the side where the British would most likely come from on patrol.



The bombers were "ducks in a row" as they began their run, the skies clear. Milk run!



No sooner did they release their bombs than we heard Italian cursing over the radio. We couldn't understand a word of it, but we knew from their tracers there were enemy fighters!

I ordered the attack and looked back towards the sun to ensure we weren't going to be jumped. The Tommies often set an attack high up to swoop down on escorts.



I cleared and cut left towards the bombers. Tracers flew all around, and I thought I spotted a biplane in the mix. Gladiators? They must have been out to sea, readying for a recon mission over the front lines and stumbled into our bombers.

Two modern fighters sliced across my front, right to left, and went high through the tracers. Too fast for identification, I quickly followed, climbing to get a firing resolution.

It was Riechter and Schmitt, who had overshot the Gladiator. I reversed and dove down.




It was a simple matter to line up on the biplane and hammer it with a quick burst of machinegun fire and cannon.









The Gladiator rolled hard left and dove, trying to escape. Schmitt cried out that he had shot the other down, whooping in delight.

I rolled left onto the wounded British plane, the fuel streaming from its tank bright against the rising sun.







I was 1000 meters above him and another 2000 away when he crumpled into the sand.

The skies were clear, and I ordered that the flight rejoin. Ganz muttered apologetically that he had gone north along the coast and would be late coming back. I must speak to him about the difference between being aggressive and being a loner before he finds himself alone against a full flight of British planes.

I glanced back to see the other two catching up at full throttle.



Approaching the airfield, I saw four aircraft coming from the direction of the airfield. Something about them struck me as odd, and I moved in to investigate.



Tommyhawks! They were enemy planes, fooling the airfield (who must have thought the flight of four was ourselves returning) and quickly reversing onto the bombers!



I cut hard to the left, diving, and then rolled right to see the roundels of the enemy. I ordered the attack and quickly gained the Englander's tail with a small roll to the left.

A few seconds and I'd have firing solution on the P-40.


Schmitt cried on the radio to check six, and I glanced back to be shocked - they had forgotten the bombers for the moment!



I continued my roll high, watching them turn to my right and then back left underneath me.



Half roll the other way, slight rudder, and an easy deflection shot carried from right wing through the fuselage and onto his left wing:






Most likely wounded, the pilot bailed out. I winced as he did so. We were far too low for his parachute to open.




I crossed under the bombers at full throttle, scanning frantically for remaining bandits.




There! A black silhoutte on the ground! I rolled and dove towards it.

It appeared to be turning towards me for a head on pass!




Nearly too late I pulled up from from my own shadow!

Stupidity! Damn this desert sun and meaningless terrain!



The two aircraft to my left were no shadows, though, being followed by flak bursts!



I cut over hard, rolling right as I crossed behind them, ready for a shot on the wingman.

The wingman rolled hard right and dove as I approached, vanishing from my sight.



I pressed the attack on the lead, heedless of the flak bursts - I would have to hope my luck held out and I wouldn't be shot down by our own gunners!



A quick burst of cannon at 100 meters range, minimal deflection....



...and he plowed into the sand off of the airfield, streaming fuel and oil.



An Italian fighter had engaged the last of the Englanders, and I moved in to watch him shoot the flak wounded P-40 down.



The skies were clear and the bombers were landing at our airfield, some damaged but none destroyed.

Ganz caught up as the fight was over, and we flew in protective circles until all the Italians were safe.



[notes]

1. While I'm back to flying the campaign, I've lost the .ntrk files for the escort missions. But they were as described, pretty mundane from the way I flew them.

2. I take these screenies in windowed mode. I discovered that if one has the FRAPS program slightly overlapping the simulation, it will goof up the screenies and show the underlying menu graphic. My apologies; but I'm not going to redo them.



3). This is long on pictures and short on text. I just felt really bad for not continuing the campaign and the AAR and wanted to punch something out for y'all.

4. .ntrk file is here but you should know two things: 1) it's "as flown," including a lot of looking at the floor as I look down at the keyboard for squad communications commands ( ), and 2) It's a whopping 20 MB.

another great one

can't wait for ending

S!

Yay hes back!!

They re-organized the entire airfield, dispersing supplies, people, aircraft, and a hospital in three days of breakneck effort, partially to accept some new type of Italian bomber that our allies were fielding. We were so busy with the effort that when the message came that Hans had been injured and captured I didn't reflect on it.

We escorted the Italian bombers to our airfield without incident.

They are big, with four engines and gun turrets all around, but I don't think they're going to win the war for the Italians. It was all so top secret - secure communications, camoflauged dispersal areas, medium escort - and so naturally it was decided that our base was too far forward and they were relocated to our "old" coastal airfield the next day.

If they were that revolutionary they'd mass produce them and put them on the front lines, just as we did with the Messer in Spain. Hell, the Italians aren't operating under the Versailles Treaty like we were, building machines in secret and looking for a way out of the stranglehold on the Fatherland that didn't involve godless Communists.

Tomorrow we're supposed to escort the bombers on their first strike mission.

My headaches have been replaced with a terrible itching to the cuts on my nose (the doctor says it means it's healing) and an irritability I cannot shake. I am mad at nothing and everything, intolerant of everything while apathetic about anything. If it is not relating to my duties, I want only to be left alone, even though I feel unable to rest in my solitude.

It all seems so bothersome, and I wish only to fly. It is only in my aircraft that things make sense, that I am not weighed down with a thousand pebbles in my rucksack.

Hey Dart, I just checked this page again for the first time in ages. So glad to see the story continues. The usual good work on that first one - I like the references to the fellow pilots , especially Ganz becoming all cocky after his second kill. Makes it much more alive and personal. Nice details too - the oil drums ready for the planned dawn landing.

Just read the second one now. I like the introspection you've added here.

My question is, what happened to Miller? I featured him in a couple of breifings for my RAF France campaign - nothing much though, just another member of the squadron so there's nothing to contradict.

Anyway, thanks for writing them. I really hope you are able to finish the series some day.

Without too much of a spoiler (we're a couple missions ahead of Flt. Sgt Miller's exit from the story), he returns to the RAF.

Miller is at the airfield by the coast, remember? It's not my fault Jedermann was transferred!

But he does make a cameo in the next AAR.

And I may make up two (instead of one) events outside of the campaign to help things along.

Once this is completed I'm going to put it into .doc or .pdf form and provide a link (with some spelling and grammatical corrections, as I write these things exporaneously in one sitting without much more than a quick once over before hitting "Submit."

It's really a credit to the great mission scripting that I need only re-run the .ntrk file for screens I want; they just stick in my head.

[edit] I think I'd like to complete the campaign using the 4.09 beta for the extra draw distance. Do I just copy and paste the pilot profile and be caught up?

A pdf or similar would be cool. I could add it to the M4T site next to the campaign download.
If you just patch up you should be okay without having to worry about losing your progress I *think*.

Oh, I have both on my system as stand alones; I took the brute force solution of just copying the whole of the simulation rather than the elegance of a switcher.

I was called into the Commander's tent shortly after dawn with some haste - apparently we had an important visitor. Probably one of those RSHA jerks or some propaganda wank all too impressed with themselves to allow me to sleep until breakfast.

A soft, clean looking Oberst sat in a chair behind, but along side, the Commander.

RHSA, no doubt.

"Good Morning, Jedermann," he said pleasantly, "please sit down; coffee?" he asked, offering our own mess coffee as if it were his own.
"Good morning," I said warily, accepting a cup of coffee.
"How well do you know Hans -" he began, but I cut him off.
"As fine an officer as I've ever known, he has proven again and again that his loyalty to the Fatherland and faith in the Final Victory is complete."
"Yes, we are well aware of his loyalty," he replied, casually, "but how well do you know Hans Eitzen personally?"
"We have a very 'correct' relationship, Herr Oberst," I caged; no use putting my own troubles with the RHSA onto Hans, after all, "cordial but professional."
"Then you are unaware that his full name is Hans Fredrick von Eitzen."
"No."
"And that he comes from a very prominent family?"
"I was not aware," I admitted, "he never used family status in any way, including mentioning it."
"He has been captured by the British, and we have agreed to a prisoner exchange with them."
"Who are we exchanging for him?"
"A Flight Sergeant Miller," he said, flatly.
"Why?" I asked, suprised.
"We were hoping you could tell us."
"I have no idea," I admitted, "Sergeant Miller seems unremarkable other than his brazen attitude."
A full minute of silence ensued.

"You are to fly Sergeant Miller to this location," he said, sliding a map over to me with a mark on it, "tonight at midnight. It is to be unadvertised and unescorted. You are familiar with flying the Storch, are you not?"

My eyes bulged at the mark on the map. It was the British airbase to the east of us.

"Yes, I can fly the Storch," I said, slowly.
"Very good. You will pick up Flight Sergeant Miller at 2200 hours and fly him to their base tonight. They will be expecting you. Dismissed."
"May I ask a question?"
"Certainly."
"Why me?"
The Oberst leaned back in his chair before answering.
"It would seem you are the only officer in which Flight Sergeant Miller has any trust to fly with."
I couldn't help but laugh. It was probably a trap, and he was most likely lying. I'm probably the only one they wouldn't mind have being put into a POW camp in the whole of North Afrika.
"This is very sensative, Jedermann," he warned, "do not discuss this with anyone. Dismissed."

I mulled over the mission over breakfast and forced myself to pay attention to the briefing for the combat mission that would fill my day before the night.

We are to escort more bombers coming into the base, picking up where the Italian fighter coverage would leave off. Simple enough, but it is always the simple missions that turn complicated. I smiled to myself over the idea of getting shot down in the morning and being unable to pick up Hans in the night.

We took off in good order, and were pleased to find the bombers in the right place!



I took a quick look at the big Italian bombers and we climbed above the formation, Ganz on my wing, keeping close:





It wasn't long before we saw three aircraft crossing in front of us, small and fast - Tommyhawks!



I immediately ordered the attack, but one of them set directly onto the bombers and got in some terrible hits!



This would not stand! Ganz and I raced to him as he split-S to escape:



The Tommy dove into the clouds with us in hot pursuit; I guessed as his location and came out of the soup to see Ganz had made the same choice:



Ganz had better position, and struck at him - only to be shocked to see an Italian fighter had joined in from below! I gave warning that it was a friendly (of sorts) and Ganz grunted acknowledgement.



The P-40 went high on them, forcing them to break to the right; but I was in perfect position:



Smoke and oil streamed from his engine, and I climbed back high towards the bombers. Let the Italian finish him off, I had the bombers to protect!



As we closed, I could see another British plane attacking the wounded bomber; it looked as though their tail gunners had done him some good!



He was high above me, but diving down as if to make another attack:



It was a terrible mistake on his part!



That ended with a flaming engine...



The bombers seemed clear, and I looked back to see what the radio chatter was about:



I reversed to see if I could help, but Schmitt and Straub had it all well in hand:



It was with great sadness that I watched the Italian bomber's engine catch fire. At least they all bailed out over friendly territory.



We landed after the bombers with no loss to our own flight and seven enemy planes brought down and one probable (his engine was seized and was seen gliding towards his lines; he might have restarted it or ditched with little more than a broken oil pump).

I arrived at the coastal airbase at 2100 hours and was met by the Commander of the squadron there as well as that clerk from the RHSA. They appeared concerned and smug, respectively.

Guten Abend, Herr Oberst, the RHSA Colonel said cheerfully, "Ready for your little trip?"
Ja wohl, I responded, as flatly as I could, "Where's Miller?"
"In the infirmary. I will let you tell him of tonight's mission."
"He doesn't know?"
"He only knew he was to be traded," the Oberst smirked, "we did not tell him when."

"Before we wake him, Oberst Jedermann, please come to the briefing tent," the Squadron Commander ordered softly.

In the tent he offered a cup of coffee and some questions.
"How are you going to get there?"
"I plan on flying the ridgelines just off the coast, low in the valleys."
"A good plan; but you may receive some ground fire."
"Yes, I'm sure. But only rifles and maybe a light machinegun or two. With this full moon I'll be easy to spot by anti-aircraft guns against the clouds."
"And the return?"
"The same, but to the east along the ridgeline there," I pointed on the map, "it's the quickest way back to our airbase."
"Your commander has said many good things about you," he deadpanned, looking up with his grey eyes, "far better than others in the chain of command would indicate."
"Well, such is the nature of things," I shrugged.
"Be careful, and godspeed."
I said nothing.

The sand crunched beneath my feet as I made my way to the infirmary tent and pushed the tent flap open, the warmth from within a nice change from the chill of the desert air.

"Miller! Wake up!"
"Wha....get off!" he replied, opening one eye against the torch I put on his face.
"Get up! I'm on a sortie, and you're my gunner!"
"You're drunk, Jedermann, and not the least bit funny," he said, rolling over, "Not a one of you Hun has the least sense of humor."
I kicked the end of his bunk.
"Five minutes," I said.
He rolled over, a look of suprise on his face, and sat up.
"Get that bloody lamp out of my eyes and help me find my boot."

The Ambulance Storch was prepared, and a short ride in a Kubelwagon later he was being lifted into the back.
"Do you know how to work the gun?" I asked.
"Now you're really funny. As if you would put me behind a working gun!"
"It's already loaded, as you can see."

Miller fell silent.

In short order I had taken off and began to fly just over the scrub off the beach. I heard Miller pull the cocking arm of the machinegun as we crossed the river that had marked the front line when he was shot down.

It was entirely uneventful; we didn't even receive any fire when we crossed the British lines, though we gave them scant chance, flying less than thirty meters off of the ground.

Soon the lights of the landing marker and the red light that designated the place I was to taxi to came into sight, and I lowered the flaps of the Storch:



The moon was so bright that objects on the airfield were clear to me, and the lights were unnecessary!

I taxied directly to the red light they had put out, and was suprised to see they had set up a machinegun at the rendezvous point!



I shut the engine off and sat there, unmoving. Were they going to shoot us? Was it a trap?

"Easy, lad," I heard Miller saying quietly from the back seat. I was unsure if he was talking to me or himself.

An officer came from behind the truck parked next to the machinegun along with what looked like a doctor as well as a very nervous looking rifleman.

I opened the cockpit window on the right hand side and made no other move.

"Get out, slowly, Oberst Jedermann," the Officer ordered in German.
Oh sh-- I thought to myself.
I complied, raising my hands and stepping left towards the propellor. There was no chance for heroics.
"Squadron Commander Miller," he said loudly as the doctor rushed forward, "are you alright?"
"Lost my bloody leg, but other than that, alright, if that's what you mean."
Squadron Commander?
"We thought Jerry had you for good!"
"So did I; good spot of luck borrowing a flight jacket from Morris, eh?"
"And you cursed your mechanic for getting oil on yours!"
"I'll be buying him a pint for it tonight!" Miller responded with loud cheer.

A crazy thought went through my head. They were all but ignoring me while they pulled Flight Sergea--Squadron Commander Miller from the Storch. I could grab the rifle that was propped against the fuselage and.....do nothing.

I leaned against the warm engine panel and withdrew a cigarette, lighting it with a flourish.

The rifleman snatched up his firearm and leveled it at me.
"What are you about?" he demanded.
"A meter sixty-five;" I replied nonchalantly, "do you wish to know my weight?"
The doctor laughed.

The officer in charge came closer. I could see he wore a Group Captain's rank, and he sized me up.
"Cool as a cucumber, aren't you, Hun?"
"Actually, I'm quite disconcerted, if you must know."
"We'll hold our end," he said, as if annoyed, and turned to speak loudly, "Bring him out!"

Hans shuffled from behind the truck, a British soldier on each arm. He looked as if he could barely stand, and they nearly carried him to the aircraft.
Mein Gott, I whispered, and moved to him.
Hans was a mess of bruises with a bandage around his head, his eye blackened so that it shined purple in the moonlight.
"He ditched badly," the doctor said, "broken ribs, nasty crack to the skull, but he'll be fine."
Hans raised his head to look at me, attempted a smile, and promptly vomited onto the sand.

I did not ask permission to help gingerly place him in the back of the Storch.

On the flight back to our airbase Hans remained slumped in the back seat; I half imagined him moaning in discomfort as we turned onto final and rolled across the uneven sand to the infirmary tent.

I helped carry the stretch to his bed and left to my own, as Hans was either asleep, drugged, or unconcious.

Oddly enough, I fell asleep almost immediately myself.

[edit]

A few notes:

1) Sorry for the misspelled words I see on a readthrough; but I'm too tired to sort them out.
2) The airfield you see is the British one as laid out in the Campaign. I added the lights, the truck, and the machinegun; it's such a good job that I wanted to show it off. Nothing else was added!
3) I turned the last mission into a dogfight map and flew the Storch externally after changing the time of day; this has always been a feature of the simulation.
4) I have no idea where the ambulance Storch skin came from. I had another already in the folder and when I saw this one had to use it.
5) Yeah, it's weird that they would allow a Storch onto their base. I'm taking some historical license here in that they were afraid that Hans wouldn't make it in a regular ambulance.
6) Sorry for the anti-climatic end of Miller's part in the tale. Originally it was two trucks near the front, though.
7) Yes, I knew Hans' last name from the start; I thought it would be used differently. It may still serve its original purpose in the story.
8) I guess I need to check to see how many missions are actually left in the campaign to start tying up story arcs....

extremely well written m8

this whole series has to be the best AAR's I ever read.

S!

Well done Dart! For a moment I was thinking you unlocked a secret mission or I missed the sequel.
Brill as always.
D_T

Excellent as always!

Excellent Dart. I was curious to see what Miller really was. I had him pegged for a VIP. Thanks, too, for showing off the RAF base. I built it up so much as I had intended to make an RAF counterpart for this campaign. Unfortunately I just don't have the time. I can only play for about 2 hours a week these days.

From the number of hits this AAR has recieved I'd say you're definitely doing something right. I'd love to see what you make of my Battle of Britain campaign, which also features Jedermann. This was a hint, in case anyone was unclear about that.

Thanks for the AAR's. I have just finished this excellent campaign. I was playing Monday evening and finished my mission. I hit the apply button to load the next mission, but the video came up instead.... the one about remembering the fallen with the aircraft flying the "missing man" formation.....then I realized it was memorial day!!!!!

Thanks FSM for a great campaign!

I've just been reading the last few pages of your AAR. What a terrific read ! I love how you built your story around the campaign, giving more depth to the characters.

If I may suggest, knowing you are a big fan of the Hurricane, give "RAF Pilot - France" (by the same genius author) a try. The briefings are so damn well written there's everything you can hope for to build a story around - and a pretty unconventional at that ! - with some rather... out-of-the-ordinary missions and 'colorful' characters. The general visual atmosphere is in perfect accordance with what I personnally expected for the time and area depicted, and the base-building work is just outstanding once again.

Someone else already had the idea, so I'll just second it : put the entire AAR together and post it as a sticky or feature on the front page.

Cheers

Nico

Thanks for your kind words.

Since I'm stuck in a hotel room at Fort Knox, I might as well write up the next mission; unfortunately, no pictures!

===============

Morning came late for me, as I woke only when my batman shook me at the shoulders. The heat in my tent was stifling, and the sheet over me drenched with my sweat; for all the boiling of the sand, I find no way to fall asleep without some sort of cover!

No time to check on Hans, I made straight away to the briefing tent. To my shock, I was denied the usual anonymous entry of a place on a bench closest to the door - it was smiles and handshakes, with a few clapping! It was all quite disconcerting, and I was at a loss over the demonstration.

The word had gone out over my mission last night to pick up Hans, which had apparently increased in skill and daring with every second of the telling. I did my best to smile a little and raised my hand in an effort to get them to stop, and sat down. It would not do to show the disappointment and anger I was feeling.

Hans lay dying in the hospital tent and they have the gall to smile and clap. For what? My own flying of a Storch? As if that mattered at all! How stupid have we all become in this horrible place, that we would celebrate a good man's split skull? If he dies at our airfield or the British one, is he not just as dead?

Shaking off my maudlin thoughts, I listened to the briefing. More bombers and ground attack aircraft coming in, these our own, hulking He-111's and sturdy dive bombing Stukas. We are to meet them and escort them into the airfield. Strict radio silence has been called for, as they will be unescorted for most of their journey. We'd rendezvous with them 100 KM to the south of the airfield.

Ganz on my wing, Riechter and Schmitt as three and four, we formed up quickly in the air and made off toward the link up point. I waggled my wings to put the flight line abreast: I wanted all eyes forward to spot the bombers, as my mind kept wandering back to the sight of Hans slumped in my arms as I put him in the Storch and his head slumped forward on the flight back to the airfield.

Shaking my head to keep focus, I glanced left to spot landmarks on the ridgeline for a position check. Fifteen kilometers on our way, with a fight between flying correctly, the lull of the vibrations of the aircraft, and my own preoccupations tiring me long before we had just started.

A black smudge in the sky over the ridgeline....the bombers! And under attack! How is it that we had failed so miserably in timing the mission?

No use for radio silence, I keyed the microphone and ordered the flight to engage at once. Two Tommyhawks making for the bomber, which was slowing from the formation, and the Stukas in the front racing ahead as quickly as they could. Surely there would be more, but this pair is all I could see.

The British did not see us for their sport with the bombers, and they were lining up for a run with four hundred meters between them. Ganz cut hard on the lead while I rolled high and behind the trail P-40. Five degree deflection, 300 meters range, closing, and I pressed the guns.

Miss? Miss? I swore out loud as I had clearly underestimated the range and the Englander dove away. Enraged, I dove at him, throttle to full, closing as the altimeter spun from 2,500 meters to 500. Two hundred meters, fifteen degrees deflection, climbing, and I pressed the triggers again.

Miss. Again! The enemy broke hard right, corkscrewing into a wadi and back out to the left. Part of my mind was telling me to climb high and roll down on him, but my rage was on a boil and I matched his moves, closing in, throttle at full emergency, and I fired without thinking as we pulled high g back up from the rocks. A lucky hit to his left wing and the faintest stream of fuel.

Barrel roll left and he broke against my nose. Risking a high speed stall, I pulled the stick with both hands and rolled with him and came hard left with him. The rumble and whine of the engine, the creaking of the wings, the vibrations of everything running through my bones all disappeared; the pound of my heart in my ears was masking all sounds; even the pain and ache in my still healing nose vanished as the only thing I could see was the tight circle of the enemy plane high in the cockpit ceiling.

Every muscle in my body was tensed as tightly as I could make them as he rolled back to the right and dove once again, a hard wing over that was more desperate snap roll than planned maneuver. My right leg fought against my left as I forced the rudder pedal forward and slid through the turn to follow.

Fifty meters, and I could see the pilot's eyes looking back at me through his goggles as he jinked desperately. Firing as my nose crossed him in what would rake his plane along the fuselage, I rolled high to avoid collision and the expected debris.

More fuel from his left wing, but the fuselage untouched! He climbed against me in close vertical scissors, but I continued the roll and climbed underneath him, twenty five meters range. I could see paint on individual rivets and minor scratches on his plane! Lost of all reason, I fired with machineguns and cannon, slipping right in a climb.

The P-40 erupted metal and oil, the left elevator whipping past my windscreen as the rest showered around me. I continued to the right, nose up, left wing down, as the pilot slumped behind a ceased engine and cartwheeled along the rocks and scrub of the desert.

Coming to my senses, I looked around to clear skies and gauges that put numbers to what my returning hearing was telling me - I had cooked the engine.

Half throttle and a demand for a report from the flight.

"Alles clar!" Ganz reported, cheerfully, "Three Englanders down!"
"Bombers?"
"One damaged, the rest over the airfield."
"I am returning to base," I said gruffly, "Continue to patrol over the airfield."

I took up a pattern over the strip, slowing and descending, forcing myself to relax. Pain washed over me, along with a great fatigue. Every part of me burned and ached and felt as if it were made of lead. My legs were trembling uncontrollably, all strength gone from them. It was with great effort that I held the rudder to keep my plane in straight flight, and rolled long. Boiling glycol steamed up from my wings as I reduced it to idle as she crunched the sand to a halt.

Vunner ran up to the aircraft and lept onto the wing next to me. With great effort I unlatched the cockpit frame and remained seated. He leaned over me and unlatched me from the seat belts. He reached into his pocket and pulled a handkerchief out, gingerly wiping my face and telling me to relax. I had failed to put my goggles on at the start of the engagement, and the stress of the fight and altitude change had lead to a stream of tears running down my cheeks. Very odd; it had never happened before or since that moment.

He leaned in further and shut the engine down.

"She's done," I said simply.
"Ja," he replied, "Stay here a moment."
As if I had the strength to climb out on my own!

A Kubelwagen approached with my good friend Klaus behind the wheel along with another mechanic, waved over by Vunner. They pulled me from the aircraft and helped me into the vehicle. From there straight to my tent, where they helped me off with my flight gear and laid me on my cot, propping me up into a sitting position.

Klaus pulled up a chair and lit a cigarette for me, sticking into my mouth. I leaned my head back and took a long drag on it, allowing it to fill my lungs.

"Better?" he asked.
"I just pulled too many g's against that Tommyhawk."
"Cooked that Messer as well."
"He was a very good pilot, and I had to break the wire to get him."
"I'm sure he was, my friend."

There was a long silence.

"You abandoned your flight, Willi."
"I was engaged."
"They called repeatedly for you on the radio."
"I did not hear them."
"Willi, do that again and you will be grounded."
"Oh," I said angrily, "are you speaking now as my friend or my Executive Officer?"
"Both."
"Very well," I grunted bitterly, "Do as you must."

He stared at me and I stared right back. I didn't give a damn at that moment about him.

Standing, he moved to the opening of the tent and turned.

"Hans is awake and alert. The British had sedated him for some reason, which is why he looked so terrible last night when you got him. He had a full breakfast and the doctor believes he will recover from his wounds, though maybe not qualified for flight status."

I sat up fully, groaning from the strain of muscles that were already stiffening.

"He asked for you," Klaus deadpanned, "I will tell him you will see him later tonight, after you have rested."

I leaned back, rolling my eyes to the top of the tent, and the curtain of sleep dropped heavily on me.

master story teller

S!

[edit]

The bad part about my computer's repair was a reformat - losing the campaign in the process. But I downloaded it again and am playing them singly, picking up where I left off. This really isn't an issue, as I've long built a base of characters to go with the missions and don't give a hat about scores.

Anyhow, as always, it's a rough draft (probably has some spelling and grammar errors), no pictures or .ntrk as they'd be just perfidious:

[/edit]
=========


I don’t know when I fell asleep after Klaus left. I only remember looking at the tent wall and having it blur away. But now I was awake, my neck screaming at me for falling asleep sitting up, and an internal debate on whether my aching muscles (that were compelling me not to move) or my pressing bladder (which was insisting I get up) would win over each other.

It was night, and from the feel of the air well past midnight. One of the oddities of the desert is that one can almost tell time by scent; there’s a sweetness and a texture to the air that comes out during the third watch that retreats with the sun that is somehow visceral, defying description.

My battered travel clock reflected 0330 hours, confirming this. With a groan I stood up and made my way to the latrine, trailing bootlaces behind me. Still and quiet, blacked out, the silhouettes of planes and tents barely filled by a blanket of stars, I was halted by the display on my way out. Not a cloud to hinder the explosion of the Milky Way and the rest of the Heavenly Host, consuming me with the vista. A strange calmness washed over me; never had I really ever seen a night sky like this, laid out in all its glory, bright and dim and subtle smudges that seemed never ending. How small we are! I thought, and moved only when the strain of looking up with sore muscles became too much to bear.

My pace gentled and I walked softly across the crunching sand and gravel to the dispensary tent. Nurse Attila rose from her chair and met me in the aisle, saying nothing and everything with a nod as she led me to where Hans lay.

He looked alive. I feared the waxen glaze and seemingly positioned posture that so many wounded take when they sleep that make them look dead, but Hans lay there, mouth open and to the side, leg cocked under his sheet, and one arm draped over his abdomen. His color was normal below the bandage around his head.

“He’s unconscious?” I asked.
“Sleeping normally,” she responded, with a smile. Clearly she was pleased on his improvement from when I brought him in.
“Hans!” I called out in a loud voice, “Wake up!”
“What are you doing!” she said just as loud back to me, “Let him sleep!”
“I want to talk to him,” I replied in a louder voice, “and I want him to wake up.”
“You will leave here right now, Herr Oberst,” she nearly yelled, making the last sound as if it were a curse word.
“Both of you shut up,” Hans said with a cracked eyelid, “I’m trying to sleep here.”

In spite of herself, Nurse Atilla laughed.

I pulled up a stool next to Hans, putting my hand next to his on the edge of the bed.

“You look like hell,” he said to me, flatly.
“Better than you,” I replied.
“I’d rather this than to have my nose chopped off.”
“They sewed it back on.”
“With a pig’s snout!” he grinned, “it’s horrible!”

We laughed again, the laugh of those who have escaped death and are delighted by it.

“They say I’m here for a week, then back to Germany,” Hans informed me, bringing things back to the matters at hand, “for medical leave.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know, but maybe a month.”

The doctor, alerted by the nurse, entered the tent.

“Herr Oberst,” he said politely, “it is very late and the other patients must sleep. Can I ask you to return during the daytime?”
“Ja wohl,” I conceded, standing up. I had seen what I wanted to see – Hans in full mental fitness and high spirits.

I stopped outside the tent door and looked up once again at the royal decorations hung above this terrible, mundane place. There is beauty indescribable over us, hiding behind cloud and harsh sunlight, I mused as I made my way back to my cot, sleeping contently until a runner poked his head in two hours later to awaken me for the next day’s mission.

=====

Whatever calm I might have gained from the previous night evaporated into outrage at briefing. An Artillery Battery was positioned in the hillsides overlooking the broad, flat valley was pounding our troops with pinpoint accuracy - and had risen to be a top target priority for our newly arrived Stuka bombers.

Unfortunately, the precise location of the Battery was unknown, so they were sending out reconnaissance aircraft to find it. Fighter aircraft. Singly. Such insanity could only have come from higher headquarters, as it was an invitation to be shot down.

My father had been an Artillery officer in the Great War and had taught me the odd skill of finding where artillery was placed by means of looking at the craters from the impacted rounds. One inserted a stick in the fuze hole of the crater, determined the direction the stick pointed (towards the gun), and by means of looking at several different craters performed a simple resection on the map.

Instead of relying on (or asking) the Artillery officers in the field to perform such simple work, the Luftwaffe was risky men and machine to fly about unsupported and look for them.

My suspicions that this came from higher up was confirmed when the squadron commander announced that he would be flying the second of two Bf-109’s this morning. I did agree with him that it should be the two of us – commander and senior flight lead – that perform the suicidal.

The Stukas were to strike in the afternoon, which was a relief, as within minutes of realizing they’d been spotted by air the British Artillery would be relocating. Since it was large, towed guns, there would be a fair chance of catching them.

Biting my tongue, I made my way out to my plane, marching at a quick pace with my map waving in my left hand, a small pair of field glasses in my right. Vunner saluted me with a grim look as I approached.

I returned his salute, relaxed, and smiled, putting my hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t look so serious, Vunner,” I chastised, “it’s just a little sight seeing!”
“So long as it’s not a ‘familiarization’ flight,” he grunted.
We both grinned. It seemed like years ago when we first arrived and had been shocked to have heavy contact on what had been routinely billed as localized terrain orientation missions.

The aircraft started at once, and I noted that it was the same I had used the day prior. Vunner and his crew must have changed engines out in very short order, or had worked very late!

Getting clearance to take off immediately, I circled the airfield once to watch the squadron commander lift off cleanly and head towards the coast to his search sector. He chose the most dangerous of the two we were to take, ghosting the front lines along where the Tommies would be crossing on their way to our rear.

I headed along the ridgeline at right angles to our lines. A look at my map had shown that I’d be flying dangerously close to the British airfield. I decided to fly at one thousand to fifteen hundred meters altitude, low enough to see a poorly camouflaged battery (or their ammo trucks), but high enough to have some room to maneuver when I was bounced.

Fifteen minutes past my first waypoint the Commander came on the radio, confirming that he was in contact with enemy fighters. I cursed in my mask, unable to help, and looked around constantly. Occasionally I scanned the ridgeline using the field glasses; the minor turbulence and confined cockpit made them almost useless, though.

To my left front, flashes winked at me from the ground in a saddle – anti-aircraft fire!

Never shoot at an aircraft needlessly, I recited from the manual, as it only draws them to you!

Sure enough, laid out in a lazy W formation with an observation team slightly lower down, was a six gun heavy Artillery Battery, guarded by three twenty millimeter anti-aircraft guns.

Not only were the gunners on the ground overly hasty, their fire was poorly aimed, and I corkscrewed from fifteen hundred meters, ensuring it was the only Battery present. The lack of any camouflage netting told me they were shooting and displacing regularly, and I decided to give the Luftwaffe some nice pictures to go with my marks on the map.

Keeping my left wing pointed at the guns and low, I circled in closer and then rolled it over towards them, diving low of the positions. The gun camera was turned on as I pulled up and along the gun line.

The fire from the ground was uncoordinated, so after a quick extension that gained my altitude back, I repeated the track from a different direction, taking more film. This time I let loose with some machinegun fire and laughed at the sight of the crews scattering about for their hidey-holes! I was low enough to see the frightened faces of the British Soldiers (most were not wearing shirts or helmets) as they bailed left and right.

My egress put me in the direction of the enemy base, below the top of the ridgeline and only ten kilometers from it. Scanning around and finding no Tommyhawks diving on me, I impishly decided to have some fun and visit them.

Staying just a few meters above the terrain, I snaked along valleys, popping just over the dip of a saddle just off their aerodrome. At four hundred kilometers an hour and ten meters altitude, the air defenses didn’t have time to draw aim on my inverted Messerschmitt as I crossed their tents and aircraft.

Rolling back over after I made my transit, I ducked down below the ridge on the other side and made towards our base.

My landing was uneventful, though I had forgotten to turn on the gun cameras during my airfield fly-over. On reflection, I decided not to mention it to anyone.

The Commander returned safely as well, having shot down one P-40 before escaping from the rest of the enemy flight.

Great to see you back. Top read as always.

Excellent, your thread keeps me visiting this forum always.

very nice as usual

S!

Great read as usual Dart, just rebuilt my computer so I know where you`re coming from. Puts

I was thinking of picking this campaign back up, especially with the improved draw distance of 4.09m.

Please do so! I've been re-reading your AAR's now that you've started the ROF one and I must say, you've got me captivated down to the last word.

Encore!

I am thoroughly enjoying the RoF AAR's.
If you have the time to write it, I have the time to read it.


Wheels

What'r ye waitin for?

Dunno...

Dart, you are truly a gifted story teller. You can really spin a good yarn. just the right mix of things to make it come ALIVE.

Again, well done.

Is there more ? What happens from here ?

Hey Dart !

Well, is there more ?

There sure is...
http://mission4today.com/index.php?name=Downloads&file=details&id=3856

Hint hint - heh, heh

Speed, of course, was of the essence. The guns were dug in only so far as the spades at the end of the trails went, and they were sure to move within the hour.

Vunner wheeled the trolley with the benzine straight up to the wing root while another secured the grounding rod and a third lept up with the hose. A fourth opened the engine cowl and began to check fluids and fitness.

I handed my map to the Operations Officer, who was came riding up on his bicycle and soon joined by the Commander by means of a motorcycle. Orders were dispatched to our sister airbase where the Stukas had been standing by, ready to take off and strike.

I leaned against the fuselage. It was hot. I accepted the canteen from Ganz and poured it over my head the second I peeled the helmet from my head. The second from Schmitt I drank in one gulp to the suprise of everyone, including myself.

A runner approached on a motorcycle and yelled for us to hurry up and put them on line - the dive bombers were in the air and would be arriving shortly.



We took off in good order once my machine had been refueled. Vunner slapped the muslin taped over the guns and laughed, approving of my restraint in firing them, as there would be no time to rearm.



Ganz kept formation as we flashed past the Whistlers at the rendezvous and screened forward.



Within minutes he was calling out that Tommy was ahead and below us. I cleared he and Schmitt to engage at will as I let the first pass by to my right.



The second went past me as well, and I curved around to take him. Clearly they were in a haste as well, since it was only a pair of them sent to defend the battery!



He was too focused, and I could tell even at the start of my turn that I'd be on him in an instant.



Something flashed past my right window, and instinctively I looked backwards, seeing nothing.



Another flash to my right - a red streak of tracer - and I slipped to spoil his aim and see where he was.



Fortunately he had fired too soon - perhaps a spoiling shot (which had worked) - but I he certainly had my attention now!



Coming about in a tight turn to my right, I spotted the melee in the distance but had lost my attacker.



He had oversped me, and now I had a chance to turn the tables. I would climb vertically as hard as I could, twist it about to the left, and hopefully come back down as he completed his own half loop.



It worked, after a fashion. He was no longer behind me, if at a greater range.



Either he had lost me against the ground or spotted something else, but I had the angle on him.



Spotting me as I got a withering burst of machinegun round into him, he quickly broke right.



And then climbed. A masterful move; there was no firing solution for me.



Ganz flashed between us. I instantly knew that he had taken stock of my position as well as Ganz's and rightfully decided that my wingman was the greater threat. This was no starling!



He fooled me by breaking right instead of following the roll to the left, and the distance between us stretched to over a thousand meters in a second.



I was going to have to play catch up if I was to assist Ganz.



As I approached, it appeared Ganz had it well in hand, scissoring with the Englander but keeping advantage. The Britischer rolled unexpectedly, though, and broke from the dance, giving him an opportunity.



But it had cost him much by way of airspeed, and I was more than happy to cut in on my comraderen and pick up on the beat.



It was almost a shame to fire machinegun and cannon at such an artful pilot, but not too much of one when I thought of it later.



I pulled up past his wreckage with scant altitude myself.



Meanwhile, the radio was full of the Stukas cursing us for abandoning them, their tailgunners struggling to defend as they escaped from their strike mission.



Schmitt was cursing right back at them as Ganz and I rushed towards them. I could make out two fighters: one climbing high straight up from my sight, the other flying low to the left. Fifty-fifty odds, as the radio was too full of bickering and the Stukas instructing eachother into mutually supporting formations.



I chose the one to my left, as I was still building up steam and wanted the airspeed more than the altitude at that point. Naturally I got the wrong one!



He clearly knew who the enemy was, and I followed his left hand turn, determined to support him.



They were two smudges in my sight - Ganz on the right firing at the roundel to the left, bookmarking my sight ring.



Ganz extended, and once again I rushed in to assist in the kill.



After making my pass with guns and cannon, I spotted a fighter trailing smoke above me. Schmitt called out that he was going to finish him, having made the holes in the manifold to mark him.



Coming back around I noticed the P-40 wasn't flying so much as gliding under moderate power. I held my guns and flew over. The pilot was dead, slumped terribly in his harness, and soon tumbled into the hard scrabble of the desert.



Schmitt followed his own down to the ground, ensuring his gun camera took long footage of the ditching.



We formed back up and landed. One of the Stukas had taken some minor damage and diverted to our base, but the others all made it back to their own.





[epilogue, etc., tomorrow]

Thank you Dart. You have the knack.

Waiting patiently, and the last picture didn't show up properly.
Another good yarn.


Wheels