View Full Version : The Combat Story Thread

01-17-2005, 05:23 PM
Well, here it is, it's official. Here's a place where there's no nagging, no taunting, no whining. It's all about writing down and savoring your favorite online combat experiences in the form of short stories or short 1st person narratives.

It serves to help widen the creative interests of the community, and also as a way for us to enjoy one another's experiences. Have fun, and type away!

Remember, if your story is going to be a long one, type it in notepad first, so you don't lose it, then copy and paste it here.

01-17-2005, 05:25 PM
Reposting Kootenai and my stories here to serve as examples:
****, what a sobering day. Our CO won't let us have our weekly supply of Vodka until we bring in more kill confirmations. Hell, I barely ever fly sober! I haven't gotten a kill all week! It must be these **** new flight schedules they've given us. Before now our squadron had been training in Yak-9D's and Yak-1b's. For longer flights we would use the D model, but for regular air superiority or bridge defence the 1B was a haughty aircraft. As always I pinned the photo of my girl to the instrument panel. Nothing really ever happened between us, I just asked her if I could have her picture, to pin on the dashboard of my plane.... She gave me a nice photograph, exactly what I was expecting. I think her father had it taken in the park. It was of her sitting on a bench looking out of the picture, she had a book across her lap. She was wearing an incredible black dress. Central park was very nice this time of year, the snows glistened over the trees and the ducks weren't sh!tting in the ponds anymore. We had known each other in High School, but then the war started and I left two weeks after we graduated. As I sauntered over to the new Yak I wondered if she loved me....
Joining the army in late December 41 had turned out to be a giant mistake. I think I should have waited a year. Due to the fact that I already had a private pilot's license (my dad was a crop duster in upstate New York) They immediately let me solo in their BT-13's. Gradually I moved up the lines until, after a near death accident in the T-6, (the d@mn plexiglass shattered and cut my throat, not deeply, but enough to put me out of action for a few weeks) I was placed into the cockpit of an old, battered P-40C. All of the new airplanes were going to the front. I wanted to fly high performance planes, something that could catch your eye... you know? So one day I was on leave in Rome, Georgia after landing in Fort Bennings for additional chute training with the guys, when an advertisement on the wall of a Jewish deli caught my eye. "Ally with Europe, give Stalin and Churchill a fighting chance!" It was a cool poster, I guess, it had a few P-40's and Spitfires, but something else on the poster caught my eye... I went into the store and asked about the poster. As it turns out the grocer had just moved from Russia, he wouldn't tell me why, only that he had "gotten out in time." I asked him about the strange looking plane under the Soviet Flag. "Oh!" He said with excitement, "I used to work in the Yakovlev Bureau, that's a Yak-1. Give me one minute!" And with that he ran into the back of the store, leaving me in my army uniform standing by the salamis hanging from the ceiling. One minute later he appeared from the rear of the store with several photographs. "This is a Yak-1!" he said to me with a fire in his eyes, "It will win the war for the Motherland, no?" I fell in love immediately. The plane was everything my P-40 was, but sleeker. It turned better, had slimmer engine, was lighter, and above all, looked like it could kill. The Russian kept talking about an armament of two 7.92mm ShKaS machine guns and a 20mm ShVaK cannon, whatever they were. I just couldn't get over how incredible and fast it looked. I'd made up my mind....
So I skipped "chute" training at Fort Bennings and hopped my P-40 back to New York City for a few days before I could catch a C-47 transport over to Alaska, then finally into Siberia. I had to be stealthy about it, the Air Force would consider me a deserter and I'dve gotten heavy punishment if I was caught. Luckily, I was able to lay low and got to a US lend-lease airbase in Russia close to April, 1942. I sent a letter home to my parents and another one to "my girl" telling them that I'd be in Russia on duty. Then I hopped on board the transport plane bound for the Urals and what the pilots were calling "Tank-o-grad." It was close to a nine hour flight before we got there, but it was well worth it. Keeping in my USAAC uniform I found a nearby VVS office and asked if I could transfer services. The guy behind the desk looked at me as if I were crazy, but shuffled some papers my way. In accented English, he said, "You can get in easy, getting out's the hard part."
From July, 1942 and onward I was flying my beautiful new Yak-1B fighter. They stuck me with a most interesting group, the 586th IAP. There were 3 squadrons of aircraft, and while one was made of men, two were made entirely of women! After a while, (actually, from taking warning from the other male pilots) I learned not to tangle with these women, but some of us became friends. But anyway, back to December '43. These new Yaks, the 9T, were an interesting piece of work. Most of the construction was the same as my Yak-9D, but instead of the 20mm ShVaK cannon which I had grown to love so much, it was replaced with a 37mm NS cannon. We still had the same 12.7mm UBS machine gun. The UBS was well and good, but I wish I had one more. Compared to some of these other Soviet pilots my aim is abysmal, and they always laugh at me about it. The newest joke is that when I'm calibrating my guns, I still miss the target. But hey, I just curse at them a few times in English, and they love it. Pretty soon I had them saying f*ck you to the CO. But since our CO didn't speak English, she'd laugh too. On the whole I thought it was pretty funny. It had become the common salute now. Climbing onto the wing of this new Yak-9T, I made sure that everything looked right from the outside. My mechanic was attaching the electrical heat up to the plane's engine to warm it. I smiled at him and he gave me a wave. I noticed he had taken the time to paint "my girl's" name. In bright yellow paint, in cursive English letters, "Jillexissanah" was written just below the exausts on the nose. Stepping into the cockpit and sitting down I strapped myself in and I unlocked and checked my controls and instruments after flipping on the magnetos. With a good "f*ck you" from my mechanic, (I just assume it means, 'Good to go!') I pushed the starter and watched as the prop began to sputter and turn. The engine coughed and died. Adding a bit more fuel to the mixture and cranking the throttle to pump fuel into the M-105PF engine, I pushed the starter again. After turning over a few times I heard a dull boom from the exaust vents and saw the prop spinning nicely. It was going to be a solo recon flight. There were a lot of other planes in the air, but I had no specific target. I snaked my way down the taxiway onto the snow and ice covered airstrip and turned the plane to face down the runway. I moved foward a tiny bit to straighten the tailwheel and locked it into place. Several of the girls looked over from their dugouts at the new plane taking off. One or two of them waved me off for good luck. I rolled the canopy shut, threw the mixture and prop pitch to full, opened the radiator, pulled down 20 degrees of flaps, and rammed the throttle full ahead! The new contraption flew just as easily and smoothly as my old bird. The P-40 could not compare save in roll rate. As I watched my vertical speed indicator go into the positive range from the zero mark I raised the landing gear and pulled out ten degrees of flaps. The M-105PF engine pulled my higher and higher. There was no comparison. Winter in Russia was so much more beautiful than winter in New York. The amount of snow, the way it coated the landscape, the way everything froze, even the biggest lakes and rivers, like the Volga, was just so scenic. It was a short twenty-five kilometer flight from the airstrip to the front lines, and by the time I'd crossed them I found myself at 3500 meters, flaps up, at 380 kilometers per hour. I hoped that there would be no combat today, but just to be ready I pulled the two gun charging handles, one for the NS and one for the UBS. I did two 90 degree clearing turns and pulled out the map. I figured I was over the city of Leninsk by this point. within 30 more kilometers I would be in range of enemy flak. Putting my map back into the canvas slot I'd made for it down by my right knee, I accidentally kicked my rudder pedal too hard and the plane veered off toward the right. Something caught my eye, low, over the lake on the map in sector N10. Even though this Yak had a fairly good lend-lease radio, I decided to hold my transmission and see what it was for myself. Diving down to 2100 meters I identified blue tracers. "Blue tracers?" I wondered... "We don't use blue...." It had to be either a Romanian or German plane. I couldn't see any other explanation for it. I dove down sharply over the tracers and discovered, to my horror, that I had just entered into the middle of a furball of six Fascist Bf-109's and two Bf-110's! "Sh*t!" I shouted into the radio. "using what little Russian I knew I exclaimed while speaking into my microphone, "Bandits all over me, sector N10!" All I got was static back on the line. I got no response. I tried again... nothing. "D@mn mechanics!" I shouted and pulled a hard G turn to get out of the fight, but it was too late, the Germans had seen my white plane with its big red star glistening in the early afternoon sunlight and started chasing me instead of the GAZ jeeps and ZIS-5 trucks traveling along the road to Stalingrad. "Sh*t! I need help!" I shouted again over the radio, climbing desperately as I tried to escape from the climbing 109's and 110's. It was to no avail. Kicking my rudder hard to the left I looked behind me. All eight planes were on my tail. Using my superior maneuverability at my lower speed I threw in 10 degrees of flaps and flew right around the chasing fighters. I took out the flaps and circled around to the 109. The last plane in the chasing formation was barely keeping up, he looked like he'd taken a few potshots in his oil cooler from ground fire. Getting up very close to him, before his friends could alert him on the radio, I let loose with the 37mm NS cannon. The plane shook violently and vibrated hard as I held down the trigger for 1/2 a second. I almost pissed my pants when I was the one doing the firing! "What type of f*cking plane did you give me!" I shouted into the radio! The 109, alerted by the tracers to my presence, pulled a heavy barrel roll which I couldn't follow. I pulled hard to the right and left, scissoring with the guy. They were all over me! Adding the ten degrees of flaps again I pulled away from them in the turn. None of them had taken a shot at me yet. "These guys must be good..." My mind raced as I tried to find ways to get out of the situation. The 109's were faster than me, I knew I couldn't run away, but I couldn't fight my way out, and I was getting tired. Every evasive maneuver caused me to start to black out, I couldn't last for much longer under their pressure.... Pulling a hard left turn now, I was able to throw off three of the six 109's and quite by accident, I found myself behind a Bf-110. Swearing never to make the mistake of using the 37mm gun first again, I let loose with a long, 2 second burst from the UBS 12.7mm gun. The hits on the 110 were thrilling! I saw white flashes as each tracer round hit, I swear I saw a few hit the cockpit, but I had hesitated too long. A long line of white tracers squirted back at me. "What the hell?" But then I realized, "BOOSHER! You stupid prat! 110's have rear gunners!" Diving down to get out of his firing arc, I pulled out my 10 degrees of flaps and held the throttle at full. Without even bothering to think I got as close as I safely could to the frantically maneuvering Bf-110 fighter-bomber. I had no choice, it was now or never. Hitting the second trigger on my stick, I felt the plane shudder violently again as the 37mm cannon let loose it's tiger clawing rounds. I was so close to the 110 I felt the explosion from inside the plane. Shrapnel went everywhere, there was blood on the cockpit windows of the 110, the engines were leaking oil, and I swear there was a 5' by 5' hole in its right wing. "Holy ****...." I exclaimed, watching the 110 stagger away from me, barely in control. I tried to follow it, but tracers sprayed from behind me reminded me I was not alone. I pulled around again, facing the 110, trying to hit it again with the firepower of the 37mm, but the rounds had the trajectory of a grapefruit catapult. I couldn't hit anything unless I was right behind it, and even then it was tough to aim! I tried using the UBS but the gun had no effect, the bullets kept flying through the 5' by 5' hole that the 37mm gun had made in the 110's right wing.
And then I felt it hit. Something shook the plane madly and I heard a whip cracking in my plane. I felt a heavy blow to my legs and they started to leak blood into my flying suit. Seconds later I realized that my plane wasn't responding to my controls. The control cables, strung tight to the stick, must have snapped loose due to enemy fire. My legs were in horrible pain, there were deep gashes in the flight suit, and I couldn't maneuver the plane save with my throttle and rudders. "MAYDAY!" I screamed into my radio, hoping someone out there was listening... The ground was rushing up at my beloved new Yak as I tried desperately to pull the wings level with the ground. I felt a huge CRUNCH... the plane came to a stop, the cockpit now billowing with smoke. Coughing hard like a ten year old with tuberculosis, I took my last gasps of air, and saw the picture of "my girl," sitting, waiting for me on that park bench that now seemed ever so far away.... Everything went black.

I didn't hear the crowbar smashing through the canopy, nor did I feel the hands of twenty Russian combat marines pulling me out of my burning Yak. I didn't feel the doctors stitching my legs back together, nor the nurses putting bandages on my head and plaster casts on my shattered upper limbs. When I next awoke, I was back in the dugout, and Tamara Pamyantkh, CO of the 586th, was standing over me. "F*ck you." She said to me, "You lost me that new d@mn airplane!"
But she couldn't have said it... she didn't speak English, did she? "You can talk?" I asked, groggily, dimly aware of the stupidity of the words I had just uttered. She smiled at me. "Drink your vodka." She placed the bottle of liquor on the empty ammo crate I used as a night table in my dugout. "Get some rest, we're going to need you again in the next few months, when everything of yours heals. I'll send in one of the girls to check on you every few hours." She took a few steps toward the exit of the tent before she hesitated and turned around. She pulled an envelope and a photograph out of her pocket. "This came for you in the mail the day after you were shot down, as well as a recall order to the U.S. Army Air Corps, but we burned that." She placed the envelope on the night table beside the Vodka bottle. "It seems you have a girl that loves you back home, no? This letter smells nice. I'll send Yekaterina to read it to you later, she can read and speak English well enough. Za Rodinu, Lieutenant." And with that she left the tent. I turned my head slightly to see the photograph. I was conscious just long enough to read the words written on it in ink: "To Charlie, Love Jilly."

01-17-2005, 05:26 PM
Written by Kootenai, a response to the above story:

A Bf-110 pilot's story:
by Kootenai

I'm too old for this, I tell myself. Combat flying is a young man's pursuit, and at 34 I am painfully aware of the strange deference with which I am treated by my younger comrades. I must seem impossibly old to them, and at times like this I feel it myself. Neither the cockpit heater in my BF-110 nor the heavy flight suit I am wearing is sufficient to block out the penetrating cold of the Russian winter as my machine thrums along above the scarred, snow-covered landscape toward the ongoing battle over a Soviet industial complex.

It seems like a lifetime ago that I started along the path that led me to this battlezone. At the time it seemed like a mere youthful fancy. While my friends in college joined the mountaineering society or the rowing team, I spent my weekends soaring with the glider club. Perhaps I was inspired by the stories of derring-do over Flanders I heard as a boy from the one-armed barber Hans, or maybe it was just some innate genetic longing to soar as the birds, but now it is clear that my choice of extracurricular activities has defined my life and may very well foreshadow my death.

Times were tough in the '30s and a commission with the newly invigorated Luftwaffe was hard to pass up. When war came, I was already a veteran of peacetime maneuvers and spent the first two years in a cozy instructor's position in Germany, sending a new generation of heroes off to the front to fight and die for the Fatherland. A few poorly considered remarks calling into question the sanity of the whole affair resulted in a quick reassignment to the Eastern Front and a reduction in rank while a more politically reliable replacement took over my instructor's post.

They tell us that we in the zerstorer units are the elite, that our machine is at the vanguard of our inevitable victory. They also told us that the Stalinist rabble we are up against have neither the backbone nor the technological and industrial capability to put up an effective struggle against our legions. I've seen too many of our brave flyers go down in flames to believe either of those lies anymore.

I'm jolted from my reverie by the sight of white-hot tracers whizzing inches past my windscreen, and by the angry rattle of my gunner Klaus's twin machine guns in the rear cockpit. As I turn my head instinctively to look over my shoulder, there's a dull explosion and the terrifying sound of rending metal. My plane pitches violently to the side like a small boat tossed by a wave on the sea, and I fight the controls to right it.

I catch a glimpse of the Red fighter that's caught me unawares. He's only a hundred meters behind now and closing fast. By the sharp-pointed nose and sleek lines I recognize it as a Yak, but whatever has hit my plane must surely be larger than the 12.7 and 20mm guns on the example we studied after it crash landed behind our lines a few months ago. I've little time to think about this as the landscape rushes by only a few hundred meters below. Automatically I begin looking for a clearing big enough to land my stricken ship.

To my surprise, my plane is still flying and seems to be responding to my input. We've taken no more hits. The sound of Klaus's guns is replaced in my ears by his muttered curse words ****ing the Red pilot. A hunter from the Black Forest, Klaus makes up in marksmanship what he lacks in the social graces. Again I glance over my shoulder and I see the sleek Yak slide past only a few meters from my wingtip. It's so close I can clearly see the pilot's face - he looks to be only a boy! I see his wide eyes as he struggles to control his plane, now trailing a wisp of gray smoke from the engine.

The Yak drifts below me, and I swing my heavy fighter around in a turn that will bring me onto his tail. The young pilot is obviously in touble; I can tell from the exaggeted yawing motions his plane makes as he attempts to compensate for his shot-away ailerons with heavy rudder input. He's losing speed and altitude now, looking as I was moments ago for a place to make an emergency landing. As the Yak grows larger in my gunsight, I feel a momentary pang of conscience about what I'm about to do. Then I remember young Willy, who burned with his plane last week, and Gunther, who dove through a bank of clouds after a Lavochkin and was never seen again.

This young Russian is only doing his job and following his orders, and so am I. I try to harbor no hatred in my heart, but I must do my part, just like the hausfrau who saves kitchen grease for the production of explosives, or the children who collect tin cans for recycling, or even old Hans who patrols the streets at night to enforce the blackout. I press the trigger and my plane shudders with the recoil of four MG151/20 cannon and two Mk108 30mm guns. The Yak lights up with numerous small explosions, and I pull up and over the disintegrating Soviet fighter as pieces of the doomed machine are flung back toward my Messerschmitt. My last sight of the Yak is of the once deadly machine now broken and cartwheeling in flames across the snow.

I replace the image of the brave young pilot's face in my mind with the concentration that will be needed to guide my crippled machine back home. There will be schnapps to warm my weary bones and perhaps still some bratwurst from this morning's breakfast, which I skipped as usual, opting only for a cup of ersatz coffee. The mechanics will have their work cut out for them as they try to salvage what they can. There will be more days like this ahead but I try not to think about them. For today, the war is over.

01-17-2005, 08:15 PM
Ok, here's mine. The combat is based on WC today. I hope you guys like it!


It was two weeks ago to this day that I was transferred from the Eastern Front back to my homeland. Our unit has been one of many assigned to the so-called Defense of the Reich. I had seen Fw 190€s on a few occasions while I was in Russia, but not to this extent. We€ve been given the task of defending hundreds of these €œbattering ram€ 190 models from fighter escorts as they attack the bomber formations, which have devastated the Fatherland. Our unit has been given the newest Messerschmitt €" the €œGustav 10€ model. Personally I don€t like it, its power is great indeed but these **** planes have been getting heavier and heavier with each model. We€ve also had the Maschinenkanone 108 installed on our 109€s €" giving us the power needed to destroy the Boeings need be. I miss the old 20 millimeter cannon that I was so used to, but boy this thing is fun to shoot!

Many other Jagdflieger units have seen extensive action during their escorting duty, but ****, I have yet to see any! My 54 victories on the east were scored with rapid success, and I€m afraid I may forget how to shoot down the enemy! My commander sees great potential in me, and says that if I had been able to join sooner, I may have had one of the highest scores in the whole Luftwaffe! But being as young as I am, this wasn€t possible. I am very eager to encounter these Mustangs and see what all the fuss is about. Many young and inexperienced pilots have been lost to these great aircraft, but I feel very confident that I can take them on!

Today we have been assigned to once again escort the A8€s. The July heat is simply stifling and as I stand around my plane waiting for the order to take off, sweat is pouring off of me. I converse with the €œblack men€ for a bit, but finally we are ordered to our planes! I jump into my narrow pit and strap in tight as the ground crew starts the engine and locks the canopy in place. My leather helmet nearly brushes the top! It€s no bother to me though €" I feel as if the plane and I are one when I€m in this beautiful aircraft. The engine starts, and everything looks ok. I taxi out of the tarmac and await my turn to take off.

As I sit, sweat, and await my turn, I pull out a picture of Hilda €" a very beautiful girl I met last night. ****, was she good, it was exactly what I needed after a long day of work! I remove the picture of another girl and stash it away, replacing it with Hilda€s picture. My stash has reached some 20 pictures! Oh well, you know what they say €" work hard and play hard!

I€m daydreaming, only to be snapped back into reality by the harsh voice of my commander, €œWake up, dummy! It€s your turn to take off! Form up!€ Embarrassed, I taxi onto the runway, gun the throttle, and away I go. Gear retracted and formed up €" I€m ready to fight! Maybe today we€ll finally see some action€¦.

We reach an altitude of 7000 meters and level off. We spot our 190€s below us and shout a friendly hello. Our fuel is about half gone now, and we€re not seeing anything that our ground spotters are reporting to us. I begin to yawn and realize that this is just going to be another boring flight like the last. I can see the towns below me €" some beautiful, some blown into submission. I can even see little black objects in the city €" WAIT! €œHerr Oberst, this is Black 17, I see the heavies! I see the heaviest!€ The black dots were the bombers! €œVitamine! I see them!€ Our 190€s line up for a head on attack. I look down on them and I can see their gun barrels glistening in the sun, just waiting to kill. We€ve found the bombers, but where are the escorts?

Suddenly, I see them. Mustangs! They€ve dropped their tanks and are diving to intercept our 190€s. €œIndianer, 12 o€clock high!€ We break apart to race them to the Focke wulfs.

A massive swarm of fighters develops, and confusion is everywhere. I am separated from most of my squadron and can only hear the flight leader barking orders left and right. I check my six €" it€s clear. Where did they go!? I check my six again, it€s clea €" wait! What is this!? I see an enemy behind me, closing fast! I break hard into him as my Messer begins to shake. He turns hard too €" what a fool! He overshoots just as I roll over and cut back in. He€s all mine. He sees his mistake and levels out, but to no avail. I am right behind him. In a desperate attempt he beings to climb. I€m gaining on a solution, just about there. Just a little more, just a little more! My Messer beings to shake once more, I can feel a stall coming on. That€s it, I€ve got him! My lead is right, and I tap all my triggers. The front of my plane erupts in fire and my rounds are hurled at him with tremendous speed. I see the MG€s hit, and suddenly there is a massive explosion. ****, that 108 sure can hit! His fuselage splits in two, and he plummets downwards towards the ground. I see no chute €" an unfortunate site. I slowly watch as he slowly gets smaller, and silently merges with the ground.

There is no time for celebration €" many fighters are still all around us. Our 190€s have completed their attack run, and I see many heavies severely damaged, falling out of formation only to be hacked away at by our fighters. Many still remain but their backs have been broken. I quickly begin to search for more escorts.

I frantically look all around me, sweat still pouring even though it€s cooler up here. I look everywhere but miss the most obvious spot €" right in front of me! I check quickly and see a dark dot quickly growing close to my sight. €œAchtung, Mustang!€ I roll to avoid a head on collision and the fight quickly begins. I milk my engine for all its worth and loop around €" he€s turning as hard as he can. We quickly pass once again as he continues to turn €" silly mustang. I climb quickly, roll, and spit S right on top of him. I€m almost in position €" it€s merely a matter of time. He frantically begins to climb and I pull up tight with him. My head feels faint and my eyesight is hazy €" is it nighttime already!? He eases back on the stick, apparently suffering from the same thing I was. He€s climbing strait up, our E states about equal. I€m trying to pull lead on him, but am very close to the stall. He continues to fly strait up, hanging by his prop. I increase the RPM€s and put down some flaps €" please don€t stall baby, just a bit more! He€s hanging, hanging, hanging, and suddenly I see contrails off of his wings €" he falls over! Yes! He beings to spin right in front of me, and I can see the white of his eyes. I put my sight right on him, remembering my commanders words about getting as close as I can, and fire a good long burst. An explosion erupts once more as I fly through his rubble, nearly colliding and lucky to still be alive. I look down as I level off and see that he€s missing his left wing and empennage. I look closer and see a small figure jumping out €" he bailed out! I sigh, very relieved, but must continue to fight.

The Oberst€s words come back to me once more. €œGet close, shoot the enemy, get out. Take a coffee break, then look for another target of opportunity€. I climb a bit more and see more targets. I get excited €" 2 kills already, and possibly more! I take advantage of my exceptional eyesight and spot some more dots in front of me. Two 109€s are in trouble! I can see .50 caliber fire all over the place in front of me. I dive down to help my friends out, knowing that if they survive this, they will gain invaluable combat experience. I€m closing quite fast, when all of the sudden, BAM! I hear loud popping noises all around me, and look at my port wing and see bullets flying right into it! Bullets fly all around me! **** these tracers, **** these Americans! I look behind me and see another Mustang who is anxious for revenge. He continues to pour fire into me as I evade the best I can. Both wings have taken hits and it is only a matter of time before they break off. Suddenly, I hear the most amazing sound I€ve ever heard €" one that instills fear right into my bones. My engine is hit! It€s making sounds that I€ve never heard before, I can tell it€s even in pain! That€s it, time to get out of here! I gun the throttle, roll over, and pull back. Whether it€s the smoke from my engine, my good luck, or both, I€m not sure. But luckily, the mustang didn€t follow. I look forward again. ****! Oil is all over my windshield! My canopy has numerous holes in it as well, and my throttle and instruments are all shot to hell. I€ll never find my way back. I€m going as fast as I can, still weary of the mustang, when suddenly I spot that same city that I saw before the fight! How can this be! I haven€t prayed since grade school, but I thank God for my luck and pray that he€ll return me to my base safely. I can€t see anything, but know my base is only minutes away.

Moments later, my airfield appears in view. I can€t see in front of me, but my sides are pretty clear. I ask ground control for permission to perform an emergency landing, and he grants it to me. The area is cleared of all other planes, and I hear my Oberst come up behind me. €œA little to the left, my friend, easy does it€ I fly my base leg, drop my gear and flaps when appropriate, and turn sharply to line up. My engine is making noises that are even worse now, and I shut it down because I also have no throttle control. I€m cruising in €" how scary it is to try to land with no forward view! I see the ground coming up ever closer to me out of my starboard window, and stall the Messer a foot above the ground €" not too bad, eh? I come to a stop and start breathing again.

The Oberst landed right after me, and taxies right up next to me. The black tulip around his nose is a familiar and warming site to me. €œGreat job, my friend. You will go down in the history books some day.€ €œDanke, herr Oberst€ I reply. I look once more to the sky before getting out of my plane, thankful to be alive after my first day of fighting on the Western Front.

01-17-2005, 09:15 PM
Awesome story Rall! Here's another one from me:

The prison cell was dark and dank as it had been before. The guards poked me with their bayonets and walked me into the door, cackling at their power over me. Even after my third week of captivity, they did not seem to understand me, I was not a traitor to Poland! But since I had fought with the "enemy," they kept me imprisoned. Great Britain now seemed to be the enemy to my people, when they at first had stood up for us. I fear my beloved Poland is beyond their help now. I sat alone in my cell for close to an hour, the stale air was stifling after being above ground for a few brief minutes, but I kept quiet, I made no noises. I heard the guard groan from boredom. "Hey..." he said pointing at me, "You there, tell me a story." At once I proceeded to weakly tell the guard a story that my mother had told me during my childhood, but he said, "No, no you idiot, a war story, tell me a war story." He mumbled something else but I didn't hear it.
"Well," I said sarcastically, "During the war I fought with Great Britain and France after our Poland had been captured, but during the invasion I was a P.11c pilot."
"You? A Polish pilot? Tell me a story from the Fascist invasion!" the guard said, turning his stool around and sitting to face toward me.

Seeing I had him interested, I began an account of my kill of an He-111 bomber and two Bf-110's during the second day of the blitz.
"Of course you know that the war started on the 1st of September, but from that day many of out planes were destroyed. My airfield only had six planes in operation during the second day of combat. Nonetheless, we repelled our enemy as best we could. As I took off that day in my P.11, I kept thinking about my sister. We had lost our parents at an early age, I couldn't stop thinking about what she would do if the Fascists took over. The thought was irrevocable from my mind. I tried to concentrate on different things. My gauge needles indicated I was at 1400 meters, seven hundred more to go. The paint on my wings was chipped, my windshield needed to be cleaned. Where would she go? Argh, you see, I couldn't get her out of my head at all. So I kept flying, keeping her in my mind. I figured it gave me something to live for.

I bent down and made sure the guns were cocked. I tightened the leather straps on the rudder pedals to my feet, and of course, leaned the mixture. Then I saw them. It looked like a black cloud in the sky. One hundred and twenty Luftwaffe bombers came soaring toward my Warsaw! I waggled my wings to the other aircraft in my flight and floored the throttle. I was barely moving compared to the bombers, but I was determined to bring them down. My flight came closer and closer to those glass canopies. Finally we let loose with a hail of 7.62mm machine gun bullets. The bomber in front of me burst blood out of the cockpit, hydraulic fuel burst from the wings, but it still stayed level. '**** these peashooters!' I exclaimed, pulling hard around that bomber and firing at the rear gunners, individually picking off each one with my machine guns. I pity the poor pilot who had to lose all of his men like so, but it was necessary. The top gunner was clinging to his weapon as he would his stuffed bear, the ventral gunner I could not clearly see. I knew I had wounded them both badly. My plane hovered in position behind the crippled bomber and poured a steady stream of bullets directly into the cockpit. I saw one after another hit the pilot and nose gunner, but the plane wouldn't go down. 'Screw the crew,' I thought, and I turned toward the engine. A few quick bursts with the machine guns lit the engine afire and the plane started a slow descent toward the ground. Suddenly I saw tracers flash past my cockpit, looking back I saw two twin engine fighters diving toward me, six guns blazing in their noses. They must have been Bf-110's. I started an obstacle course through the bomber formation. The 110's stayed with me even through the constant maneuvers I made. The gunners of the other bombers were giving me too much trouble, so I dove down from the formation. The 110's dove with me, but I knew they couldn't maneuver with me out in the open. I quickly rolled over and started a slow left rudder descent. Coupled with a few barrel rolls the 110 pilots could not cope and overshot me, but they were too fast. Their rear gunners took potshots with me but didn't hit anything important. When they thought they had extended enough, The broke off in separate directions, they must have had radios in them, otherwise they wouldn't have been able to coordinate like that... I pulled back on the throttle and chased the one that pulled to the left. THe pilot was inexperienced, I could tell immediately. He kept turning and maneuvering, drawing me closer and closer to him. Finally I was within firing range, so I opened fire with my peashooters into his plane. The early 110 was not well armored underneath the wings, and his roll rate was so slow that he presented a perfect target. I let loose with all four of my guns and watched as his plane started leaking hydraulic fluid and burst aflame. The pilot and gunner bailed out. But by this time the second Bf-110 had gotten on my back, so I rolled to the left and pulled hard back on the stick. I turned right past him....."

"Hold your talk. You're a horrible story teller." the guard said to me. "You fought for Poland. What are you doing in here?"

"I don't know..." I said to him. "I really don't know."

01-18-2005, 09:05 AM
okay here goes, my experience from f16 dedicated last night : lonely friends over the Med.

Getting seperated from your squadron is just one of the things that can happen during combat. And since flying alone in a combat area is dangerous well, I was heading back to base, really giving my neck and the controls of my Spitfire V a workout.

I wasn't all that far off the North African coast when I caught something on the radio, it was pretty weak, but one thing was clear, there was another Allied aircraft in trouble, and I wasn't all that far away. The choice was clear. I changed course and headed back to the coastline.

Since I wasn't all that far away, I rapidly pick up two shapes turning, diving and whatelse. I doublecheck my guns are armed and that I have enough fuel remaining for any kind of fight. With this completed the attention shifts to the scene outside my canopy.

The other aircraft was also a Spitfire! It seemed she had already been damaged by a 109. If it was one of those FW 190s I don't think I'd be talking to you here now. Anyway, back to the matter at hand.

The 109 engages me briefly but I manage to evade with a turn to the left. While I'm turning the 109 dives on the damaged Spitfire and fires again. I come around in time to see him miss. But now the tables are turned and round and up and down we go.

The 109 even attempts to turn but, I know from my experiences over England and France this 'll be futile. At 20 degrees of deflection, I fire with both the .303s and the hispano cannons. The results are nearly instant. Black smoke belches forth from the aircraft as her engine seizes. The inevitable follows as the German aricraft noses over and heads for the sea. I'm close enough to see the pilot bail out.

without much further adue, I escort the damaged Spit back to base.

01-18-2005, 10:21 AM
Cool story Sharpe! Looks like that 109 pilot got what he deserved!

Here's an older one from me, I wrote it a few years ago, but it still applies here. Remember that the terrain can save your life if you pay attention!
I was flying higher than the suggested waypoint, and cruised at 3500 meters in my fighter plane over Normandy. It a scouting flight, supposedly to intercept any bombers patrolling the area. The takeoff had been a bit bumpy, but other than that the plane was flying fine. I bent foward to switch the fuel tank, the left wing tank was getting low. I turned the red knob until it read "right wing tank" on the selector panel, and sat back upright in my seat.
I called in a left turn on our next waypoint to my wingman. I checked behind me, he was close. I told him to back off a tiny bit. As we exited the turn, I looked up...

"Enemy Fighters! 12 O' clock high!€ exclaimed my wingman, and just as I banked hard cockpit, I felt hot blood dripping down my leg. Long flashes of excruciating pain engulfed me seconds later as I pushed down on the stick to evade. The metal lodged in my calf slid all the way into the muscle and when I pulled a tight barrel roll to slow down, it lodged itself against my bone.
I screamed into the cockpit, but nothing could be heard against the roar of my engine, which I boosted up to 2900 RPM and climbed sky high to gain an advantage on my opponents before they could rip my wingman and me in half. I reached the maximum altitude my speed would allow me, and kicked the rudder all the way to the left. The back of my plane swung behind me and I pulled out the RPM's and dove toward the 109 on the tail of my wingman.
"I'm coming buddy!" I screamed into the radio, and as I plummeted toward the ground I pulled out of the dive at 700 KPH and fired a 2 second burst on the 109. The engine flashed and continued toward the ground, engulfed in flames. The pilot didn't make it out.
I pulled up violently and used my remaining energy to gain altitude again. I pulled another hammerhead, and came down on the second 109, firing short 1/2 second bursts. I cut a huge hole in his left wing and another series of holes in his fuselage. The engine started to spit fuel on the third burst. The pilot lost control of the aircraft, and jumped out of the plane. I was so close to him I could swear I heard his yelp as his parachute opened and pulled sharply upward on his crotch.
I spent too much time watching his chute open, and suddenly I had the remaining two 109's on my six, blazing away at me. I pulled a high G vertical maneuver to try to stall the 109, but it didn't work. I was left stalling while the Bf-109 continued to climb, and he fired a series of machine gun and cannon rounds, all of which hit my left wing hard, shredding a major part of the aileron off, and putting a giant hole in my left fuel tank. The remaining fuel, about five gallons, spilled out of the punctured tank. I thanked God that it didn't explode. My plane was beginning to become unresponsive to my commands. the stall turned into a spin, and luckily the 109 overshot me and I was able to recover before the spin became too serious. I maintained level flight while I spun the trim wheel as far as I possibly could to keep my plane from rolling from the loss of lift. I overloaded the engine for a few seconds at 3200 RPM as I desperately climbed up to 2000 meters. when I finally managed to turn around, I heard my wingman's voice break through on the radio. "Dammit! Get him off of me!" The last Bf-109 had pulled an split ess manuever and wound up luckily on my wingman's tail. I pulled out some RPM and brought the plane down to 2500 meters as I dove toward my wingman and his pursuer on the deck. I arrived a second too late, and by the time I had started firing, the 109 pilot's accurate gunnery had pelted my wingman and blown him to pieces. The wing tank was on fire, and the canopy popped off. The radio garbled so much I was only able to hear a few words€¦
€I'm bailing out! I'm bailing-" My wingman's P-40 exploded in a giant ball of hot red fire. The 109 pulled up to avoid the debris. I flew straight into it. My wingman's blood splattered onto my cockpit windscreen.
In a rage of fury I started to climb, stupidly, directly into the diving Bf-109 He let loose with his cannons before I fired my machine guns, and, to my horror, I watched as the guns in my wings ripped out of their mountings and fell the 500 meters to the ground below.
I cursed into the radio. The 109 pulled another hammerhead while I fought the controls and positioned himself directly behind me, lining up for the kill. My plane wouldn't last long even under short bursts from his small caliber machine guns. I looked to my left to see if there was a way out. A River! YES! Wherever there's a river, there's a bridge sooner or later, I thought. I pulled a shallow turn toward the right, throwing ten degrees of flaps into the mix so that I wouldn€t lose too much lift. I finally straightened out after the steep turn on course with the river, and flew low, skimming the ripples and forming whitecaps with the air I pushed behind me. I put as much fuel into the engine as I could, and rammed the throttles all the way foward. Up ahead, a bridge poked through out of the fog. Ah! Hope at last! I flew as low as I possibly could, the 109 behind me following very closely, he was less than fifteen meters behind me, he wanted me dead!
At the very last few seconds before the bridge, I pulled sharply up and then pushed hard down on the stick, going almost vertical toward the ground before I pulled back up, just clearing underneath the bridge. The Bf-109 pilot wasn't so lucky. As I had pulled up, the bridge was revealed to him, thinking I was avoiding going under it, he must have tried to follow me. When I pushed back down, he then tried to follow me as well, but he pulled back up too late, and his plane clipped the iron bars protecting the roadway on the bridge. The fuel tanks exploded, and for the second time, a giant red fireball engulfed my plane. The blood on my windscreen evaporated in the heat. Shrapnel from the 109's debris smashed through my aileron control cables, and I used the elevator and rudder to steer myself over the riverbanks. I belly landed on the road next to the bridge, and a Willys MB jeep came by fifteen minutes later. I was dragging my broken legs out of the cockpit and screaming in pain. The commander in the backseat helped carry me onto the back of the jeep, and he held me down in the rear seat, gingerly pulling the hot metal out of my thighs and calfs, then applying his shirt to the freshly bleeding wounds.

01-18-2005, 04:30 PM
Great idea and stories guys. Here's one I posted a while ago, but got lost in the electronic ether.

25 Feb, 1943 0230
Cmdr "Blotto", 41 Equadrilla, RHAF (Bf-109G-2)

I strode out to the flightline to talk to the "black men" of our squadron. Approaching the maintanence chief, I cast a wizened glance to the night sky and said, "there's an attack coming. Load the cannon pods on the aircraft. And defuel them to half fuel, too." (note: IRL, he would have responded with "Commander, do you have ANY idea what time it is!?!", along with whatever quaint Romanian phrase passes for "bl*w me!", but it's my story, and I'll tell it the way I want to.)

On the runway, cockpit lights "on", engine start, and off I go. My wingmen delay taking off, and sit with their nav lights on, inviting a strafing attack. I'll have to remember to beat them when I return. Turning to the southwest, I'm reminded again how dark it can be in the Kuban at 0230 in February. As the searchlights begin spastically searching the night sky, in vain for the moment, I quickly pick up a "tally" on the first two intruders, LaGGs trying to bounce us on takeoff (note: this is an old campaign I'm trying to finish, and I still used icons when I started it. Lucky for me, since the Ai can see me in the dark, and I need all the visual aquisition help I can get to level the playing field.) I target the trailer, but he's got too much speed built up in the dive, and I don't catch him until well after his leader's strafing run. The searchlights briefly cone him, giving me a vital glimpse of his aspect and attitude. All too quickly, he slips from the light. Booting rudder and pumping the stick as I fire (note: because even with icons, I can't pick an aimpoint out of the darkness, and have to resort to "spray & pray."), I manage to put a fatal burst into him.

The leader attempts to avenge his fallen comrade by killing me over my own airfield. He certainly is brave. Brave but foolish. Number two calls out the threat behind me, and I lead him on a merry chase as he tries to ventilate me. My wingmen, finally airborne, pluck him off my tail for me. Perhaps I won't beat them too severely after all.

Now comes the main attack. A stream of Sturmovik's appear out of the murk to the southeast, and I order my wingmen to attack. The searchlight crews have calmed down a bit, and they start picking out targets effectively. I target a well-lit Il-2, and send two quick bursts into him. These hit nothing vital, and serve only to alert his gunner to me. He's coned in searchlights, but uses a most bizzare and unorthodox defensive tactic. Completing my first run, he pulls up into a near stall, and procedes to dazzle us all with a well-lit display of slow-flight over our airfield. Bizzare, but effective. I have a hard time lining up another shot. Unfortunately, his gunner doesn't, and hits my oil-cooler. I'm not out of the fight yet though. Again I come around to fire from behind (a head-on attack on a maneuvering target at night is beyond even my prodigious abilities.) My final burst saws the tail off his aircraft (and hopefully hits that d*mn gunner), and he goes down just outside the airfield boundary.

I have no time to celebrate however. I'm hit, and while my engine is still running, it's getting rough, and my forward vision is all but obscured by the oil. Turning back towards the airfield to the northwest, I effectively have no outside horizon. Did I mention it was dark? Darker than a cow's insides. I'm also having a tough time determining what's obscured by the darkness, and what I can't see due to oil, as if that really matters. Luckily the searchlights are still on, and the AAA crews are sporatically shooting at Russian aircrew in parachutes (war crime or not, they help me see the runway boundary through the oil.) Nav lights "on" to avoid becoming a victim of "friendly fire", I try to memorize as much of the runway picture as possible, before pointing at it obscures my view. Flaps to "landing", and I keep my speed up in the futile hope of keeping the nose down enough to see past the oil. Looking to the side, and guided by feel and instinct more than what I actually see, I manage a fairly smooth landing. In the flare, I just manage to make out the edge of the grass strip streaming beside me in the darkness.

With a sigh of relief, I retract my flaps and slow down. A brief, intense mission comes to an end. Coasting with the last of my aircraft's momentum, I turn off the runway... and plow directly into the unlit control tower!!!

01-18-2005, 04:36 PM
Heck, why not?

Dawn finally broke over our airbase in France, and I got ready for another day over the channel. I went out to my aircraft, a brand new Bf-109E4/N painted in gray splinter camo, the ONLY E4/N at the base too. The squadron CO had thrown a fit when he saw it, as I had painted all of the nose yellow as well as the usual wingtips and rudder, leaving the spinner black to match the Gruppe Beim Stab markings. He had intended to claim it as his own plane, but I had beat him to it. I finished my preflight, and made my way out to the runway with the rest of my Schwarm ready for our little sweep.

The group rolled as one, pulling up into a steep climb, then turning towards England. Contact came over the middle of the channel, six Spitfires were level with us at 11 o'clock, 7000meters of altitude. "Schwarm 1, throttle up...climb!" I called. Our planes pulled up to climb above, the Brits were unable to match our climb as we had gotten the jump on them. We winged over to make an attack from above them. "I got one!" Came a shout from my wingman, just as I finished off my own target. "D*** it! Clear my tail!" Not all of our fighters were so lucky, the lead spitfire had gotten away, and other onto our fourth plane. I jinked to dodge the lead Spit, now shooting at my own plane. "Two, clear my tail! NOW! Hold on down there!"

Streaking after my target, I hosed him down with my 20mm cannons, and watched as he burst into flames. "Die! Burn in hell!" I yelled, silently adding a note of 'Two kills!' to my own mental tally. I yanked back on the stick, climbing high until I felt the slats deploy, and rolled over into a hammer-head. "Breaking up! Can't con--" I saw a lone Bf-109 burst apart, and parts fell down to splash into the water, trailing smoke from the fireball that was once an airplane. 'Think fast Hans, where are the rest of them?' A call of "BREAK! BREAK!" Sent me hard off to my left, shaking the lead spit once again. I had made the mistake of ignoring him once before, this time I would not. "Can you take the rest?" I asked, turning back at him "On it!" came a quick reply.

Breaking hard inside, I saw the pilot climbing up, trying to run away from my plane. I put the throttle to the firewall, and began to hose him down with machinegun rounds. The pilot made a few swerves to dodge the small caliber rounds, that was his mistake. I let him have the full force of my cannons. Gripped tightly to the stick, I watched my rounds streak towards the Spitfire, chewing up the tail, then the wings, the body, smashing the coolers and the engine block, shattering the canopy, cracking the armor behind the pilots seat, and after all of his protection had been shot away, finally reaching the pilot to... I heard the MGFF/M's "Click" as they ran out of ammo.

"YOU SON OF A B*TCH!" I screamed at the ammo counter at the bottom of the panel "WHY THE F*** DO YOU RUN OUT OF AMMO NOW?!" I pulled along side of my former target, looking at the sieve of a plane he was flying. I was close enough to even read the name tag on his uniform! "Lead, other Spits running home. Can we finish off the--" "RTB!" I called to my flight. "Victor, Victor" came a disappointed reply. I looked in, all of the armor plate was shot away, one more round would have done him in. Even some shots from my 7.92's would kill him now. I still had ammo left for those, and we both knew it. But in his condition, he would be done fighting, if he didn't bleed to death on the way home. I shook my head, he made a face at me, I gave him the finger. As we flew, he signaled his intentions to bail out, pointing to a group of farmers watching the air battle. 'Why not...This might be me, or one of my pilots some day...' I thought, and watched as he bailed out, and landed in the middle of their crops. They ran out to look him over, waving a €œThanks!€ for not killing him on the spot. €œYhea, Mister €˜Bader€, if that really is who you are, you owe me one...€ I thought as I looked down below.

I turned around to head home, we were just getting started for the night. And Gerhard had mentioned something about a little action with some blondes later that night? I grinned, brushing off some sweat from the Oberleutnant badges on my leather flying jacket, remembering to get my dress uniform ready.

01-18-2005, 07:06 PM
The sun rose slowly over the English Channel, after first passing over the North Sea, lighting up Norway, and eventually Britain. The morning mist would eventually clear, and things got a little bit more rough than I like them...
I rolled out of my cot early in the morning, too early for the weekend according to my watch, but this was war. After getting a very cold shower, I put on my new dress uniform. A light blue shirt with black tie, blue-gray trousers instead of the funny flared ones normally issued to officers (They don€˜t fit well in a cramped cockpit), and the usual black knee-length boots, grabbing the hat on my way out. I went over to check on my aircraft. The Bf-109F-2 was just reaching front lines, and I had grabbed this one when it arrived. It was painted with the usual yellow nose, black spinner, yellow wingtips, rudder, and band on the tail. A two-tone blue-gray splinter camo pattern, with an odd €œspider web€ blend of three colors on the side hid it well. I smirked as I checked my plane out, I liked the double Gruppen Kommodore chevrons that had come with my promotion to Hauptmann and command of 2nd Gruppe.

I pulled on my gloves, and sunglasses, before hopping in a Kubelwagon to go into town for some decent food for breakfast. Just then, came a cry from the tower: €œALARMSTART! ALARMSTART!€ The race was on, I felt my heart leap into my throat as I ran for my plane. Hopping into the cockpit with a €œclunk!€ from my stiff boots, I began to start the engine as one of the ground crew strapped me in. Winding the throttle up to get into the air, I held the stick with my knees to pull my helmet on.

There they were, Hurribombers and spits coming from the west! I stopped messing with the helmet, I realised I was trying to put it on over my officers cap, and simply pulled a spare headset on instead. €œStatus?!€

€œTwo OK!€ €œThree and four OK!€ €œSecond Schwarm OK!€ Came back reports. €œOK you guys, lets- Watch out, there here!€ I yelled, banking the plane to chase the first Spit as it went past me. A sudden surge of red streaks let me know I had one on my tail almost immediately. Firing a few rounds at my target before I jinked away. €œKarl, cover me!€ I called to my wingman. €œYhea, right!€ his sarcastic snap came back.

British planes filled the sky all around us, I watched as their bombs landed among the hangars, most empty, but still not a welcome thing to see. Selecting another target, a Spitfire, I tore into his engine with my guns, watching the high velocity MG-151 15mm AP rounds smash right through. Leaving a thick trail of smoke, the plane belly landed in next to the tower, where a few guards got tangled up in a fist fight with the pilot.

€œI'm hit!€ a voice yelled, as a 109 trailing flames pulled up, and the pilot bailed. €œHans, Break Left!€ my wingman€s voice warned me as a Spitfire made an attack run. €œThis is insane!€ Flak crews ran out to their guns, pulling off camo nets and starting to engage the Hurricanes making lower level attacks.

€œSchwarm 3, get em!€ an unknown voice called. I looked up to see Bf-109E7€s kick off their drop tanks and dive at the trailing group of Hurricanes. €˜What luck!€ The early sweeps from another base would save our day! Screaming along the treetops at 400km/h, I picked up another target, and managed to sink some shells through the pilots armor. The plane veered off to the right where it crashed into a barn. More tracers flew past my aircraft, still no hits on me though. Going for one more kill, I targeted another Spitfire for destruction, still cursing for a plane to cover me. Just as I opened fire, I heard a loud €œZipKLONK!€ and my headrest armor flew forward to smack me in the head. My target went down, but so did I. Cutting the power, and bellying in, I hopped out and ran from my new aircraft, now a wreck. The battle above cleared away rapidly thanks to the FlaK. Closer inspection reveled what had hit me: a 37mm shell from one of our own guns.

I fixed up my uniform, and noticed that a transfer flight was arriving. A quick glance at my wrecked plane told me all I needed to know: €˜You want one of those 109F-4€s just landing Hans!€

* An example of the strange "Spider Web" camo is found on the 109F-2 flown by Hubert Muetherich.

01-19-2005, 05:47 AM
A short P-40C story based on a combat I had with Fish in TX practice last night!
No sooner was I out on the tarmac then I saw it over head. Most of the Luft guys were going lone wolf now, but this was crazy! A single Fw-190D-9 was raging its way over our airspace! The air raid alarm sounded heavy this early in the morning. The chattering of our AAA guns rang in the air sharply. Explosions followed by a quick whistling noise told me our 40mm flak was firing. Nothing was working. The long nosed 190 pilot was flying right down along the ground, playing with us. He waggled his wings. He could have taken out all of us by now, but he wasn't shooting. "Stop firing James," I told the cook, who had been just preparing breakfast, "start up with those pancakes again."
"Roger Sir," James said to me. He ran along to each gun crew and told them to stop firing. The 190 pilot performed aerobatics in thanks. "Hey Maj. Spears? I think he wants you to fight him!" Cries of "YOu can do it Major!" and "You can take 'im!" filled my ears. I wasn't so sure I'd gamble with my life that easily, but I was pushed over the edge by my fellow pilots. "Alright, alright!" I said to them, "If you want your squad leader dead you just give me a plane. Hey Sergeant! What do you have ready on the flight line?"
"Not much sir, most of the planes are still out from that operation the Germans did this past New Years. Your P-51 is incapacitated after that last artillery strike. We've got the old trainer ready to go..."
"Fine," I said. I ran toward the plane. What a bumbling old wreck, I thought. This German's going to laugh his @$$ off when he sees me in this thing. It was an early P-40, a C version I think. Two .50 caliber guns and four .30 caliber. The 190 pilot saw me heading over to the plane and started pulling loose circles around the area, slowly gaining precious altitude. "Aw, screw the preflight!" I said, clambering into the pit of the old bird. I'd never noticed before how roomy the cockpit was. Locking the canopy back in place, I put my foot on the brakes and started the engine by pumping fuel in manually, then hitting the inertial starter. The old thing chortled delightedly at being flown again. I rammed the mixture up to full and taxied the short distance to the runway. Switching radio channels, I called to the German pilot, "You wanna play? Well then come down here and play!" I floored the throttle of the elderly beast and she growled as she rampaged down the runway, I swear with the radiator open this thing looks like it's got a giant toothy grin, just waiting to pounce on you....

"My god! You Americans are crazy!" The german pilot said in perfect English. He came down and trimmed his plane right beside me, oggling my old bird through his cockpit glass. "What is that old thing?" he said, astonished that it still flew. My RPM's suddenly jumped, the plane seemed to have an uncontrollable anger of its own. "Now, now," I told the German pilot. "This plane may be old, but grandpa here is gonna teach you a lesson you'll never forget!" And with that he pulled up sharply. I watched as he rolled over on his back and came down on my tail, so it had started...

I closed my cockpit canopy and pulled a quick maneuver I knew the P-40 was excellent at. I call it a point roll. You roll the plane and use rudder in one direction and the nose seems to rotate on a point while the rest of the plane spins behind it. The 190 couldn't pull the lead for the shot, and my incredible roll rate perturbed him. I saw that he was looking at me instead of what was in front of him... "Watch out!" I screamed at him on the radio, and he pulled up sharply to avoid the tree line. Following him I closed the radiator and threw in full RPM's. He came right out over the Normandy coast, but he was too cocky. He kept performing tight barrel rolls and quick left-right maneuvers. I came down on him like a dart and opened fire with my machine guns. "What the hell?" I heard him say over the radio. While his channel was open I could hear the bullets pinging off his plane and ripping through it. I didn't do enough damage. He threw his engine in all the way and started a long vertical climb, something I could never follow. I started a shallow climb with my gained speed, but checking the rear view mirror I noticed, "Hey, you're behind me! How'd you do that?"
"Tools of the trade, my friend," he said to me. I saw bright flashes from his plane in the mirror, and without even my response, RPM's jumped high and the plane moved swiftly into a jacknife! "My bird's got a mind of her own!" I exclaimed into comms, all of his cannon ammo missed my wingtips, but some of his two 7.7mm MG ammo hit my tail. Something went "kachunk!" and I knew that he'd just smacked off a part of my plane! "Hah! Now our elevator authority is about even, ya?" He pulled straight up and shot right past me, climbing high, higher... "Not by a long shot!" I said. I threw the P-40 into the vertical and she screamed with joy as the guns opened fire on the 190 again. She was mad, and pieces flew off the 190 in droves. I saw the tail snap and the rudder fall off, the ailerons themselves were chewed to bits, the engine was leaking oil, and the fuel tanks were on fire. "Shaesse!" The German pilot screamed into the radio, "Shaesse! **** you! How could you do that? How did you do that? You're flying a piece of ****!

Letting go completely of the stick my plane seemed to again act on its own. The words "piece of ****" must have reflected strongly in her senses. "This bird ain't no piece of ****!" I said, along for the ride. My guns fired a three second long burst into the engine of the 190. It burst aflame. "Dammit!" he said! The german pilot bailed out and landed in a tree. The base MP's picked him up and threw him into the small prison we had in Bastogne. As I brought the proud plane down from onto the runway I patted her above the instrument panel. The RPM's jumped and withered, making what sounded to a mechanical "purr," almost like a cat's. Stepping out of the plane when I had shut it down, my XO said to me, "I guess it just goes to show you, it's the pilot, not the plane, right?" I shook my head, "No, in this case it was the plane."

01-19-2005, 04:13 PM
No need for a "bump!" boosh, another one for ya!
Yet another day began with a cold shower at oh-dark-thirty. Today I would be flying, so there was no point in wearing the normal blue uniform. Slate gray pants, and a leather jacket along with the usual pair of boots was the €œflight€ uniform around here. I had just been promoted to Major for my actions on the East Front, and had the shoulder boards and collar tabs added to my uniforms. The woven cord pattern that was used on these upper ranks also looked much better to the eye.
I straightened out my cap as I strolled along the flight line, looking over various versions of the Bf-109. F-4€s still used for the second Schwarm, new Bf-109G-2€s that we used as our first Schwarm. I came to my aircraft. Painted in the usual gray splinter camo, I had decided while putting all of the usual yellowing on, that the nose should be done on the bottom only. This time the plane got a black €œtulip€ design to match the spinner. The same 2nd Gruppe Kommodore markings still. I had flown the F-4 version only for a short while, but I knew this plane was much better. A quick visit to the mess tent got me a cup of coffee and a doughnut before walking off to the ops tent.

I learned that our target for the day was an American squadron that had just arrived in England with some planes called the €œWar hawk€, the P-40. Some of the new Fw-190€s would attack. Our Bf-109€s were to escort them as they bombed the hangers. This would be a quick mission, no sweat...The ops officer droned on...Radio codes...Synchronize watches...€˜Yhea, whatever...€

Before I knew it, I was getting strapped into my 109. My crew chief pulled on the straps to tighten them down, put my cap in the space behind the seat, and handed me my gloves and helmet. I pulled them on, and set the planes clock to match my watch as I did my pre-flight. Once all set, engines were started, and we made our way to the runway.
€œLeopard flight...Clear to takeoff€ came the tower. €œFirst Schwarm, run €˜em up!€ I called to my flight. We rolled down the strip, before rocketing into the sky. As we climbed up and made our way to the target, I got settled into the normal feel of flying. I daydreamed a little on my way to the target. €P-40€s, ohh yhea, I always like target practice€ I thought as I put my sunglasses on to keep the glare down. A small dot appeared on the horizon...€Bandits at 11 o€clock, their morning patrol! Lets get em!€

We pushed up our throttles, and watched as the bandits, now clearly visible P-40€s, did the same. We were at 5000 meters, but would loose altitude quick, and the 190€s had bombs... €œSecond Schwarm cover the 190€s, first gets fighters with me!€ €œVictor!€ I streaked past the first of the four P-40€s, and shot the second one down from formation before pulling into the vertical. €œAhhhh....€ Somebody groaned €œKlaus took some hits!€ called Walter, flying in the second pair. €œI think their leader got me€ Klaus said €œBreak as a Rotte, turn for home!€ I told them, before destroying my second P-40 of the day.

€œBREAK BREAK!€ I yelled to my wingman, to warn him of an attack coming from behind. The volume and accuracy of the shots surprised me, but I was faster and I dodged the attack unscathed. €œI got one! I got one!€ cheered my wingman. €œD*** it Fritz, the last ones on you!€ I growled, but too late, for the lead P-40 was an excellent shot and tore his 109 up. €œTaking her home!€ he yelped.

€˜This is out of hand€ I thought, diving after their fearless leader. Before I could shoot, he had dipped a wing to turn away. I knew right then that turning against him was no option, and set up another dive attack. This time it went the same, I dove and fired, he saw me, jinked, and fired back. It was time for a trick. This pilot already knew about 109€s and their supposed inability to pull up from high speed dives. He flew low to the ground, that would make it hard but... I remembered what Adi Galland had said, and how it had worked when I was in Russia...

I dove from his high 6 o€clock, but rather than fire, went past him behind, and the pulled up. He didn€t know what was coming, thinking that I had crashed. As he looked below I pulled my nose up to gain more altitude, and rolled inverted to pull level. I opened fire with my plane still inverted, as I rolled back to level. My rounds tore into the back of his plane, and into the wing roots. The plane was still intact, jinking hard to the left, but obviously stalling out. I put a few more rounds into the target, and watched as the plane reversed it€s turn. €œWrong move!€ A few more rounds convinced the pilot to bail out. And I took a deep breath as I watched the pilot hop out. I laughed at him as I passed, thinking about how he was a real €œSeat of the Pants€œ flyer... I was left with only my thoughts as I turned back to base €˜Wonder if he knows his uniform was ripped and his a*s was hanging out?€ I pondered.

01-20-2005, 02:09 AM
another from me then, this is based on my offline army group Center campaign.

4 bloody days; day 1

Vyazama wasn't pretty in spring. Nor was it in the winter. I had left in march for rest and retraining. It was december now and the Ivans were counterattacking, in force.

I had been recalled to be a part of a battlegroup Schmidt. Our job, cover the front to the best of your abillitys. Our equipment, the new Focke Wulf 190.

Our first mission was just after christmas, december 27th. I was to be part of a Staffel that was to escort a recon plane.

takeoff and joining up with the recon plane was nothing to be exited about but, that would soon change. For just as we're about to turn for home, we are intercepted by three Yaks and three of those new Laggs I heard about during my stay in Germany.

4 against 6. One of the Yaks has already gotten on the position of my leader. He fails to see me behind him. The impact of my shells must have killed him instantly for his plane dives down without much further effort.

The rest of the fight is a bit of a blur for me, exscept for the fact that after what seem to be 10 minutes of flying and fighting, I only have machineguns left and only one of the Yaks remains. I hit him three times with bursts untill finaly his left wing comes off and he goes down too.

as we fly back to base I realise we have lost half the Staffel to those Ivans and somehow the flight commander is talking very excitedly to me.

At debriefing I realise why. He confirms me having shot down all six opponnents!

01-20-2005, 02:28 AM
4 bloody days; day 2

My crew chief wakes me up early the next morning. After having lost a number of planes to us yesterday, the Geschwader feels Ivan might pay our airbase a visit today.

We takeoff after lunch to patrol the airdrome with two Staffeln of 190s and one of 109s. We don't have to wait long.

The first staffel calls out bandits after only half an hour. As we spot no escorts we dive in all together for the attack. It doesn't take me long to get on the tail of a black devil and after only a brief burst with all of my guns he goes down.

Looking around I realise the others are already dealing with the rest so, I regroup my staffel and we start climbing for altitude again.

Fifteen minutes later, the first staffel calls out bandits again, another formation of Sturmoviks, this time with fighter escort, approaches.

We dive down together again. Not much later my Katschmarek confirms three more of the Black Devils falling to my guns.

then in the distance I spot a rat, or rather, a Rata being pursued. The pursuer however misses with his burst, enabling me to get into position and deliver the final blow.

back at base it turns out we've suffered no losses in this encounter and the group commander promptly puts me down for the Knights Cross.

A small party is held in my honour that night but it doesn't last long as the front has to be patroled the next day.

01-20-2005, 02:43 AM
day 3

I've now 11 Abschusse in two days confirmed!

Patrolling the front again. Apparently Ivan has seen it fit to send some light bombers to bomb part of a supply base nearby.

Apparently we are to enlighten him as to what a mistake this is.

We spot Ivans bombers in in enough time but these are new ones I haven't seen before so the only thing we see them do is roll over and dive down.

As they make their way from the target, they find me in the midst of them.

I shoot the tail of my first bomber, a wing of my second, the crew of my third bails out, the fourth goes down in flames and the fifth bails out again.

all of my abschusse are again confirmed.

16 Ivans in three days!

01-20-2005, 02:56 AM
4 bloody days; day 4

On patrol we mix it up again with Ivan. I do have a bit of luck and send yet another Sturmovik down to the ground out control. The others in my staffel take care of the other Ivans. We return to base again without suffering any loss.

As i walk to my quarters I start thinking. Ivan is a fast learner and I only wonder if he can blacken the skie with his numbers as he can do on the ground. One thing is certain, from here on out our line of work will only get harder.

01-20-2005, 07:03 PM
Sample Briefing #2: June 3rd. Small Farm- 27 kilometers North of Novorossijsk:

This is the last day we will spend at this farm. Tonight we fly to a new location closer to the front lines. I will never forget this location, though. The airdrome is on the remains of an old farm. We were lucky to have a smooth dirt road to use as a runway, but still, this is one of the better places we have stayed at in quite a few months. There are few animals or crops, and the farmhouse itself is falling apart from years without repair. However, the place has its charm. There is an old riding paddock not too far from the road, and we are far enough behind our lines that one can walk for many kilometers when they have time off.
Another great thing about the farm is the family that inhabits it. They are a small elderly couple. They have much in the ways of help. The husband, who€s name is D€mitri, has been an excellent hand around the airdrome. While he may be in his late seventies, he still can easily handle an axe and chop for a whole day! One night, when Major Bershanskaya approved, we had a giant bonfire and danced. The wife is a great woman. She is also Tamara, like me, and is in her late seventies as well, but she is a great cook! She is always around to talk to, and seems to have a smile on her face most of the day, even with all the tragedy that has happened to her over the years. She lost her brothers during the civil war, and her parents during the Great War in 1917. We affectionately call the elderly couple our €œparents€ and to them, we are their €œdaughters.€ Last night, at suppertime before our mission, they took us into their old farmhouse and fed us dinner. It was like a party. I had no idea €œmother€ had so much strength, to cook for two hundred of her hungry €œdaughters.€
They also have a sadder side to their story. They share their farmhouse with their grandchild. Their son was married to a beautiful woman, they tell us. They lived in Leningrad, where I am from. Their son had gone off to the war, and within three days of his going to the front, he was slaughtered along with his whole division by German tanks. They were very brave. His young boy was sent out here in the Kuban region after his mother died during the German bombings of Leningrad. Now he lives with his grandparents. I have taken a particular liking to the boy, Vasily. I sit with him for much of the day and we play games, tell stories. He is a bright child. He has seen too much for his age. During the past few days he has started calling me €œMama.€ He is barely eleven years old, but he runs around the farm with his arms outstretched, as if he was trying to fly, like us. He has come to know us women well. During the mornings, most of us do not get the sleep that is allowed for us, so we sit and tell him stories. He listens well. A few weeks back, Raisa€s mother sent her up a plush toy bear. Raisa had no way she could possibly use it, so she kept it insider her plane when she flew for these past few weeks during our missions. It was like a good luck charm. When we came to the farm, Raisa gave the bear to Vasily. He carries it around all day now. He named the bear Nadia, because that was his mother€s name. Looking around at this farm, this aerodrome, it brings strength to my heart. People I never would have normally known now look at me as their own daughter, sister, or even mother. Such a strong bond cannot be broken by the brutality of war, and we will not let the Germans try to stop it. This strong belief in our people keeps us going into battle. It gives us even more reason to fight€¦

01-20-2005, 08:36 PM
€˜Things are getting much too tough. We lost too many of our good pilots in the battles of 1942 and 1943. The Russians push towards Berlin now, and the Americans attack on the western front., and even here. Things are wearing thin. Russians, Americans, all kinds of nightmares. All we want is to hold the Russians.€ -- Oberst Hans
I finished writing down my thoughts, and walked out to look things over. Our base was on the shores of Lake Balaton. Our mission was anti-fighter work, in support of heavy 190A €œSturmbocks€. I let a heavy sigh as I looked down the flight line. All the planes were a mix of G-6, G-6Late, and a few G-14€s. None of our planes had Mk-108€s as of yet. I got down to where my plane was parked.

The lone G-6/AS version at the base was mine. The usual Gruppen kommodore double chevrons, 2nd Gruppe bar. I looked over to the tail, covered in the early RVT markings. A white band on the tail, and a white rudder. The spinner had been split into half black, and half white. Hopefully it would help to make this thing look more aggressive. Although, the black €œ275€ and Knights Cross on the tail did that well enough.

My hand wandered up to the throat of my jacket, where the Knights Cross, complete with oak leaves, swords, and even diamonds was fastened around the collar of my shirt. A wonderful award, but it meant nothing to me now. €œAttention! 5 minute alert! Incoming high altitude raiders!€ A voice boomed over the loud speakers. Tossing my hat aside, I settled into my 109€s cockpit. My boots made a €˜clunk€ noise as I dropped into my seat. €œAttention! Scramble!€

Everything happened in a flash. Helmet and gloves on, start engines, roll for takeoff. Climbing higher I could feel the temperature drop. The metal back my watch froze onto my hand. The canopy and my sunglasses frosted up as we flew higher. Looking around, I could see more contrails streaking skyward, small 109€s and more bulky 190 Dora€s climbed like manned missiles, scrambling to the fight, maybe their death. Slower 190A€s followed behind with the 110€s.

€œAchtung! Dicke Autos! 11 o€˜clock!€ A voice called €œJa!€ I replied, looking closer €œIndianer! Ami€s!€ I yelled to warn them, and took a closer look: €œLooks like Mustangs! OK, lets get them, clear a hole for the Sturmbocks.€ €œVictor Victor!€ We met them head on, and the sky filled with tracers as we swapped shots. €œVictory!€ cried one pilot €œAHHH! Burning!€ another. I turned on the MW-50 to throw my plane through a loop, ramming the throttle forward as I selected another. This one was on the tail of a 109. €œNumber three, break left!€ €œFive watch out!€ voices yelled. I had to watch as he killed one of my fellow pilots, as I closed the gap. A string rounds from my 20mm was well placed into the wing, to leave the pilot to bail. €œI€m hit! Bailing!€ €œHang on guys!€ We watched as the Dora€s streaked through the group to knock a few more off. Burning 109€s and 190€s continued to fall with P-51D€s. There was more yelling...We watched as the escort dove away to escape our wrath. €œThird Schwarm, with me! Where is my 2nd Rotte? What happened to 4th Schwarm!?€ Called Heinz, a seasoned veteran in charge of the 190 Dora group based with us. €œ2nd Rotte out of ammo, RTB! 4th Schwarm is destroyed!€ €œCant be so!€ €œWe got some 17€s!€ a jubilant voice yelled. €œDora€s take the rest of them off the Sturmbocks! 109€s lets empty onto the bombers!€ I ordered my group. Thier noses dipped, and the silver tipped contrails converged onto the formation.

The leading formation was B-17€s, I chose a target and streaked by him, unloading most of my 20mm ammo as I went. €œGood kill Hans!€ I bore in after a second target. €˜SH*T!€ I thought as a pilot hanging in a parachute zipped past. I came up on a B-24, selecting the bomb bay area and unloading the rest of my ammunition. I saw a bright flash, everything turned dark with a sudden €œKABOOM!€
I opened my eyes, knowing something was wrong, I started to panic. €˜No oxygen mask? Helmet? Hey! Where the hell is my plane?! And my PARACHUTE?!€ My head snapped up, my jaw dropped down. I was looking at a woman, tall, blue eyes, black hair. €˜Guess I€m dead, huh? Well, no more worries of combat flying!€ I smiled, and took a step forward to introduce myself. €œHEY! Wake the hell up ****it!€ my wingman yelled.

My eyes snapped open, I realized it was just a dream. Things clicked VERY fast: €˜900km/h, plane making groaning noises, the pilot seems OK. Other than referring to self in 3rd person, no problems!€ I thought. Pulling the power back to idle, I let my speed drop as I let my plane glide back to base. It was torn up, I could hear it still pulling apart. I made my landing wheels up, and stumbled out to see about getting some rest. The last thing I remember of that day is passing out somewhere on my way to get a cup of coffee. I was unharmed, and woke up back in my tent. But a check of my wallet revealed that I had been charged for the taxi service. "There goes my party money..."

01-21-2005, 09:14 AM
Another one! I actually have kills now on WC and GG! This is the story of my kill of a B-25 on GG, slightly expanded to sound more WW2 like and less "online serverish"

The cold winter wind bit my face as I walked to the my Fw-190D in late December, 1944. The snows had canceled most flights for the day, but luckily it cleared up now, in the evening, so I was going on a small patrol to Bastogne. Hurriedly doing my pre-flight, I noticed that the liquid nitrogen injector had been taken out of my plane. Sauntering over to the mechanic I asked him why. "It was faulty, Lieutenant." he said calmly, turning a wrench on and bolting fasteners onto one of our Opel Blitz trucks. A large 20mm AAA cannon sat on top of the bed of the truck, what do you Americans call it, a pickup? He kept busying himself with the wrench. "Franz," I asked him, "If my plane is incapacitated, what can I use?" He looked at me with utmost loathing as he pointed to the mechanical hangar directly to his right. "Blue twenty-three is good to go." My mouth started to salivate looking at that fine plane... Rolf, the CO of the squadron had it specially painted for him before he was killed four days ago. The outline of our Luftwaffe air markings shone brilliantly in the camoflage. It's green faded into a deep sky gray, with green mottle on the fuselage. This was a plane I had been longing to fly. "Are you sure it's okay? Last I saw that plane it had six bulletholes in the canopy and another twenty through the right wing." I eyed him warily. Franz and I do not get along so well, much like our Hitler and that ****ed Churchill, no? Two complete opposites. Franz has been a mechanic since 1932, and has been doing it ever since, quite well too, I might add. Though I must say that occasionally after he and I have a row my plane's performance seems highly weakened. But Franz never touched blue twenty three. Rolf made sure that his personal mechanic dealt with it. He'd hired some guy off of the Focke Wulfe company, you know... One of Kurt Tank's old right hand men. I tipped my hat to Franz and he glared at me. I'd have him court martialed, but it wouldn't do anything except harm the friendliness we'd just had between us.

Blue twenty-three looked even more marvelous up close. The rivets were all perfectly aligned to one another. The preflight went perfectly and I opened the canopy, gingerly climbing into the cockpit. The seat had been padded heavily with leather cushioning, and was incredibly comfortable even with my chute sitting in the bucket underneath me. The seat adjusted easily to my height and I found myself reaching the rudder pedals. Going quickly through startup the engine roared to life, what a beast this thing was! By this time my wingman was airborne in his Fw-190D at 600 meters. I taxied quickly to the runway and floored the throttle, the radiator burst open and with a rush of speed Blue twenty-three lifted off the ground like a dream. "I'm up Heinrich." I told my wingman. "I copy, let's get this overwith!" Taking the lead in our two plane formation We cruised at 600 meters at 420 kph. The flight to Bastogne was quick and easy. We noticed a few tanks, but the real action was coming from the forests themselves. Small flashes, probably from rifles, were chattering their along the front line, larger flashes, probably artillery, sent huge waves of smoke over its target area. "Bless those boys down below us..." I said to Heinrich, "They're doin all the work right now..."

We started circling Bastogne when we saw a flight of planes, about five, coming towards us. "Are they ours?" Heinrich asked me, perplexed. "I don't know..." But then a glint of bare metal aluminium skin flashed in the last of the evening sun, Americans! "Heinrich, they're enemy planes, enemy planes, over." "Roger lead," he called, "I got your back, you bring us in." We dove from our altitude to the height of the five planes on the deck. They were in a tight formation, twins... "B-25's? What are they doing here?" I asked myself. I lined up on the nose of the leading B-25 and squeezed the trigger. My guns fired voraciously into the enemy bomber, but with surprise, 6 muzzle flashes appeared from the nose of the B-25. "Heinrich, these guys have gunpods on their noses, watch out!" I yelled over to him. My B-25 was heavily smoking. Another B-25 was as well, but I couldn't see Heinrich. "Heinrich, do you copy? Where are you?" I saw a bright flash of light below me. banking 90 degrees to the right I saw pieces of a tail spinning and jumping off the ground. There was a Hakencross on one of the pieces. "Sheisse! Heinrich! Heinrich! Where are you?" I searched around desperately for a chute, but there was none. Flooring the throttle I roared back up to the B-25's, "DIE!" I screamed at them into my own radio channel, A bright flame appeared in the fuel tank of the lead B-25, the bomber I was firing at exploded. Pulling for altitude I watched the three remaining B-25's try to turn back. Searching high for any other planes, My eyes caught another eight small dots in the air. "Help!" I yelled, leveling out and shutting the radiator. They came on me in seconds. Two Spitfires, two P-51's, and four P-47's, all rushing in at my plane guns blazing. Tracers were flying around me, I couldn't think, no idea.. .what to do, what to do! I pulled back wildly on the stick, climbing high, higher, the P-47's broke off and I rolled over to catch them. I still had 4 planes on my tail. Bullets and tracers swished beside me. I engaged the liquid nitrogen system and the engine groaned with the strain of the extra horsepower. "C'mon you SOB, come here..." I squeezed the trigger again and watched my MG-151/20's slam into the P-47, but he just kept on going, again and again I pulled the trigger, in my frustration many of my shots missed, some hit, but they had no effect on the haughty P-47, who just kept zooming upwards in a climb I couldn't follow...

KACHUNK! A gut wrenching noise of metal ripping off from metal caught my ears. The plane was rolling wildly, I tried to correct it with my ailerons, but my wings, WHERE WERE MY WINGS! God d@mn! What the hell is going on? Why can't I see! I'm burning alive! AAAAARGH!

I lost all concentration, everything went black. So this is what Rolf felt.

01-21-2005, 12:29 PM
I was sitting on the runway in my P-38J Ligntning at an airfield just off the English Channel in Normandy, July 5, 1944. I had only been in combat a little more than a month, but this would already be my 30th combat mission. I was flying as Major White's winger. So much had happened in such a short period of time.

We began our takeoff roll when a pair of Focke-Wulf 190-A's swooped down on our field. The AAA rang out in full force, but the pair managed to vulch one of our P-51 escorts caught helplessly on the ground. We made it into the air and our remaining P-51's took care of the 190's. I was tempted to join in but had been reprimanded so many times by Major White to stay on course that I didn't feel like listening to his yelping anymore.

Our target was a train carrying a fresh Panzer Division and experienced tank crews into action.
We made our attack run in beautiful military precision. A month ago I could barely keep my Lightning in the air, but I could fly with the best of them, now. Landing was another matter. I had crash landed 12 times in those 30 missions.

Anyway, back to the mission. 3 and 4 swooped in and nailed the train square with a volley of 4.5" rockets. 1 came in next and finished it off. There was nothing left for me to shoot at. Fortunately, I spied a target of opportunity not far away, a German supply column. I laid waste to it.

I turned to rejoin my buddies for the trip home. Suddenly, Major White screamed that he was hit and going down. I didn't see any tracers, nor were there any enemy aircraft in the area. It had to be one of those mysterious "Collision Model Errors" that the mechanics whispered about late at night.

No time to think of that. Major White was gone and there was nothing to do but assume number 1 position and lead the flight back to base.

Coming in on final approach, I saw that the wreckage of the Mustang that had been vulched earlier was still sitting on the end of the runway. Twice, my approach was jumped by my squadron mates on final and I had to go around. I had no means of giving them a radio call to back off. We had complained about this inability to assume command function of the radio when the flight leader is shot down, but as of yet, the techies had found no solution.

Finally, it was my turn. The Lightning must be landed at an extraordinarily slow speed. I often found myself coming up short or at too steep of angle causing me to bounce violently. This time, I saw I would be a bit short, but touchdown went fairly well. And then, panic shook my entire being. The wrecked Mustang! As my nose settled, the Mustang was right there. The only thing I could do was brace for the collision. My Lightning struck the Mustang on the left side and tore the wing and the boom completely off. The rest of it, including me, burst into flame and went tumbling down the runway. When it finally came to rest, I was shocked and dazed, but still in one piece. I had to get out and now! I was still running when it exploded. 13 wrecks in 31 missions. I had minor burns, but they were not enough to keep from downing several beverages at the O'Club tent.

The next morning I reported for that day's briefing. Our intelligence officer, Captain Boosher, told me to report to the C.O. immediately. I hustled to Col. Tully's office as fast as I could. When I arrived, he had me take a seat. He folded his hands and look me in the eye for a long second. He then swiveled his chair away and carefully filled and lit his pipe. He turned back very slowly and looked me in the eye. "Son, you can no longer fly in Operation Overlord", he said very resignedly. I was flabbergasted. "But why, sir? I'm a good flyer. I have 2 Bronze Stars and a Purple Heart. I have 9 kills and I have blown up all kinds of tanks and trucks and guns....". He held up his right hand and stopped me. "Son", he said, almost sadly, "You've been a **** good airmen. Your a little rough on the landings, but overall, you've shown a lot of courage and fortitude". "So why am I being grounded then, sir", I asked almost in tears. "There is no easy way to put this Lt. Breeze. You cannot continue flying in this operation because we cannot find your map file". My mouth dropped open and I almost fell out of my chair.

After a very long pause, Col. Tully continued.
"I have sent many messages to the Wing Commander, General Maddox about this problem. He says he has too many other things to worry about. He says he's worried sick about getting new planes and has no time for pilots losing their map files. I even had a long conversation with our Russian Liason Officer, Captain Starshoy. He's the expert in these matters. He thought he had the answer, but his solution didn't work after all. There's nothing I can do, Lt. Breeze, despite your outstanding flying record, you can no longer fly in Operation Overlord. I'm reassigning you to be Mess Officer. A good, wholesome meal can do wonders for the troop's morale. Dismissed".

I stumbled from his office, incredulous, my spirit broken. I can barely remember the walk to the Mess Tent. I found Master Sergeant Bearcat, the jolly, rotund head cook. I told him in a flat monotone I was the new Mess Officer. He laughed a hearty laugh and patted me on the back. "We have 3 rules around here, Lieutenant. 1. No cussing. 2. Don't call the Brits Limeys. 3. Don't stir stuff up too much ****." I found my desk and started signing requistion forms. It was going to be a long war.

Little did I know that in less than 6 months there would a little action called the Battle Of The Bulge. They would need experienced P-38 pilots. Surely this time, I would not lose my map file.

01-21-2005, 12:32 PM
Heres a PTO story. My first so it might not be so good but feel free to comment and give advice on wht i can do to make it sound better.. S`

Chapter 1..

Our squadron, the VF-17 Jolly Rogers, started off on a carrier flying F4U-1A's, but since the corsairs inability to land on a carrier due to its long nose, has forced the brass to put us on a land base.
We all left the briefing room, expecting a boring transfer to our new base of operations in the solomons.

We all hopped into our brand spanking new corsairs, and got settled in, i strapped my harnesses on and put my flight cap on, and started my preflight checklist. Then the order to start up engines was given, i pulled the choke
and pulled the mixture out abit and raised the throttle, i turned the magnietos on, and fire her. The engine suputtered and finally i felt the 2,000 horse Pratt and Whitney come alive. I started my preflight check list and was ready to go.
Our CO was the first to roll off the deck, after a few planes it was my turn. I thorttled up my bird and rolled down the deck, and cleared the deck, piece of cake..

I flew in formation, 100ft away and to the right of the 1st flight, and called my wingmen to form up into our finger four which made up the 2nd flight. We climbed slowly to our crusing altitude of 15,000Ft. This was our first flight together as a squadron, since the state side activation of our squadron. The flight was boring and we were jus chatting along for 2 hours of our 4 hour flight. I started thinking about my girlfriend back home, and how i am jus starting to regret leaving her like i did.
Boy, what a mistake that was.

I was awakened out of my day dream by one of my wingman yelling out "zekes, 9 o' clock low". I looked over my left wing, sure enough there they are, looked like the A6M5 series, more faster and more armored than the M2 series. My squadron commander turned for them, with us following in formation. We broke up into our wingman pairs and engaged.

It all happened so fast, we were out numbered 2:1. I found one on a wingman, and moved in, i lined up, and pulled my trigger, i felt a slight shake and rumble from my bird, and then i saw a wing snap off the zero. My first kill. I watched him go down, no chute. I was so intense in watching the zero i just shot down, my wingman yelled zero on our six, i was shaken out of my daze.

I started a scissors and shook him. My wingman got around on him and seperated his wing from his fuelsalage. I looked around at the scene around me, most of the zeros i saw before the fight were gone, then i realized we shot down 3/4's of their planes and still had all of ours. I snuck behind another zero that was conentrated on our CO and his wingman, and shot him down. We downed all enemy aircraft without a loss. Then the next thing i heard, made me wish i wasnt here anymore. "Another flight of zeke's, 3 o' clock, high".

01-21-2005, 05:07 PM
Chapter 2

I heard Lt. Klusaw make the call, i looked around the in the sky, i didnt see anything. Nothing above me, nothing below me nothing to my right or left. I started a slow right turn to look behind me, there he was, guns blazing coming at me. "Commander Dewey, Zeke on ur 6". Seeing the zero behind me made my blood run cold, my plams started sweating, so this is how its all gonna end. No i told my self, i wont let it end this way. I dropped 15% flaps, rolled, and did a split S..

The zero wasnt expecting that, and over shot. I took a sigh of relief as i saw Ensign Goss take his wing off. "Thanks Goss, i owe you one" i said. The battle continued to rage, corsairs on zeros and zeros on corsairs. We were running low on ammo and fuel, me and my wingman Lt. Bradley headed for the fight. There was a zero on our CO, Commander Mason, and his wingman no where to be seen. "Mason, zeke on your 6" I said. He started a scissors and i moved in, droped behind the zero, lined up, pulled my trigger, and got a rumble in reply. I watched as the tracers hit the
Zeke and the plane started flying straight. I must of killed the pilot, because i watched the plane fly straight down to the deck without anyone bailing out. A sad sight yet a part of war.

The battle finally ended, with a tally of all enemy aircraft destroyed, and no losses. I ended up with 4 kills. We formed back up and kept heading to our new home. We prayed that we wouldnt run into any more zeros because most of us were out of ammo and very low on fuel, we had to drop our drop tanks early because the japs decided to drop in on us unexpectdly. I kept watching my gas gauge the whole way there, i was getting close, way too close, to bingo fuel. "Land in sight" called our CO. Which ment we only had about another half hour or so to go. It was about a 10 min flight to our base when we were feet dry.

Runway in sight. Thank god, i let out a sigh of relief for the 2nd time today. We landed in pairs, the CO and XO, then me and my wingman, and then the rest of the squadron. We parked our birds, i got out and over looked mine. I found a bullet hole, right above where my head would be, missed me by a few inches. I had to sit down, and i thought about how i could of almost died today. That was a real eye opener, for it would be to anyone that has the same career as me. I defintaly reconsidered my choice of jobs.

I grew up with the love of flying, my father was a WW1 fighter pilot, and have the same love for flying as he did. He got shot down on his last sortie. He didnt make it back, he was capture, he escaped but was recaptured, tortured, and killed by the germans. My mom didnt want me to enlist, because she was afraid the same thing would happen to me. Now i am afraid for my self too. I have a girlfriend back home, that i want to return to when this war is over, and marry her, and have a family and grow old with her.

We took a look around our new home, i found my tent with my cot in it. I was sharing a tent with my wingman and a few other guys, Lt. Chookas and Ensign Reagan.

I sat down on my cot, and decided to write a letter to my girlfriend.

Dear Brenda,
I hope all is well with you, my squadron and i have finally reached Ondonga, New Georgia, in the solomons. We had to fight our way here, we were cornered by the japenese, about 30 planes in all. I cant wait to get out of here, i hope this war doesnt last very long.
I think about you daily and wish i could be there by your side. Stay true to me my love, for i will be home before you know it. Im sorry to make this so short but i want u to know im safe and will write when i get more time.

With Love,

I put the letter in an envelope and walked over to the radio shack, and asked when the mail planes due in, the sargent there replied " i dont know, with the heavy japanese activity, i dont think it will be in the next few days, a week at the most." Great i thought, what else could go wrong.

I walked to our briefing room, the de breif from out transit over was in 5 minutes. I found my wingman Lt. Bradley in the front and i sat next to him. There was slience between us both, still in shock from the flight earlier today. "Attention!" someone called from the back, we all stood up and snapped to attention as the CO and XO walked in. "As you were" said Cmdr. Mason.

"Well boys" he started, "Our flight here was a little rough, the japs are holding Bougainville and that will be our main concentration of attacks. The japanese strong hold in Rabaul is a major thorn in our side. We are close to the enemy, so be ready for air raids, and the closest women is in Espiritu. So forget about getting anything. Be here tommarow moring at 0500 for tommarows mission breifing, that is all, Dismissed" Cmdr Mason finish and we all got up and left. "Commander Dewey, stay behind" he shouted all of a sudden. I looked at my wingman and he shrugged his shoulders and left.
The CO came to me and said "Dewey, nice flying, keep it up, if we are going to make it we need to be at the top of our game" he said. "Yes sir we do." i replied, he told me to go on and get some sleep for tommarow is going to be a long day. I returned to my tent and my wingman asked what was up and i told him it was nothing, and i layed down on my cott and fell asleep, dreaming of being home and holding my girlfriend in my arms...

01-22-2005, 03:04 AM
Last year, some squad members missed one of our squad nights and were unhappy that my after-action report was so brief. So I reworked it ;

Lt "Dubbo" slurped back the remainder of his luke-warm coffee and leant back against the fender of a war-weary jeep, soaking up the warm morning sun. He closed his eyes, lit a cigarette by feel and listened to the footfalls crunching through the gravel towards him. He knew what was coming.

The footfalls stopped.
"Hmmm?" He cocked his head in the direction of the voice, but didn't open his eyes.
"Lieutenant!" Louder now, and with an undertone of menace."You are being addressed by a superior officer....."
Dubbo opened his eyes, drew to attention and saluted sloppily, holding the cigarette in his left hand.
The superior officer was Captain "Zeus-cat", normally a nice bloke, but he was in one of his moods again.

"Sorry Sir" Dubbo offered. The Captain looked at him evenly and saluted back after a pause.
"You missed the briefing Lieutenant.....again", he continued.
"Yeah Sir, I know...."
The Captain held up his hand and continued on.
"You are in the Army now fella, not roaming the streets of Brighton or where ever the hell it is you're from...."
"Brisbane Sir. It's in Austral...."
"I don't care Lieutenant. Miss another briefing and I'll personally see you back on latrine duty." He paused, expecting another interruption. When there was none, he continued. "Do you hear me Lieutenant?"
"Yes Sir!", came the reply.
"Good." He removed a map from his breast pocket and unfolded it on the hood of the jeep. Dubbo moved in closer to see.

"If you had bothered with the briefing you would already know that we are on a strike mission to the enemy-occupied rail yards here."
Zeus-cat pointed to some French town on the map. Dubbo, who had long ago given up trying to pronounce the foreign names that this period of his life brought him in contact with, just nodded."We will be going in one flight, four aircraft and your buddies over there", he gestured towards the P-51s gleaming in the sunlight,"will be flying cover for us. We are loading up with rockets and bombs but given this is a fairly short field we're going to go out with only half fuel and two 500lb bombs........."

As Zeus-cat continued, Dubbo glanced over in the direction of their P-47s. Armorers were busy loading the big fighters and he noted with some satisfaction the new camo paint, #3 (his kite) now sported. He thought it looked pretty good but he wondered what the Captain would think. There had been no comment, but probably only because he hadn't seen it yet. Only time would tell. He took a drag on his cigarette as Zeus-cat finished the abbreviated briefing.

".....Are we clear?"
"Yes Sir" he replied, as Zeus-cat refolded the map. Looking around, he noticed a couple of fellow pilots missing. "Sir, where are Quazi and the Major?"
Zeus-cat allowed himself a sigh.
"If you had attended the briefing you would also know that Lt Parker is on compassionate leave and the Major is away at some USO function."
Concern crossed Dubbo's features
"Is Quazi's thing serious?" he asked.
Zeus-cat shook his head.
"I don't think so" He paused and looked off towards the mess tent."Wanna grab some coffee, Lieutenant?"
Dubbo looked towards the mess tent as well and smiled.
"Sure thing Captain". Now they would sit down over coffee and chew the fat, ranks forgotten for a while. That was one of the good things about Zeus-cat. He could be a stickler for procedure but at the end of the day, he was one of the boys. Dubbo set off toward the mess.
"Grab me one too then and bring it to my office. And Lieutenant..." Dubbo turned back, smile frozen and groaned inwardly. The mood wasn't over yet it seemed.
"You probably should skip the coffee yourself and get a shave. You're in the Army now......"
"Yeah I know, I know," he resumed his trudge towards the mess, "I'm not roaming the streets of Brighton or where ever the hell it is I come from......"

As Dubbo sat in his "office" later, clean-shaven and wanting a cigarette, he breathed in the tangy aroma of avaiation gas as the big radial stumbled along at idle. He checked the instruments and made sure everything was operating normally, opening his cowl flaps to prevent the engine from overheating. He had a while to wait as he was second to last to take off. Suddenly his headset crackled to life. It was Zeus-cat, in #1. What now?

"Number 3"
"This is number 3. Go ahead"
"Dubbo, I could say that I like your new paint-job but I would not be telling the truth"
"Copy that"
"Get that changed as soon as we get back"
"Copy that"

"Well", he said to his instrument panel, "at least I get one sortie in it."

And then....,

Zeus and I flew strike, escort and pursuit missions. We shot some stuff up, down and got in some crashing. It was fun

01-22-2005, 09:33 AM
~S~ All http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/16x16_smiley-happy.gif

I have truly enjoyed this thread, and didn't realize what talented writers we have here. I started a follow up thread to get folks writing that normally wouldn't. It went this way, but I think that I will ask that posters in my thread write their replies here, in this thread . . . unless of course you don't want them to http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_biggrin.gif :


I had an idea for the folks who play offline mostly, but anyone who wants to play is welcome. I read some excellent stories in the other story writing thread. This one has a twist, however: I have written the first part of the story for you. Here it is:

<BLOCKQUOTE class="ip-ubbcode-quote"><font size="-1">quote:</font><HR>"Whew, I guess that all is left is a cleanup, then. Right, Sir?" Major Cullen said, "Yep, Son! They cleaned out the AAA, and all that's left are ground units." I started for the P-38L that had become my only friend since my arrival on this godforsaken island. Off to Okinawa. A few words with the crew chief, first. "'Mornin' Captain. I hope that you plan to take care of our baby today. Last time you brought me back 48 hours with no sleep!" "Yeah, Sarge. I know I shouldn't engage the enemy, but that is what they pay me for. Should I hold up a little sign that says 'Don't Shoot! We Are Friendly'?". "Well. it certainly would make things a little easier for me if you'd watch your manifold pressure, Sir. Don't go 'WEPing' just 'cause you think yer in a hot rod!" "Sarge," I said, "You wanna sit in my lap while I try to outrun a half dozen zekes when I am out of ammo?" "Never mind, Son." He said. "Just bring her back in one piece, and you in the same condition." "I'll certainly do my best." I started toward the plane, and as I climbed into the pit, waiting for the sarge to close the canopy, I heard him say "Give'm Hell, Sir."

Boring might be one way to describe it, but I always welcomed the challenge of low flight, and the adrenaline of strafing targets on the ground. My 38 felt sluggish, being equipped with 2 500 pounders, as well as a load of 5.5 inch HAVRS. I was to attack with my ordnance, a site known to be the strongest remaining element. When my bombs and rockets were gone, I was to survey the island for targets of opportunity. "Sigh! This could take forever!"

OK, this is where it gets different. You get to write your own ending to this story. Go to the quick mission builder, select the Okinawa map, the P-38L, get your ordnance in the arming options, turn off AAA, and select "Armor" for your target. Once you have expended your ordnance at the primary target, go looking for convoys and straggling elements. You'll find them just about everywhere. I like to fly this mission in the evening, but not too late. 1700 is good for visibility, still having the pretty evening skies. I recommend using the bombs to blow the bridge by the first element, trapping them there for your dastardly work. If you have a good experience, then come back and write your ending for us. Kill vehicles until you are out of cannon and MG rounds, fly home, and tell us about the experience. <HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Ok, there is the challenge. Also, some of you that have already posted great stories could do a really good job with this. You can add fighters and AAA to the mission to surprise your unsuspecting pilot, as well as to make the story interesting.

Boosher, please don't think that I am trying to hijack this . . . I think that this has been one of the most enjoyable threads in months, and I wanna play too http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_biggrin.gif


P.S. On a side note, the citizens of Okinawa were caught in the middle of a horrible situation. Roughly one third of the Island's civillian population were killed, making it one of the bloodiest battles of the second world war. Heartfelt sympathy to all those that remained, and ~S~ to those who died.

edit: Other post deleted. Probably best if all is kept here.

01-22-2005, 10:49 AM
That is a brilliant idea tsisqua! I won't be able to participate because I've been pretty sick, but I can't wait to see some responses.

01-23-2005, 12:52 AM
Here tis

Mail Run

The only Alarcon in the Soviet Air Force was cold. He had been cold for many months. In the darkness outside of the Yak snow was blowing and the wind pushed against the tail, moving the Yak ever so slowly clockwise. He closed the canopy and settled into the seat, adjusting straps and checking maps, checking to see if he had forgotten anything. This was ritual, he, as usual had not slept well and that sleep which did come held nightmare. He reached inside his tunic and touched the letter. Everything routine, the cold, his persistent headache, the vague pain in his ears from the changes in altitude, the ache of the wisdom tooth on the lower right of his jaw, the feeling that he should have urinated one more time after the briefing€¦.. everything normal. It was quieter inside the cockpit with the canopy closed and he was isolated with his dark thoughts. He was not yet comfortable in the Yak. He missed the familiarity that he had had with the Lagg 3, the feeling of oneness with the simple and honest design. He did not miss the Mig at all. He had been able to fly the Lagg to the edge of its limits and had had some success. To be sure, the Yak was very much faster and had greater fire power and maneuverability but he did not feel at home there. The smells were strange and alien, an odd mixture of sweat, oil, petrol, gunpowder, glycol and fear. He worked the stick and checked the ailerons on each wing and craned his head around to do the same for the elevator and rudder. Satisfied, he switched on the radio, tuned the frequency and sat back to wait. He thought of home.

In his village in the north of Spain he was not the only Alarcon. There were, in fact, twenty seven Alarcons, most of whom toiled, or had, in the vineyards owned by the patron. There were Guillermo Alarcon and Maria Alarcon, his parents, and Santiago Alarcon and Father Ismael and Isadora, Pablo, Manuel and many others. Alarcons all of them. He had been, however, the only Francisco Maria Agirra Alarcon in the village. He wondered, sadly, how many Alarcons were still there.

The radio crackled and he heard the distinct and jovial voice of Kapitan Peter Kropotkin €œMoggy€. €œWe are ready to fly, Starshiy Leitenant Virgin Mary, follow my lead.€ Moggy had not always been Moggy. At the time when he had taught Francisco to fly the Polikarpov I 15 Chato for the Republican Army he had called himself Gato but some of the Irish volunteers had changed that to Moggy and it had stuck. Francisco€s nickname was given to him when he had finally reached Russia and volunteered. Francisco had always been slight of build and even the imposing moustache he had grown could not change the soft features of his face. He did not mind the nickname. He had had none in Spain save that Moggy called all the trainees his €œVirgins€.

It would be a bit of a tricky takeoff in such a cross wind but he would do it by the book the way Moggy had taught him and the way Moggy always flew. He hoped that he would not make the mistake that one of the student pilots had made years ago in Spain. He had failed to keep the level and had hooked the tip of the Chato€s lower wing. The students had watched the sickening slow motion of the biplane progressing from wingtip to nose to wingtip to tail before scattering in fire.

Francisco, €œVirgin Mary€ adjusted the prop pitch and set the brakes firmly. It was not long before he heard the whir of Moggy€s engine and the muffled sound of the exhaust. He set the throttle, levered the ignition and listened to the whine of his own motor before it caught, coughed and, amid a swirl of exhaust smoke, settled into a rough and noisy fast tick over. A little left rudder aligned the Yak and he eased the brakes to let it creep forward, straightening the tail wheel which he then locked.

The engine smoothed as it grew warm and Virgin Mary lowered the flaps to the takeoff position, watching their whirring extension on each wing to be sure (more habit and wishful thinking than effective since he could not really see them). He disliked the feeling he always had when taking off, not quite of the earth but not yet of the sky. After he heard the roar of Moggy€s plane he counted slowly ten seconds and increased the throttle and then released the brakes. As the Yak lumbered over the snow he shifted his gaze constantly left and right to gauge the course between the bonfires, he could not discern the edge of the strip through the snow. More left rudder was needed as the Yak increased speed, veering gently left and right through the wind. The Yak rattled and creaked over the snow and the roar of the engine and rumbling of the wheels increased to deafening. One hundred sixty kph seemed to take an eternity to reach and Rosinante (as he called the Yak) seemed to hover there for too long. Virgin Mary thought of inducing emergency power to kick the Yak faster but it reached one eighty soon enough and he gently but firmly pulled the yoke back. The Yak rose then bounced and bounced again before the earth let go. Once airborne the plane seemed to wallow a bit (though not as badly as the Mig had loved to do) and Virgin Mary began an incremental ascent also to increase airspeed quickly. A stall at such a low altitude would be a very brief experience.

The climb to the assigned 2000 meter altitude was, despite the weather, routine, the only trouble being that he had a great deal of trouble keeping Moggy in sight. The visibility was terrible; such a place where one could not tell earth from sky and must guess from the instruments what was happening and where one was. Most of this thinking was, by now, automatic and could not occupy all of his thoughts and he thought again of Spain. He thought of the warmth, and the sun, and the clear sky and the sweet tangy taste of the local red wine (he was finally becoming accustomed to the bite of the vodka€¦€¦. perhaps too much so).

The civil war in Spain had not really been Moggy€s fight, but then, neither was it directly the fight of the thousands of other volunteers from all over the globe which had come to oppose the fascist insurgents. Virgin Mary thought often that, as far as Moggy was concerned, the rightness of the cause outweighed even the love of flying. Moggy had told him of events, age old struggles, which were happening in the world far beyond the Virgin Mary€s little village but, however large these events were, the Virgin Mary had listened much more attentively to Moggy€s advise and instruction about flying. Moggy had been the best flyer in the esquadrilla and had taught the art of maneuvering the nimble Chato in such a way that the speed of the Me 109s and G-50s would work against them. He had been successful enough that at least three pilots of the Legion Condor never would return to the Fatherland. He was much admired for his quick and sure tactics and the precision which would frustrate those who would try to follow him. El Gato, the cat, the name had suited him until the Irish had changed it to one more congenial to them (but just as deadly).

€œTwelve o€clock level, 1500 meters€ was Moggy€s voice over the radio, €œyou take one on right€. The Virgin Mary squinted through the blur of snow and could barely make out the small dot with wings. He increased the throttle to full and heard the satisfying response of Rosinante (such was the name he had given the Yak) and the airspeed climbed from the 320 cruise quickly to 400.

He patted the letter in his tunic, tugged at his gloves, armed his weapons and adjusted his grip on the yoke to one of gentile surety. The nose of Rosinante was centered dead on the nose of the bandit, perhaps 700 meters between them. Virgin Mary disliked head on shots (though Moggy relished in them), head on was deadly quick, bravery and accuracy would determine the victor. Which will it be, he thought, the toro or the toreador?

€œIs Storch€ said Moggy. €œThree€. Patiently, Virgin Mary centered the crosshairs on the growing dot. Two hundred meters, one hundred, closer, a light touch on the trigger and a brief deafening burst of machine gun and canon shattered the little planes starboard wing at the root above the cabin. Almost simultaneously, Virgin Mary pulled the yoke toward him and kicked the right rudder. Rosinante obeyed immediately and rose over the pitiful Storch as it began a clockwise death spiral. Left rudder and hard bank to port, hard back on the yoke, right rudder to maintain altitude, Rosinante shuddering at the force of the maneuver. €œGot him, he flames, that make us two. Let€s get other€. The Virgin Mary strained to find the remaining Storch . Through the snow and cloud he could make out only the flare of light that the burning Storch was showing. He estimated a small interval to the right and aimed the Yak at this imaginary place. As he straightened from the turn he found the Storch and realized that he had fallen below the level and pulled up slightly, fixated on the tiny target. One quick pass, he thought, then it would all be over. Make it fast so that the gunner in the rear could not range him. Rosinante gently rose and Virgin Mary calculated the firing solution. Four hundred meters away the rear gunner desperately opened fire. The tracers from the little gun arced high over Virgin Mary€s head and he thanked the stars for the gunners poor accuracy. Suddenly, the roar of the Yak€s engine seem to double and, almost too late, he saw the white underbelly of Moggy€s Yak fill his canopy. Virgin Mary pressed the yoke forward then back slightly to separate the two planes. The flash and sound of Moggy€s guns slammed his senses and he watched the trail of the tracers and a flash from the starboard wing of the Storch. After this brief burst, Moggy peeled away to port and Virgin Mary lifted Rosinante€s nose so that the crosshairs centered again on the target. At two hundred meters he squeezed the trigger in a brief burst and saw that his aim was level but a bit left, there was a small flash on the port wing of the Storch and bits of silhouetted debris. He gently pushed right rudder and swung the crosshairs, another short burst, a flash on the starboard wing, too much. He felt/heard the thud of the rounds from the Storch€s gun and he rolled to starboard in a long flat circle which would shortly put him on the enemy€s tail again. As he strained to find it in the darkness, he saw the flashes of Moggy€s guns and the longer answering flash from the Storch. Moggy peeled left again for another pass. €œWhat it take to kill you? Wooden stake in heart?€ he yelled over the radio to no one. As Virgin Mary closed again he noted that the port landing gear was missing and that the little plane was trailing vapor. He lined up again and fired a quick burst, when he regained his vision after the flash he was dismayed that the burst had done little. Closer, closer than one hundred meters and a long burst. At the same time, the Storch€s gunner opened up and he felt the slugs hit Rosinante€¦. a fearful number of them. At a distance which was much closer than he cared for, he stopped firing, shoved the yoke forward and dove under the Storch so as not to expose Rosinante€s belly at that too close range. He began a lazy upward circle to port. About half way around he saw a long flash of tracers from Moggy€s guns and again the answer from the Storch. Suddenly the smaller plane became a bright fireball which illuminated the clouds nearby. Hah!!! Better than stake in heart! You go to Hell now!€ was Moggy€s triumphant cry.

A bit later, back on course and at cruise, Virgin Mary was calm but still frustrated. He finally realized that a bundle of tubes and cloth does not have that many vital parts. He had only made some small holes.

€œYou trailing something€¦.thin stream€ Moggy said. €œStay level€. As Virgin Mary watched, Moggy slowly disappeared under Rosinante from port to starboard. €œMaybe fuel, maybe oil, maybe water. Gauges?€ Virgin Mary scanned the instruments. €œEverything been ok. Is normal€.

€œMaybe fuel then€¦. watch.€

The rendezvous with the Sturmoviks was splendid. The weather had cleared slightly and the snow had stopped. Stars could be seen in the scant patches of clear sky. After escorting them to their targets, Virgin Mary listened to the Sturmovik pilots exulting in their victories over their ground targets. He and Moggy circled over the display of streaming rockets and brilliant explosions. It seemed unreal, or perhaps too real, like a nightmare which terrifies and fascinates. But, in its own way, it was beautiful.

The fuel gauge showed more movement than was normal. Time to go home. The Sturmoviks would follow soon. More and more of them were reporting that they had fired all rockets. €œNinety degrees and 25€, was Moggy€s radioed instruction to Virgin Mary and, informational to the Sturmoviks, €œWe will be slow for you.€

At cruise and on the return Virgin Mary worried over the fuel gauge which, even though declining faster than normal, would probably be enough that he would not have to worry about an emergency landing. Instead he fretted about the Storch. He regretted that it had not been a Messerschmitt 109.

That part of the Virgin Mary which was not involved in scanning the gauges, checking the sky and remaining on Moggy€s six drifted from the frigid reality of the present back to a warm and sunny April Monday in his Viscaya village. It had been a market day and more. On that Monday he had been happy in the routine cycle of life of work and, on Mondays, social pleasure. He had watched a young girl, a particular young lady, grow into the beauty of the village by increments from Monday to Monday whenever he would deliver the red wine to market and pickup wooden casks or vegetables for the patron. Her name was Yolanda.

It was a splendid and happy day. Until the afternoon.

At first there was a distant drone of engines, not unusual in those days of he civil war but, as the drone grew louder there was a terrific explosion from the center of the village. He remembered the unreal sound of the screams that the children and women and men made as they ran past him. The church bells rang franticly. More sounds of engines, more (as he found out later) He- 111s, more explosions. He ran with Yolanda to her fathers shelter, crude as it was, beside the house. They spent two hours packed tightly with both family and strangers. There air was scarcely breathable it was so filled with dust. Smoke drifted in, choking thick smoke from the many fires set in the village. If they could not stay in the shelter they could try to run to the oak woods of the hills. Outside, they saw that the bombers were not dropping explosives anymore, but they dropped things that burst in flames and ignited everything that the flames touched. They ran out of the village through a nightmare of brick and beam, smoke and dust and, scattered about, an arm or leg or torso or someone€s head in pools of blood. After a surreal slow motion of horror they reached the road which led away from the village. It was jammed with some of the thousands that had come for market from miles around. Everyone was running from the fires behind them.

A new sound approached, a different engine sound with a persistent high whine and whistle intermixed with the roar. Single engine fighters were strafing the road. They were sleek and evil looking€¦. purposefully ugly and hideously beautiful at once. Sometimes they would come in single file, other times they were abreast as though they were experimenting to find the most efficient way to kill. The air was filled with evil whistling sounds and screams and pink sprays of blood. With strength he did not know he possessed, Francisco picked up Yolanda and ran. He ran over the bodies of the fallen and away from the village. Eventually, he was merely stumbling but he continued. He did not stop until he saw Father Ismael.

Father Ismael lifted the bloody thing that had been Yolanda from his arms.

€œHello guys, good to see you again.€ This from the radio and the Sturmoviks below. Moggy and Virgin Mary drifted back above the column of Sturmoviks and matched their speed. The Sturmoviks slid slowly by 1500 meters below them.

It was not very long after that day, and after the many funerals, and the mourning, that Moggy was teaching him to fly with the esquadrilla. He was a very good student. He had always been quick to learn and, thanks to Father Ismael, he was one of the few young men in his village who could read. So he had read. He had had no life-long yearning to fly. He had very rarely even seen an aeroplane. But the corrida of the Messerschmitt was in the sky, so there he would be also. His training was barely finished when the war for Spain was lost. He and Moggy retreated, with thousands of other refugees, civilian and army, north across the Pyrenees and the border into France to avoid the inevitable slaughter that the fascists would require. They suffered for long months in a French refugee camp and more months in a work camp after the Vichy had been placed in power by the conquering Germans. They became closer friends and extreme confidants. Moggy taught Francisco some basic Russian (which sounded to Francisco like broken glass) and Francisco taught Moggy a bit more of Spanish (which Moggy butchered with gusto). Eventually they escaped the Vichy work camp (they had been building incredibly poor arms from excellent designs) and had made their way to Russia. The eastern war, the Great Patriotic War, had begun two years ago.

That pleased the Virgin Mary.

€œJunkers at one o€clock level, 109s eleven at 15, Attack the transports.€ One of the Sturmoviks ahead and below sounded over the radio.

€œWake up Mary, we have work€ the last from Moggy. Virgin Mary reached into his tunic and touched again the letter.

Throttles to maximum they dropped straight east to 1000 meters, they did not bother veering slightly left to eleven, the 109s would no longer be there but after the Sturmoviks. Brilliant plumes of fire fell from the sky. The excited cries of the Sturmovik pilots indicated that the Junkers had been caught on approach and were easy kills. Others were strafing sitting ducks on the snow and scoring. Fires lit the night. Crisscrossing tracers from the German AA added to the madness.

€œClear my six, anybody, I am two kilometers west of aerodrome at 5 heading 90€. Not too far. Virgin Mary eased the throttle slightly and leveled a bit as Moggy dove toward the melee. In Short order he saw Moggy€s tracers lace toward a distant silhouette and also another silhouette curve sharply onto to Moggy€s tail. Virgin Mary slapped the throttle full, nosed over and then leveled off 400 meters behind the attacker. He wanted to be close and sure. €œ******* on your six, Moggy!€ he radioed just as the 109 in front of Moggy burst into flame. The 109 in front of Virgin Mary let loose a long burst. Small explosions appeared around Moggy. Virgin Mary closed to 200 meters, loosed a long burst into the Messerschmitt and was gratified to see explosions from the canon shells. The 109 was trying to line up on the wildly gyrating Moggy and the changing angles made for increasingly difficult deflection shots from Virgin Mary. Suddenly Moggy slowed and straightened as if finished and the 109 followed suit to get a perfect shot. Virgin Mary did the same and fired a long burst, mostly wild mostly to distract the 109 before he could fire. One shell caught the port oil cooler or radiator which began leaving a thin trail of smoke. Moggy arced to the left and accelerated in a decreasing spiral turn. As the 109 turned to follow he appeared ripe for a perfect deflection shot but, as Virgin Mary squeezed the trigger, only the machine gun responded. Then it stopped also. Virgin Mary cursed the ammunition that he had wasted on the Storch.

The German could turn tighter than Moggy, perhaps because of a lower speed or better trim, and he would soon be inside and have his own set up deflection. Virgin Mary hit emergency power, He was less than sixty meters behind the 109 and closing fast. He arced inside and passed over and slightly ahead of the 109 just as its pilot fired, wildly, as he increased the radius of the arc to avoid collision with the Yak. Virgin Mary pressed the other pilot farther out and wound up in front of him, very close but slightly off line. This was a situation which would not last, however, as his speed was greater and he would be a prime target soon. He rolled right into a steep, sweeping arc so that he could retain as much speed as possible and gain some distance. The German followed him as, in the present circumstance, Virgin Mary was the far easier target solution for him. Virgin Mary realized that he could not outrun the German as soon as he felt the thud and heard the whiz of rounds and saw the tracers fly by very close. At an altitude of 350 meters he rolled and kicked the rudder left then right. The 109 stopped firing but was closing. Short bursts traced past and into his port wing and Virgin Mary pulled the yoke sharply back just as the Yak rolled right side up. The response was mushy at best but he was climbing vertically and losing a great deal of speed. He cut the emergency power and closed the throttle, moved the flap lever to combat and kicked the rudder hard right. He did not execute the perfect 180 degree turn just at stall but instead did more or less fall sideways with the nose coming around slowly down. He shoved the throttle to full and heard the engine gain rpm quickly. The German shot by in a more conventional and sane upward arc. At about 140 kph he began to feel lift in the wings and he hoped that 600 meters was enough to pull up with his damaged elevator. It was€¦ barely. Level and low he raised the flaps, hit emergency power again and let Rosinante speed him safely away in a direction opposite that of the German.

Eventually he caught up with Moggy and settled on his six.

Virgin Mary fretted. He had checked the map constantly against what little he could see in the dimness. As far as he could tell they were on course, He was below and slightly behind Moggy but could not, with the damaged elevator, duplicate the perfect trim that Moggy had (always) achieved and he was constantly correcting. The fuel gauge he checked often, it indicated low but he would make it. His compass was out but, with Moggy ahead, he was not concerned. The weather had cleared enough that moonlight was reflecting from the snow.

He needed to smoke.

What worried him most was that Moggy had not answered his many calls. But everything must be alright. Just that the radio was out, not a rare thing to happen. At the proper waypoint Moggy cut his throttle and began the slow descent to approach the field. Virgin Mary requested permission to land for both of them and informed the tower (such as it was) that Moggy had damage and a radio problem and would be first in. This was confirmed and Virgin Mary began to relax. That is, as much as he could relax on approach€¦ he disliked landing even more than he disliked taking off. Moggy had kidded him constantly about this fear of the hard earth.

He could see the bonfires outlining the strip off to the left. They would be turning soon to the north then west again to line up with the snowy strip. Moggy turned smartly to port and began a slightly steeper descent and Virgin Mary followed. At two hundred meters altitude and at the waypoint where they should turn toward the strip and settle in, Moggy flew straight. Virgin Mary watched as the plane slowly descended onto the snow, slid for a time, then slewed to the right and stopped. He radioed the position and turned toward the strip, reducing the throttle and lowering the flaps as he did so. As he touched down he saw the ambulance racing to the north east.

Alone in his quarters, Virgin Mary sat heavily on the edge of the wooden chair and leaned his elbows on the small table.

He lit a candle, took the letter from his tunic and placed it in the candle€s light against a small statue. He stirred the fire in the small iron stove and its heat slowly worked into the room. His hands, which had been so deft and so sure in the combat, began to tremble uncontrollably With these trembling hands he carefully loaded his pipe and lit it, poured a small glass full of vodka and gulped it. He poured another, sipped at it and fretted. He had been ordered out of the infirmary but still had not seen Moggy. All he had been told was that Moggy was €œbeing taken care of€.

From somewhere beyond the thin walls of his quarters he heard the sounds of someone cranking the handle of a record player and then the scratchy, low and tinny sound of a mournful song. He had heard the voice before, a woman€s voice, sad but accepting. He did not know the name of the song or where he heard it or whether it was French or English or even German. He did not know and could not hear it well enough to decide if there were violins or muted horns. He liked it even though it was so opposite the strong and uplifting lyrics of the women€s songs that Yolanda used to sing at the collective. It was his mood now that the music fit so well.

He sipped more of the vodka and tilted his head so that it would pool around his aching tooth. He swallowed. He poured another. His hands had, finally, stopped their trembling. He relit his pipe and stared at the candle flame. In the flicker of it seemed to dance so many images, so many detached memories. Beyond the walls the song began again, someone else thinking, remembering€¦. there had been life, and beautiful purpose. He did not know how long he had sat there. After a time he was pulled back from within himself by the whir and pop of a small engine come to life, then more. €œThe Night Witches€, he thought. He raised a glass of the vodka, €œSend them to hell€ he saluted them and drank. A vague time later the Major appeared. He touched Francisco on the shoulder and shook his head a solemn €œno€ to the unasked question. €œToo much blood, most of jaw and some fingers gone. Too much loss. Too much€ he said.

Francisco stared mutely as the Major filled two glasses from the bottle he carried. €œSaluda€.

€œSaluda. Spacebaw€ Virgin Mary finally said. After a silence the Major continued, €œZero six hundred you lead Yaks to keep Sturmoviks safe?€ Francisco nodded, there were no words needed.

After the major had gone he saw the bars of a Kapitan on the corner of the table. He noticed that one of them was red stained. He picked them up as carefully as one would handle a splinter of the true cross. He held them for a small eternity and then, at last, pinned them to his tunic.

After a time he took a piece of paper from his notebook and wrote.

€œMy Friend Kapitan Moggy€, he began, €œToday they named you a Hero of the Soviet Union.....€.

Sometime later he straightened up. He folded the letter and placed it inside the envelope with the one he had written to his Yolanda. Perhaps he would deliver both of them this day. The address was of no matter, there would never again be that address in Guernica. It would have to be delivered personally.

He placed the envelope inside his tunic and left for the briefing.

author: Corvid (Was me before I was Three Crow)

Please forgive any anomalies of flight characteristics which have been included in the above story€¦was long ago and I was very noob. It was written as a result of an actual mission, not historic from the Great Patriotic War, but from the original Il2 dgen. So don€t ask me why were three Storch aircraft aloft in the dead of night in a snow storm or all the transports either. It was a mission and I flew it.

Francisco Alarcon did fly in the Spanish Civil War.

I did not discover until a year or two had past that I had, for reasons unknown, told (in small part) the story of Jose Maria Bravo. (note the €˜in small part€). Que the music from €œTwilight Zone€.

As Bearcat says€¦ it is all in the immersion

01-23-2005, 11:09 AM

I couldn't stop reading! Nice job, and in the world of a writer, absolute historical accuracy is not necesarry . . . just like in a flight sim.

Very good job, Sir http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_smile.gif

01-25-2005, 02:28 AM
22 years old, with 22 kills, flying a FW 190 D9 designated Blue 2. The date is January 2nd 1945. Hmmm... what a coincidence all 2's today. Will i shoot down 2 or 22 aircraft today, or will i be shot down 2 times today? I can't die 2 times right? I pondered at these questions myself.

Our mission today is to patrol and cover the turbo fighters if they decide to come up. The weather is very bad today heavy cloud covers as far as the eye can see. I insisted on flying because my staffel consist of all boys except for no. 3 Muencheberg and no.8 Peter. Well the nachwuchs will get some pressure in these flying conditions, to learn about their aircrafts and get some instructions from us and also the allied fighters might not come in these conditions.

As i let my staffel up into the air the clouds began to break up and the air was clear with a few scattered clouds in front of us. I took a deep breath and let it out thinking if they come now my boys might not make it to tomorrow. Just like those on yesterday's Bodenplatter mission. What a waste of life and machine.

As we reach our last assign patrol point my worse fears immerge as a few black specks right infront of us, I counted 16 aircraft and immediately gave out orders...

"look out fighters infront of us, everyone stay cool we're going for them"
"two, you're with me. climb now."
"element three head straight for them."
Element three consist of no.8 through 12.
"element two cover element three."
Element two was no.3 through 7.

As I reached 2300 meters I rolled a few degrees to the left just in time to see my third element charge at the raiders with guns blazing. element two was diving at target of opportunity and my rotte was about to fall on the enemy when when i heard no.2 shout...

"This is 2 **** I'm being hit, help!"
At this moment the RT was filling up with noise but I could hear my more experience element leaders said, " element three go for altitude." "element two pull up for altitude."

I look behind and my no. 2 is missing.
"Two come in, where are you? Two? Lohrberg! come in."
I shook my head and thought to myself, he's gone.

Just as i was finishing my thoughts and my shallow left turn, 4 aircraft appear to my 2 o'clock and 10 degrees up. I squinted at them and try to identify. Air intakes below the fuselage! not ours. I immediately targeted the first enemy and put full power to the throttle. They were flying from my right to left.

The first enemy was too far away so is the second the third one just flew past some 400 meters infront of me and now I can see that they are Mustangs, I look to my right and the fourth Mustang was going to fly past in front of me too. I took aim some two wings length infront of the enemy Mustang and open up with all four guns. The Mustang's engine caught fire fight away and as i pull up and roll to see the burning aircraft, the Mustang exploded and the remaining Mustangs scattered.

By now there were aircraft all over the sky and the RT was noisy as hell, I feel like tearing it away. I hung at my altitude of roughly 2300 meters and looking all around to see if here's any enemy targeting me, and to take in the overall tactical picture.

Roughly 2000 meters below me I saw red tracers and I trace them to a pair of Thunderbolts chasing a Dora. I immediately jam the throttle forward and dive down at them and my machine gave a loud growl as if trying to scare away the Thunderbolts. But no, the lead Thunderbolt was pouring fire onto Dora mercilessly and debris came tearing out of the Dora.

By now the chase has reach tree top level and as i closed i open up with my small machine guns and firing up and down the Thunderbolt hoping to distract it but the he was determine to down his Dora so he continued firing. I was charging in too fast so i cut throttle and pull up, half roll and came back in at the Thunderbolt again. As i have him at my sights i try to distract it again with my machine guns and i shouted... 'LOOK BEHIND YOU, LOOK BEHIND, SOMEONE'S TRYING TO KILL YOU..LOOK...!" but it was in vain, the target Dora erupted in flames and tumble into the trees.

Now i was at the Thunderbolts six and slightly below, as i close to 150 meters i open with all guns and the enemy plane pull up to try escape. PERFECT SHOT!
" NOW YOU DIE BASTARD!" i shouted. And the Thunderbolts tail section came apart and tumble down.

I pulled up in a climbing turn at high speed and only now remembering his wing man, i look behind and surely the second Thunderbolt was trying for a shot at me and following my climbing turn but i know that he won't be able to follow me and a few seconds later he leveled out and fled on high speed.

The moment i saw this i put full flaps and roll my Dora over, as i dove on the enemy i straighten out my flaps and trim my elevators and i fire again with my machine guns to see his reaction. At first he didn't move but as my bullets started peppering at his air craft he went evasive doing barrel rolls and diving turns and all this while i was taking snap shot at him to make him loose altitude.

The inevitable happen, the Thunderbolt was now slowing down and loosing altitude. As he came out of his right turn i fire all my guns while my air craft was still at a 45 degree roll coming out of the turn. The Thunderbolt erupted in small explosions from right wing root through the fuselage and all the way to the left wing tip.

By now the Thunderbolt no longer went evasive and was streaming fuel and grey smoke. I line up on his six and open up with all four guns again, and the enemy air craft was now in flames. Through the black smoke i saw the canopy pop up and over, reflectively my mind thought "get the pilot" and my muscle suited words for action. Before i knew it all my guns were firing again and hitting the flaming Thunderbolt but i saw the pilot tumble free from the flaming wreckage and the Thunderbolt broke to pieces.

Instinctively I throw my Dora into a sharp right turn and then a split S looking around to see if there's any enemy air craft. Nothing! not an object in sight but now i can make out the RT chatter. no. 6, 7 , and 8 was still fighting.

Good, no.8 - Muencheberg was a good leader and good shot and as i started to listen on heir battle chatter no. 6 & 7 started panicking.

"there's a Spitfire on me, help!"
"my god Lightnings diving on me"
"I'm hit! I'm hit!"
"****! there all over the place"
"Go evasive, I'm coming"

I couldn't make out who's saying what? **** it, Spitfires, Lightnings, Mustangs, Thunderbolts, what's next? Tempest? Typhoon?

"8 this is 1, where are you?" i ask.
"uuuhhhh... i don't know... uuuhhh... busy..." answered 8.
"Ground control this is 1 can you vector me to the battle?"
"I don't see them 1, sorry."
"All right, ground control vector to home" i said resignedly.

Now the RT was mostly silent and a black speck appeared i o'clock from my position.

"This is 1, all ships report in"
"3 reporting in"
"where are you 3?"
"i'm heading 080"
"i'm heading opposite that" i said. "i'll rock my wings, see that?"
"Ja, i see it" 3 answered back.
"Form up on me Peter, we'll head back." i told 3.

At this moment the RT came alive!

"Lightning down!"

I look around quickly to see what's going on, but nothing. A few seconds later.

"Spitfire down"

"8 is that you?" i ask.
"Ja, busy now 1" 8 answered.

Be careful Muencheberg i thought.

"Spitfire down! **** i'm impotent and thirsty.

With that i know that 8 will be heading for home at full speed, our field is just coming up and the clouds are back in full force again. Well we'll compare notes later this evening, i thought and slowly shook my head, and in the next few days we''ll break in some more nachwuchs for the meat grinder.

01-25-2005, 03:04 PM
Really enjoying this thread.
I posted the following in the PF forum back in November maybe it fits better here...


The shadows of our zeros were still long on the gently rolling deck that morning. There was a bit of a haze, but was otherwise pleasant flying weather. Too bad there was a war on. Bright sun on our backs and calm seas; another good day to die, I thought. We readied up with great anticipation of meeting the enemy over the Islands of the Marianas. As number 3, I had a moment or two to get comfortable in the cockpit; studied my map one last time, opened up the cowl flaps, double checked my wing positions... yes, down and locked. Relax. My mind was focused on the take off. "Remember, not too much elevator, pull the gear in ASAP". Ok, I was mentally ready. Good thing too... my turn. Relax. I ran the throttle up and "Chocks away!" She was screaming, but I crept forward at an agonizingly slow pace. Relax. Begrudgingly, the zero gained speed. The tower slipped past on my left and my tail finally caught some air. The dropping nose revealed the end of the deck; it was ever so rapidly approaching. I was surprised that I quite easily lifted off the deck before it disappeared beneath me. My shoulders slumped a bit as the muscles in my neck released and I finally remembered to exhale. Ok, gear up. Canopy closed. I focused on the flight leader. He had chopped throttle a bit and allowed me to swing into loose formation. Our port wings dipped in unison as we turned toward the objective in the haze beyond. Over my left shoulder I saw the rest of our flight delicately rising off the carrier. The whole fleet was silhouetted against the morning sun's dazzling reflection in the waters. Certainly a beautiful sight. I hoped to see it again soon.


We didn't wait for the rest of the flight to join up as our task that morning was to soften the AAA in the target area to assist our ground attack planes that followed. Our briefing explained that the enemy was launching an invasion on the beaches of the island below. We also had troops and artillery down there defending from the heights above those beaches. Already, I could pick out tracer fire between the clouds ahead. We were closer to the island than I had imagined. She already sat prominently out of the water before us, shrouded in a bit of atmosphere. Intense tracer fire (obviously AAA) lit up the other side of the mountain ridge. It was definitely hot over there.

I followed my flight leader as he dropped to about 200m and we slipped over the beaches of the dormant side of the island. The mountain quickly rose to meet us. We skimmed over the crest of a ridge with minimal clearance and suddenly the scene was unfolded before us. The mountain ridge continued to starboard, turned a little and formed a bowl overlooking the beach off our port wing. Our troops on the ridge (then above us) were taking hits from heavy naval bombardment. No ships in sight, however. The beaches were teeming with enemy landing craft. One particular area was concentrated with AAA... this was our target. Hugging the downward slope, we entered the battle parallel to beach and ridge. We were really moving. The palms below us were a blur. I noticed my flight leader making evasive maneuvers. AAA had found us. We were traveling through a tunnel of flak.


I had no bomb, so I broke off from the lead's direct path toward the very hostile enemy positions. He and his wingman continued in. I held my course close enough to draw some of the fire, but it was too little effect. The lead plane took several devastating hits and plowed in, never releasing his load. I'm unclear what happened to his wingman, but there was no visible damage at the target area.


I decided that another run on that target was useless, assured death. I turned my attention to enemy planes now appearing at my 12 o'clock. Banking right to avoid the intense flak, I tried to gain altitude to meet the oncoming threat. Maybe I could coax them to meet me above our troops on the ridge. Our AAA, if any remained, may assist me.


The enemy was, indeed, intent on our troops. I was totally ignored. I watched the stubby little planes dive in on our positions. Rockets were fired. We took some nasty losses, by the looks of it. Fortunately, I was in good position to fall on the tail of the lead enemy plane as he climbed out of his rocket attack. I fired high and right€¦ and a little early. I know better than that. He rolled violently. Closer now, I fired again. Low and left. This will not be easy. He broke left and I followed. A quick glance over my shoulder showed a number of his mates in hot pursuit. One of them was chasing down my wingman. I should have broken off but I found that following the bandit in his aggressive turns kept his guys from drawing a bead on me. We were low on the deck and screaming fast by that time. He pulled up and right, then left again and I managed my first couple hits on him. I watched the bright flashes on his plane hit broadside just below the cockpit glass. Good solid hits, but short of the engine I was aiming for.


He had slowed considerably and I blew past him. I noticed his plane betraying evidences of a stall, a deadly consequence at this altitude. His wingmen continued their pursuit. Their tracers began nipping at my tail. I took a couple hits. It was getting ugly fast. My prey never fully recovered. He crashed shortly after I peeled away.

My pursuers broke off momentarily, and I had a chance to take stock of the awful state I was in. Enemy planes blanketed the sky. Two were coming in from high in front of me, another couple sat at a distance on my tail, and one or two others were in the general vicinity. No friendlies in sight. I called for help but quickly became resigned to my fate. I wasn€t going to make it home. Suddenly, I was "head-on" with another enemy that I had not even noticed.


We closed at an astonishing rate. I saw his guns flashing. I pushed the stick and slipped just underneath him. No hits, but that was too close. My evasives were not enough to deter the four or five wildcats now determinedly on my tail. They were all over themselves to get at me. I banked left. I banked hard right. I gained enough altitude to roll over and dive in the reverse direction. They were still there. I happened into another head-on pass. Again, astonishingly close with similar result. There were too many planes to keep track of. All I could do was present a difficult target and hope for help to arrive.

My senses were jolted by a bright light that filled the cockpit. I heard an explosion behind me. Two of my pursuers collided in the melee as we all roared through a hard turn to port.


I turned to see pieces of them falling and bouncing along the earth a short distance below. Following a brief moment of relief, another couple enemies fell in to replace the unlucky ones.

I was redlined and the nimble zero was overheating badly. I needed relief€¦ fast. Again, I hoped to maneuver in the area of our troops so that our AAA might assist me. I began to make my way there. About this time, my €œhead-on€ friend returned. This time he was falling on my rear quarter with guns blazing. I heard multiple hits on my wings and fuselage. My nimble fighter was quickly becoming less so. To my horror, I felt a hard jerk as my port wing separated from the fuselage. Here it is, I thought. Too low to bail, I instinctively held full right rudder in a vain attempt to remain airborne. I just had time to look back at the victor in this battle. My vision was a blurry red haze, but through it, I watched him follow me all the way in.


Salute, Mongral! You€re a worthy and honorable foe. And Salute, Seahawk89, you make a mean mission.

01-27-2005, 02:14 AM
... sunny day of late July, 1941. AM-38 engine roars satisfiedly at 1800 rpm, throttle set to 60%, heavy IL-2 Sturmovik flies, trimmed properly, some 50m behind the third in our formation of four light green ground attack planes. Several hundred meters in front of us there are another two similar formations. High above, in summer blue sky I can see pairs of small dots flying in "S" while trying to keep with us - our small friends, most probably nimble I-16s, or maybe clumsy MiG-3s. 700m bellow a flat green Russian lands are passing slowly, from time to time revealing small and primitive willages. The dusty roads are almost empty, save few supply or armored columns moving towards or from the front.

Looking to the side, I can see the barrels of ShKAS machinegun and ShVAK cannon protruding from each grass-green wing. What I cannot see from the cockpit are six FAB-100 bombs, placed in the belly and bellow the centroplane of the aircraft. The target in my first combat mission is a German airfield.

Crossing the frontline is fortunately quick, but the 20mm Oerlikon positioned somewhere in the open land makes me to dive 200m lower and dodge a bit, to spoil the aim of Flak crew. After each series of unpleasant detonations the Flak goes quiet for a moment, just to open fire again. I am noticing the range at which the small projectiles explode in the air is changing after each such a short break.
I am increasing rpm with pitch lever and giving full throttle to catch my formation, which got scattered a bit but reunifies again.

The radio chatter bursts suddenly, repeating warnings, shouting and cries for help. Obviously or fighter escort flying well ahead us is just engaging with enemy fighters. From the screams I learn they were bounced unexpectedly from above. That´s not good news for us. But before I can start really worrying, I can recognize the explosions in the air behind a flat mountain ridge in front of us, covered with dense forrest. The airfield is exactly ahead of us, surely equipped with heavy 88mm flak pieces.

I am hastily setting the mixture from 70% to 120%, pushing pitch lever fully forward and giving full throttle. I ease the trim to neutral to be able to pull up quickly after the attack. Sweaty fingers are touching again and again release buttons of bombs and triggers of on-board weapons. The engine roars loudly, but the hollow explosion several tens of meters behind me is well heard. The nasty whizz of 88mm shell fragments makes me to diminish into small ball in the pilot seat. The air pressure shakes the heavy airplane like a wind did to a small trainer biplane I used to fly in our local Aeroclub "Stalinskyi Sokol" two years ago.

I can already recognize the runways and parking lots on the airfield. It is almost empty. All enemy fighters went airborne in alert and now they are struggling with our fighter escort. Several hundred meters left from me there is a small plane falling ablaze, seems to be one of our I-16s. 20mm flak, positioned on another corner of an airfield, is firing at it furiously until the crippled plane explodes in the air. The burning fragments paint smoky curves towards the ground.

I see three twin-engine aircrafts parked side by side, most probably He-111 bombers. With screaming engine flying low I cross the runways and release the pair of FAB-100 as soon as the big crates disappear bellow my armored nose. Due to engine roar, radio chatter and thick armor behind me I don´t hear any sound of explosion.

The explosions of 20mm Flak are sudden and terryfiyng. I pull a bit, then push down and dodge right and left, feeling the small fragments hitting the armor. I am flying in the tree-top level and after long 15 secs the fire stops. Not fully, as in the next moment the 88mm shell hits the ground just in front of me.

I enter left climbing turn, reversing the course and gaining some 300m altitude. The aerial combat rages all over the airfield and around. I see several parachutes descending slowly in the clear sun light.

This time I approach the airfield at higher altitude, to have enough time for my wing weapons. The Heinkels seem to be untouched by my previous raid, I can already recognize the black spot 20m behind them - the place where hastily released bombs hit the ground.

The right Heinkel is growing in the gunsight and I press the triggers. The hollow and metallic rattling of 20mm ShVAKs and high buzz of 7,62mm ShKASs shakes the plane a bit, but not too much to spoil the aim. Green and red tracers first kick dust in front of the Heinkel, then move up and the explosions start to cover the glassy cockpit and centroplane. The bomber suddenly explodes, leaving a black broken torso in the cloud of fire. I pull up so low that I fly through small debris still flying above the charred wreck. I release the second twin of FAB bombs, but probably doing no more harm than a craters on the grassy runway.

Not molested by Flak that time, I decide to do the last pass. 1km from the airfield I turn and approach the killing grounds again. I can see another Heinkel has turned to wreck smoking heavily, most probably hit by another IL-2. When deciding whether to aim at remaining one, or to attack the 20mm Flak position still sending its blue chain into the sky--


The red explosion goes off exactly in front of my windshield. The Sturmovik´s heavy armored body kicks left and reverses right, but the red colour does not dissapear - I am heavily wounded!! The thick black smoke starts pouring from my ill-screaming engine. I try to turn the plane away from the Flak, but the ailerons are torn off by explosion. I scream. The black smoke turns to bright yellow fire, I can barely see anything in front of me. I scream "I am hit, I am hit, I am on fire, I don´t see anything, to land, I have to land..!" hitting flaps lever I am falling down, leveling and roughly hitting the ground. The heavy burning armored plane stops and I am hitting the Ctrl E key desperately, yelling "bail out, bail ouuut" - but nothing happens. The fire roars louder and louder, and - suddenly the screen went slowly, but steadily darker.

Everything is black. I can still hear the fire roaring, then the sound goes faint and dissappears.

01-27-2005, 09:30 AM
great stories Boosher and Rall, very nice. especially the one where the american flyer salutes everyone by saying F*ck you, thats totally hilarious http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/16x16_smiley-very-happy.gif

01-27-2005, 04:12 PM
a bump. **** I hate the flu. The screen hurts my eyes, can't fly.. http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_frown.gif

02-02-2005, 05:31 PM
I started up a full real Eastern Front Yak campaign for myself tonight. I'm flyin the Yaks all the way through, and the Yak-1 and 1b for the majority of the war. But I flew differently tonight....

I only did one thing different than I normally do, it seems to be significant. Of course the starting date was June 22nd, 1941, and as I took off on border patrol I saw the incoming 110's and 109's. I turned myself and my flight toward them and began the long climb to fight for the motherland.

I don't know whether any of you do this, but I have picture of the 3 people I love (long story behind that) sitting on my desk, and as I climbed to combat, I looked at the photograph. The experience was almost surreal. My "in Flight music" is Eloi from the Time Machine Soundtrack, and that added to it...

For a moment I forgot I was playing a game. These pictures were in the cockpit with me, the music was in my head. Finally reaching altitude I let off a burst of fire with my friend's pictures boring into my mind. They were a constant thought, I never let them go. I twisted and turned, I barely remember what I did. I wish I had recorded a track. By the end of the brawl I had shot down 2 Bf-110's, one solely w/ my Yak-1's MG's, and 4 kills, 3 110's and 1 109 were stolen from me, but who cares. Landing my plane, and coming to a halt on the runway just before the taxiway, I saw two dots in the air and the rear one had red tracer fire, lots of it.... I realized that there was a Bf-110 on the tail of my wingy. Again my friends burst into my head, these people I love, these people I trust more than any person in the world, more than my own biological parents. Heck, these 3 friends ARE pretty much like parents for me. Even though their pictures didn't speak, I could feel what they wanted me to do. So with no runway left, I floored the throttle and took off bumpily to chase the 110 and break it off my wingy. I clicked my trigger, and I discovered that I was out of ammo, but that couldn't stop me, my wingy was in danger, and I had to save him. So I flew directly on top of the Bf-110, causing the AI pilot to do what the AI normally does, panic. The 110 pilot pulled off my wingy's six and headed for home, with no guns, I stayed below him to make sure his rear gunner didn't hit me, but I kept pressure on him, I drew him right over my airfield and let the AAA guns rip him to shreds.

THAT IS IMMERSION. But yet again, I could not have done what I did without the feeling I recieve every time I look at these photos of my friends. I forgot about greed and getting as many kills as possible. It annoyed me that my flyers were going after targets that I had wounded instead of the real threats, but nonetheless, my duty to them was most important, as was my duty to my friends to stay alive, just to be able to see them one last time....

I'll be posting this in the story thread as well, but I thought it could serve as an example:

Love makes us do things we never thought possible, even if it's as cheesy as keeping a wingman alive in a virtual combat situation. Don't underestimate it.

02-02-2005, 08:39 PM
I love reading these stories.

They lead...always... to the idea of reality.

....and all the time it was reality that drove the diversion.

Has anyone ever seen an old Frank Capra (I think) movie called "Sullivan's Travels"?

There is a fellow who has "It's The Immersion". in his sigline.

He is right.

I met a lady online and we wrote a story together... Victorian erotica.

We been married for six years now..... and I fly Il2 and have friends here that do not think that I am a little "peculiar" because I am virtually in BoB or Wake.

Life is good...... (actually the 'whirled' is worrisome)..... gads does it ever change things when one gets old and tips a few.

Cheers Comrads, and thanks for the great stories.

02-13-2005, 09:36 PM
Chapter 3

I was startled awake by some of the pilots walking to the briefing at 0500. I hurridly got dressed and ran to the briefing room and found a place next to my wingman, Lt. Bradley. "Attention!" someone called from the back. The CO and XO were walking up. "As u were" said Cmdr Mason, today gentlemen, task force 50 will start an attack on Rabaul. We are assigned to fly CAP over the task group. We take off at 0400. We will be assisted in our mission by VMF-212, VMF-221, and VF-33 and a squadron of P40's from New Zealand. Get suited up, we are headin out. That is all" Cmdr Mintz finished. We all rose up, to go get ready for our long day
inhead of us.
I walked out to my plane, doing my checklists, checking the prop and blades, making sure it will spin, so it doesnt lock when i start it. I check my control surfaces and my 174 gal drop tank that has been added to my plane. I hop into my cockpit, strap in and put my flight cap on, and start my preflight checklists. The signal to fire engines is given and i flip my mags, turn fuel on, pull mixture back, increase throttle a bit, and fire my engine up, i feel my 2,000 hp Pratt and Whitney roar to life. Its amazing how you can feel the sheer power when u hear it running.

We are given to signal to take off, me and my wingman took off after the CO and XO, we formed up and headed on course to the task force. We reached the carrier around dawn, and were met up with by the VF-33, who were flying Hellcats. There was no action what so ever in the early morning or our CAP. At 0900, our squadron and VF-33 landed on the carrier to refuel. After Cmdr Mason and LtCmdr Ward landed, it was my turn. I started my approach, the LSO guided me in, a little low, alittle to the left, too high, and finally i got the signal to cut and land, I took a major sigh of relief when i felt my hook grab the cable. I refueled and took back off and waiting for the rest of my squad.

Morning was turning into early afternoon, and the weather was getting worse by the hour. At 1300, the radar operators on the ship dectected a large formation coming towards the ships. The CAP squadrons were scrambled. A few minutes out,i saw somthing i wish i didnt see, my heart stopped.

I saw atleast 100 Jap planes, a mix of fighters and bombers..

We had an altitude advantage over them, our whole squadron dived down on the zekes, i lined up on a zeke, pulled the trigger, and with a rumble in reply, saw tracers hit the zeke and it started smoking. The pilot bailed and the plane spalshed down. I pulled out of my dive and climbed back up with my wingman in a lose formation, i we demolished almost all of the zekes on one pass. I saw the bombers trying to sneak away, i headed towards the Vals and Kates. I dived down on a kate, pulled the trigger, and watched explosions from where my bullets hit,just below the cockpit where the pilot sits i saw 2 parachutes, i assumed the pilot didnt make it out alive. I saw a dot coming out of a cloud, and counted 3 Kates, preparing to make a torpedo run
on one of the carriers, but Lt. Klusaw and his wingman bounced them. The ship's AA guns opened up on the kates. Lt. Klusaw and his wingman shot down 2, and pulled up and got away from the AA. I dove down on the 3rd kate, but i didnt see the zekes above me, my wingman stayed high to cover me, as i was opening up on the kate, a zeke dropped down and started to open up on me, but before i could react my wingman was there and shot him down. "Thanks Bradley" i said.

For the day's action in what came to be called The Battle of the Solomon Sea, VF-17 was credited with 18.5 confirmed kills and 7 damaged Japanese planes. Two pilots, Baker and Hill, were forced to ditch their planes on-route to Ondongo; both were successfully rescued. The battle was a major strategic victory for the Allies, as the Japanese gave up all attempts to repel the invasion of Bougainville afterwards. Instead, they attempted whatever holding action they could in the Solomons while withdrawling their forces to the strongholds of Truk and Rabaul.

02-14-2005, 07:07 AM
great story m8 http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/25.gif

02-14-2005, 01:06 PM
Cool story Yankee!

02-24-2005, 03:40 PM
Okay. Bringing this one back from the dead. http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_wink.gif
I don't post often but I do lurk a lot, and I couldn't just pass this thread up... So congrats on pulling me out of the woodwork.

Story is scraped together from various QMB and full missions, mostly. Those of you who're more familiar with the I-16's little "quirks" might get a little more out of it than others.

The writing style does get a little wierd.. Just pretend you're reading the pilot's mind. http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_wink.gif And please forgive any spelling or technical errors.. I wrote all this over several breaks at work, so not much time to spell of fact check. (also why it took so long to finish)

Anyway, please enjoy.

It was cloudy the morning I flew Yedor's plane home. Yedor could not do the job himself, because he was dead.

Three days ago, while he was chasing a wounded Stuka, a 109 caught him unawares with a high-deflection shot from his 9 o'clock that had ripped through the unarmored side of his I-16, and also through him.

I watched it happen, and I also watched as he slowly rolled over to the right, and began a long, slow descent down into the clouds below.

Still, he must have been wounded only, not killed. Because he managed to ground his plane safely in a field, using the long stretch of a dirt road.

He carefully shut off the engine, unstrapped himself, lay down on the wing, bleeding, and watched the sky until he could see nothing at all.

He was found a day later, in that field, by the farmer who owned it.

In the evening of that next day we recieved the call. It was decided that I would go out and return Yedor's plane, which was badly needed. The squadron so far had lost 6 planes, and 4 pilots.
The war was 2 weeks old.

My own plane was out of action. On landing approach, a sea bird found it's way to my I-16. Apperantly unconcerned with the noise of a half-dozen droning engines, it crossed lazily into the path of my descent. The propeller batted half away, but the remainder lodged in my plane's radiator, with enough force to damage it. So I was the one chosen to bring home Yedor's errant plane, while my mechanic picked bits of baked pelican out of my engine.

Before dawn, myself, two mechanics, and the equipment needed to start the I-16 were packed into the back of a heavy truck and driven out to the farm.

We arrived to find that they had pushed the plane into a barn. Its stubby yet streamlined shape made an odd contrast to the farm equipment and hay that filled the remainder of the building. The name "Yelizaveta" was painted on the side of the plane in small, neat letters. I looked at it and sighed. Yedor's girl. Who would tell Yeliza that her fiance' was dead?

I asked what had been done with Yedor's body. The farm owner told me it had been taken and buried. I nodded solemnly, concious of the many eyes on me. The farmer's family and neighbors had come to watch. Aware I should put a good face on things, I said a few halting words about Yedor's bravery, and loyalty, though I had known him only a little. In the end I excused myself and went back to the vehicle and away from the eyes. I'm no good as a speechmaker.

I stayed in the back of the truck while the mechanics crawled around and inside the craft to ensure it was still airworthy. I myself could see the line of dark punchmarks that made their way back from the cockpit to end just before the wide tail. Small-caliber machine guns, from the looks of it. If the cannon had been used, there would likely have been nothing left to salvage. Aside from the numerous holes in the fuselage, the radio had been shot out, along with the fuel gauge, and turn coordinator. There was a bullet hole through one of the restraining harness straps. But no major damage. I could fly her home.

We rolled the plane out of the barn, cursing as the wheels caught and bumped on the uneven ground. Once we were aligned with the long, straight patch of dirt road that was to be my runway, I climbed up on Yeliza's wing and settled into the cockpit, feeling a chill as I took the place of a dead man. I poked my finger through one of the sharp-edged holes in the fuselage. Belatedly I noticed there was no blood... The farmer, or someone, must have cleaned it up. But the smell was there.

The mechanics ran the starter and Yelizaveta came to life. A glance at her remaining instruments told me she was healthy. I waved off the mechanics, and began my takeoff. It is bumpy, bumpy, bumpy along the dirt road, and a perhaps 10 meters to the side are telephone poles, but I keep her straight and pull her off the road and into the sky.

Minutes later I am 1000 meters above the ground, riding the air bunched under my wings. Besides the clouds, it is a fine day. Yeliza's warm breath wafts past me in my open cockpit. The buffeting from the holes in the fuselage is not bad.

I feel slighty naked without the presence of a wingman. I realize that this is the first time I've flown by myself in several months. Likely it will be several more before I'll be able to do so again. May as well enjoy it. I pull up the nose slightly and perform a slow barrel roll, pulling on the stick as I invert, careful to avoid negative G, which will stall the engine. Yeliza's motor purrs happily, and I push into a shallow dive until the air whistles and howls through my open cockpit, then pull vertical, climbing, climbing, straight up until my airspeed is almost out and I am forced to level off, skimming the tops off of the billowing clouds, banking around their cottonlike peaks.

Glorious. In two weeks of battle I had forgotten the joy of flying. Why I started in the first place. I know that my moment of freedom was bought at the expense of a man's life... But it does not take a wise man to see there are many dark days ahead. Respites such as this will be few. I should enjoy them when and while I can.

At any rate, my playtime is over. Rechecking my position on my little map, I point Yeliza's nose towards the base. The clouds are thicker up ahead.. It looks as though it will be overcast nearer the coast. Too late in the day already for fog, thankfully, but I wonder if-

A plane shoots out of the clouds directly ahead of me!
Cursing, I slam forward on the stick and fly up against the harness. The map is blown from the cockpit and the engine sputters sharply, protesting the negative G. The unknown plane goes by like a rocket not 5 meters above my head, the wake of it's passage clouting me savagely in the open cockpit. I crane my neck and catch a glimpse of an orange stripe, and a swastika on the tail. Hostile! A moment later it is lost in the air behind my padded seat back. My vision fades to grey as I fly into the cloud that the enemy plane emerged from. My heart is thumping like a wild piston.

I am lost for a moment in indecision. Do I engage? Did he see me? I passed under his nose, but chances are good he caught a glimpse of me... What is this German doing here? We are far behind the lines.. Perhaps he is lost.. Is he alone? Hard to tell. If I continue flying through the cloud, I can escape him. Or them. But what if it is a strike.. Reconnaisance? I must warn someone. I have no radio. I have only my guns.

I must engage.

I bank hard to the left and exit the clouds. Empty air yawns before me. I quickly pan the skies for my foe. Nothing... He could not have gone far yet...Where is he?

A smudge of movement draws my eyes upwards. There! He has flown an Immellman! He is diving on me! I yank the control stick to the right and back as a vicious stream of blue tracer gouts from the nose of the German craft. My body grinds into the seat as Yeliza squirms away from the deadly blue hail in an undignified turn. The bullets pass just beneath me as I bank, followed by the German fighter, a 109, roaring past my tail at an impossible speed. I continue my roll until inverted, then pull back to follow him. The Messerchmitt is already outside my firing range, and I curse through my teeth as it pulls further away from me in the dive. Remembering that he may have friends, I crane my neck around, scanning the skies. I see nothing. It would appear that we are alone.

As the distance increases, the German levels out. If he wishes, he can outrun me. He's headed away from the lines, though. He must be lost. How far can I pursue him? I steal a glance at the broken fuel indicator and swear. No way of knowing. Yedor had been shot down early in the engagement, so there should be plenty of fuel.. But who knows how much? I grit my teeth in frustration over not having a radio. So easy to call my comrades to take care of this intruder... There are airbases not far from here. It was stupid to take off with no radio. Stupid!

My heat is red-lining... I adjust my radiator settings. But I know Yeliza can not run this way for much longer.. He's still moving away. I'll lose him... Wait. What is he doing?

The distant black dot of the Messerchmitt rises upwards, climbing, then continuing for a half loop and righting itself at the top. Another Immelman. Maybe he's realized he's been going the wrong way. Or... He's coming back for me.

I pull Yeliza's nose back to bracket him in my sights.

Come then. I am ready.

My heart begins to hammer again as we draw closer. It seems to vibrate my whole body, like Yeliza's engine. But my hands must be steady, steady.

A few seconds more. I touch my thumbs to the firing levers. Suddenly, at 800 meters, the German bobs his plane down. My eyes pop wide as he disappears beneath my wide engine cowling. No! He's thrown my aim. I push the stick as far forward as I dare, the engine complaining bitterly. I have him again in my sights, but we're close. So close...

Screaming a curse I jam both firing levers forward with my thumbs. The German opens fire in the same instant, and the air between us is turned into a hissing storm of tracer fire. A bright blue flash nearly blinds me as a shell whips by my head, close enough that I hear its angry buzz over the sound of my engine. Yeliza's guns hammer wildly, and I see tiny starbursts erupt around the nose of the Messerschmitt. Machine gun strikes, my cannons must be missing... Then WHAM! Yeliza bucks wildly to the right as a shell slams into her wing. My head snaps over and I'm thrown against the left side of the cockpit as she rolls harshly to the right. A burning pain ignites in my left arm as I wrestle with the aircraft for control.

From the corner of my vision I see the German tear by underneath me. But I have bigger concerns at this moment. Yeliza is rolling like a barrel, and it takes all the strength of both arms to bring her under control.

Once the horizon is stable, I assess the damage.
My flight jacket is torn, and my arm is stinging and bleeding. A look left confirms that it was mashed against the sharp-edged holes in the fuselage during the roll. It is painful, but I am alright.

The right wing has been damaged. Badly. The aileron is fine but I can see the structure of the wing through a large rent on the leading edge. A gash nearly two feet wide has been ripped from the wing, like the bite of a shark. Air buffets through the jagged opening, and it causes Yeliza to tremble, as if in pain.

I take another precious second to wiggle the control stick. Yeliza responds well, but is trying to roll clockwise. Still, She flies as well as one could ask for after a hit from a 108.

Where is the Messer? I crane my neck around until I spot him. He's low on my 4 o'clock, perhaps 1 kilometer distant, turning on to my 6. ****. I can't outrun him, Yeliza is too slow, and still running hot, besides. My base is too far to run to. It seems the outcome must be decided here.

I roll right and begin to turn into him. Slowly, playing up my injuries. He knows I am hit, let him think I am hit more badly than I am.

There is no time to set up another head-on. I must evade his fire and get on his tail. Somehow.

The sooner I take evasive maneuvers, the more time he will have to correct, or break off and make another pass altogether. I must make him think he has me until the last second, then turn the tables. He is climbing to reach me, losing speed. He is trailing something... Smoke. I have wounded him, at least. Perhaps it will tell later.

He's on my 1 o'clock now, still climbing, still banking into me. I lower Yeliza's nose and dive slightly. I will need the speed. The orange nose of the Messer comes at me like a spear, and I feel a moment's prickling of apprehension.. This German is clever.. What if he sees through my trick?

Only one way to find out.

The Messer is leading me.. In a second he will have a firing solution. My muscles twitch on the control stick, but it is too soon..I must hold this course a bit longer. Until the final angles and meters in this fatal calculation play out... One moment more.


A sharp push on the stick flicks Yeliza onto her right side, and I pull back for all I am worth, wrenching myself out of the German's sights a split instant before the air boils with his tracers. I can feel but not see the Messer as it passes behind me once again, bumping Yeliza with it's airwake.

I am ground into my seat as I hold my turn, the plane coming around like only an I-16 can. My heart struggles to beat, and I can hear Yeliza's right wing complaining bitterly.. I will it to hold together. Craning my neck, I try to pick out the Messer through the darkening edges of my vision... There! Just now beginning an evasive turn. But he's slow after his long climb. And I have speed from my dive..Though I am losing plenty turning this tightly.. Still, it should be enough.

I roll out of the turn on the Messer's 6 and push Yeliza's throttle full forward. It won't be much longer before the heat will hurt the engine, but I must get a little closer.

The Messer is trailing a long black plume of smoke from it's engine.. The acrid smell coats my nostrils and throat as I line up my sights. Yeliza's engine churns, clawing forward the last few meters. He rolls over in his turn and is beginning a Split-S, begging for airspeed, desperate to make his escape. It's the only mistake I need. I flip Yeliza onto her side, and fire a long, jagged burst just before he crosses my sights.

Machine gun and cannon fire rake the Messer from nose to tail as it passes helplessly through my fire. The smoke pouring from it's nose blossoms into a inferno as 20MM shells ruin the engine compartment. Dark holes appear like magic along the fuselage, and one of the rear stabilizers is clipped unceremoniously away as the Messer begins it's long, final dive.

I leave Yeliza on her side in a spiral turn so I can watch the 109 descend, blazing like a meteor. I keep my eye on the square cockpit, receeding into an indistinct blot, wondering if something will will emerge, not certain if I want that to happen or not.

In the end, though, there is no white parachute, and the Messer ends as an orange and red inferno which blooms savagely for a moment against the earth.

I level Yeliza out at 1000 meters. My hands are shaking again. A voice somewhere tells me that that's my third kill. I look over my shoulder at the black plume that marks the grave of an unknown German pilot.

"For Yedor." I say, though the sentimient has little feeling to it. All I can think of is another girl somewhere whose man will never be coming home.

Yeliza's engine is well cooled and running happily again. I wince as I look out at the right wing. It will probably need to be replaced.. It's a marvel it held together through that turn. Landing should prove interesting.

I circle for another minute, then turn towards the coast. My map is gone, but I can follow the coastline back to my airbase. With luck perhaps I can arrive in time to fly the afternoon mission, if there is one.

Swift as a bird, I fly Yedor's plane home.

02-24-2005, 04:17 PM
good story. Hopefully I'll have a combat story to post soon.

02-24-2005, 05:56 PM
I wrote this after flying one the late war YAK campaigns a while back.
24 April, 1945 All is quiet,finally. My Russian mechanic has produced a bottle of Vodka and a pack of American smokes. I took a bite of the bottle and lit up a Lucky. The sun is bright and the wind has a bite. It isn't uncomfortable on the downwind side of my battered Yak's fuselage. It has been an interesting 10 months. Hours of boredom, moments of terror. Sweating profusely in an unheated Yak in the sub zero temps at altitude. An emotional roller coaster ranging from sublime happiness to cold fury. In the past months I have downed 36 enemy aircraft in 23 sorties. I am the highest scoring Officer in my squadron. My Russian is still deplorable by their standards but they know I can fight. I am a Hero Of the Soviet Union with 2 awards to prove it. The remaining Majors in my squadron have flown 3 times as many sorties and have less than a third of my kills.

I joined the squadron because MY country refused me. I had a bit of bad luck on a mail run and that incident haunted me. Didn't make any difference to the powers that were that I could fly, they didn't want me as a pilot. I headed for Russia, barely able to speak their language.

I fought with them both in the air and on the ground. Having proved myself in their bars and in their air, I showed them I could give as well as take and give as good as I got. There were those in my squadron who hated me. They felt they were better than me. Several of them are dead and missing now. Maybe the missing will surface now that the war is over. Hopefully they were treated better than the prisoners that were captured by us.

Most of the past months are a blur of madness. A few moments stand out starkly. I remember my first flight with the group in a Yak9, engaging a flight of HE-111's and 3 minutes later 4 of them are falling from the sky to my hammering guns. I watched the flaming hulks hurtle earthward spewing their crews. Parachutes stark white against the background of mud and forrest. It was almost too easy.

2 days and 3 kills later it was me who was slogging through the muck after a forced landing from battle damage.

24 June of '44, 2 days later with a new plane I took out 3 Me-110G2's and 3 JU-87D5's in 11 furious minutes. The only damage to my Yak was from an idiot wingman who seemed to have a penchant for shooting our YAKS. He was killed in the following mission and not missed by the rest of us. We drank to his memory and divied up his stuff.

Our new leader is a jerk. I was tasked as his wingman. He has flown a lot more missions than you and has but one kill. He won't shoot!! He flies "by the book". He will follow the German forever and wait for the perfect shot that never seems to come. I take the shots he won't, I get the kills he wishes were his. He dies in a mid air collison with a squadmate. The man he killed was good friend. The friend will be missed, the killer won't.

The squadron is full of new faces now. Only the "old man" has more kills than me. The younger pilots are eager but still do not show much initiative in a fight. Now I fight mostly on my own, I ignore the constant reprimands of "follow your leader". I am the leader now. The old man bought it. I am the top gun of the squadron. I fly to shoot down the Germans. Those daring men in their wonderful planes. I notice that the quality of the German pilots is eroding. Maybe I am getting better at shooting them down? I wonder what they are thinking as I fly right up their six to less than 100 mtr and pour a short burst into their plane. I don't have time to wonder what their next move is as it seems there is always another one in front of me. Occasionally there is one behind me, trying to do to me as I have done to so many of his comrades. On occasion they manage to put some holes in my plane. I was lucky, only once do they do any severe damage. I brought my wounded Yak with no ailerons back to the base and landed it. Life goes on..

Several months later and in the new YAK-3 I take on and kill 3 ME-262's in a running 11 minute fight. I wonder why a German would try to dogfight in those sleek machines.

In another mission I limped home because my overzealous wingman put some holes in my port wing! He laughs about it back at the base. He wasn't laughing after the uppercut I delivered to his chin. He had a glass jaw. He got up vowing revenge. Those who saw it didn't see it. The next day I hung him out to dry and watched him spiral down in flames. I could have gotten the attacker off of him sooner if I had wanted to. I took out his attacker and headed home. Hopefully I'll get a better wing man.

On our way to Berlin, I hear honest to Dog American voices on the Radio!! A flight of four P-38's is having a hard go with the Germans. We met one headed toward the base we just left. He has an engine smoking badly and his bird looks like Hell. I don't see or hear the other 3 again. We continue to Berlin and escort the lumbering IL2's to their target. 2 more Germans fall to the furious onslaught of my guns.

My new wingman is a Major. Long on hours and short on kills. He flies well and fights well. I hold back, covering his six enjoying the show as he pirouettes and dances though the sky. His aim is precise.I am tired, it doesn't bother me to sit back and cover his six. Suddenly without warning. his Yak explodes in front of me just seconds after he scored his 3rd kill of this last day of the war. A lucky shot from an unseen AAA battery. I circled back and strafed it. It is satisfying to see it explode under my guns.

They tell us Hitler is dead. I sit on the wing of my battered YAK enjoying a smoke and take another swig of the fiery vodka. My mechanic is busty Russian blonde with a fire in her deep blue eyes. I hand her the bottle she takes a long pull and hands it back. She takes my hand, smiles brightly, and beckons me to get off the wing of my plane. Music plays in the distance. She puts her arm around my waist and I light a smoke for her. As I walk with her toward the music I stop and look back at the beat up bird that has protected me throughout these flights, and wonder to myself, is it time to celebrate?

02-24-2005, 07:04 PM
Awesome story willie! I liked it a lot.

03-02-2005, 12:59 AM
I was working on a story from an actual mission I played in the game when this one came to me while I was taking shower tonight. It only took a couple hours to bang out and it's my first stab at this in many years (since college) so be kind.

So here it is, with apologies to "The Duelists" and my sparring partners at work and at the club:

Isn€t this how all the great dogfight stories go: and there I was, all alone with nothing but €¦

€¦won€t this verdammnt Cossack€s arm ever get tired! I can€t keep this up much longer in this freezing snow. My back is killing me €¦.schiess! He almost got me with that feint. He€s pretty good for an old man. Where the hell is my gun? This isn€t university here, slow down, bring him off point, Gott!! I€m going to die here and I don€t even know where here is€¦

€œIt is up to you to keep up the family honor. We are from Old Prussian lines and have had a fine military tradition from as far back as Fredrick the Great. I do not want to risk having you drafted into being some footslogging Landser choking on panzer fumes for some upstart corporal from Austria. I flew in Richtofen€s Circus and distinguished myself with honor. You will do the same.€

€œBut Father, what about my competitions? The next pentathlon preliminaries will be soon and I will be ready for the Olympic trials! I will be going to the Olympics!€ Privately I thought, €œRichtofen couldn€t sit a horse to save his life!€

€œJoachim, I have made this decision for the good of both you and the name of this family. I have already contacted a commander who is willing to mentor you through your flight training and post you to a good squadron. It is already in motion. You will understand later that this is best.€ My father began to look far away over the lawn, €œI remember how it felt the first time I flew, an old box kite that leaked castor oil so badly I had to run for the latrine every time I landed€¦.€

The old man nattered away about his old flying days. They ended after only four months, when he lost his leg and arm to an S.E 5, but to my father it was enough to have made ace and be tapped for the famous Flying Circus.

So much for university and the Olympics.

Sometimes I forget, at the quiet times like this, that I am sitting in a killing machine instead of just flying for fun. It is so bright and clear up here. Even over Stalingrad, at least at the start, it wasn€t so bad. Looking down you couldn€t tell that there were men fighting and dying down there. Killing each other in desperate hand-to-hand battles. I had been told one day the soldiers in the trenches and bombed out factories were often reduced to killing each other with shovels and knives!

Brrrrr! In retrospect I€m glad that Father (God rest his soul) forced me into the Luftwaffe every time I remember the Landser€s stories of the frantic fighting in the dark sewers and rubble. Up here it was. €¦ cleaner, less personal. Easier. I don€t think of the enemy as a man, just a plane to knock down. If the fellow got out, well good for him! Otherwise, well I don€t want to think about it. It hasn€t been very impersonal for my men. Hans€ screams over the radio as he burned all the way down from 1500 meters wasn€t very impersonal at all.

Today we€ll pay back the Reds for Hans. Six of us only, but it€s just a sweep. Yesterday€s Yaks are nearby, somewhere in these clouds. Yesterday there were only four of them and one was smoking badly after their single pass and dash for the low fog and safety. Cowards.

€œJoachim, look below! Gott, can you believe it?€ I look down to see through the gaps in the low clouds below.

Below us I can see three horsemen pounding away through the snow! Actually following us and, no!, one of them looks like he€s trying to shoot us with a rifle! At the gallop! €œCrazy old fool Cossacks,€ I shake my head, €œForget them boys, picturesque but there are Red vultures lurking in these clouds so look up not down!€

Well, here they come, too! Three Yaks€¦ha! Number three had to stay home today.

****! There goes one already! €œGerry, save one for me!€ I shout out. Yak number 2 is twisting and rolling, trying to sake the three Emils harrying it like sparrows after a hawk. There he is€¦number 34 on his side, he flashes by so close I can see his eyes looking at me from the cockpit. I know he can see the family crest on the cowling and the twenty-two kill bars on the tail. Yes, my Red hawk, this sparrow has a sharp beak and coming for you.

He rolls over and dives, trying to reverse on me and force an overshoot. Very clever hawk, but I pitch up, rudder hard over and there he is below me€¦no doubt wondering why I did not follow and where I went. €œUp here my little hawk (Yak€¦shaggy fat cows, what a name for a plane),€ I whisper into the mike.

I dive down and tear off his wing with a long burst, flame erupting from his cowling as the fuel ignites. Number 23 for me €¦ schiess! I yank the stick left but metal from the shredding plane hit my propeller anyway and now the engine is starting to race. The pitch is jammed. I continue my dive and pull out just below the low cloud layer. This sounds bad, the bearings won€t last long, and I throttle back to try to keep the revs down as the prop begins to race away, taking the engine with it. Hell, it€ll be a long cold walk back. I try the radio but it€s out, too€¦oh, the antenna€s gone, nice. Ivan, you bastard.

There€s a flat spot ahead and I make for it, oil starting to spatter a little on the windscreen, and the screaming bearings are telling me they want to die. Now. Ok, ok, hope the snow is not too soft and deep€¦set it up, flaps down, good, good€¦.

Where the hell did they come from?! Verdammnt fools, get out of the way! It€s those stupid Cossacks, we must have doubled back towards where we first saw them. Ok, that is good for me I guess, at least I know what direction I went. Lower, crack!..Oh Gott! The Red bastards are shooting at me! They are getting pretty close, too€¦almost there€¦€Get out of the way you idiots!€

Bang! Did I actually hit one of those fools? I€m down, but the snow wasn€t as soft as it looked. Canopy open, OW! My back! I fall more than climb out onto the wing and stand up. Oh no, here they come, oh I did hit one. A horse is screaming and gutted in the snow, I can€t see the rider.

Bang! Crack! I jump off the wing as they start firing again, clawing for my pistol. Crouching behind the wing I bring the gun up one handed, **** my left arm isn€t working too well, and fire. Ok, Ok, breathe, you have time, squeeze, smoother is better€¦.there he goes!.

I start to run for the other side of the plane as the last horseman actually jumps over the wing. As I get around the prop I trip over the blades and lose my pistol. ****! Keep moving, keep moving€¦I hear the horse panting as it fights it€s way through the snow behind me.

Around the tail, oh this is ridiculous. I could laugh almost. Ring-around-the-rosy€¦where did that thought come from? Get to the other horse maybe there€s a rifle in the saddle, or a pistol, or€¦oh I€m going to die.

When I get to the horse, stupidly standing next to the rider I shot out of his saddle, I yank the rifle out of it€s scabbard. The old Cossack has stopped chasing me and just sits there on his horse, watching. He€s laughing! Well, this must look pretty funny to him; the €œrifle€ is just an old musket! Who are these people? Muskets? Yes, very funny. The old horseman laughs and yells some gibberish at me, €œStupid German, I€m going to take all afternoon to cut you up bit by bit!€ no doubt.

God, I€m hurting. My back is jammed up and my left arm is tight. The Cossack jumps off his horse and, what the hell? He pulls a sword out of the saddle scabbard. A big curved one with blue tassels on the pommel. It looks like something out of the Napoleonic Wars! This is ridiculous! No it€s not, Joachim, he is walking this way. The Cossack is swinging the sword, laughing and waving towards me. No way Ivan, I€m not playing this game€¦.where€s my **** pistol!

The horse next to me has a sword in the saddle like the approaching Cossack has. I pull it out. €œWell,€ I almost shrug, €œthank you Father for giving me a chance to uphold the family honor.€ The Cossack laughs even harder and comes at me, sword at ready.

He cuts down, feint!, slides the blade towards my neck instead. Without thought, I parry prime, point down. Riposte to his belly. I overextend a bit and he hops back and lightly bats my blade away. At least he€s not laughing now. He looks at me a little more seriously now, maybe that€s not a good thing, but during the brief pause I try to make a dash for the front of the plane hoping to find my pistol.

The Cossack€s not going to let me get far, he lunges at me and I make a desperate parry at quarte, point up, almost en garde. Then riposte with a cut to his right cheek, but the sword is too heavy for the quick moves of the fencing strip. This requires more strength, more arm and less wrist. He again parries my blow with ease, and ripostes with a hard cut to my left €" scheiss! €" my arm is bleeding badly.

We trade blows a few times more as he pushes me back towards my plane. I parry more than attack, and am so tired. My boots are full of snow, it€s so cold€¦€¦won€t this verdammnt Cossack€s arm ever get tired! I can€t keep this up much longer in this freezing snow. My back is killing me €¦.schiess! He almost got me with that feint. He€s pretty good for an old man. Where the hell is my gun? This isn€t university here, slow down; bring him off point, Gott!! I€m going to die here and I don€t even know where here is€¦

Lunge, feint to his legs and cut up€¦got him! Only a shallow cut, but it gives the old bastard something to think about and I scrabble around the wing of my plane towards the cowl. He is more cautious€¦he thinks he has me anyway, I know he has me eventually. I€m getting numb in the legs. I can€t hold up the sword anymore. Just point it at him€¦he bats at it, playfully, and shouts at me€¦I think he€s swearing and angry it€s been so hard to kill me. Yessss, Ivan..it was harder than you thought wasn€t it? And I got your friends didn€t I? You old bastard, with your yellow teeth and snot-stained beard. €œGo to hell you f-king old bastard! Come on! Let€s finish it now!€ I shout at him. I feel a little pride at holding my own this long, a little strength left now.

Come over here, yesss, a little closer. The Cossack makes a two-handed cut at my waist, which I parry, but it€s on the left and I can€t keep my grip. The sword flies from hands and I fall to my knees next to the spinner of my plane. I can€t even lift my head. Time drags out, my ears are ringing but I hear the crunching snow as the old Cossack approaches muttering under his panting breath. If I could just pick up the pistol in front of me I could get him, I know I could. I am a crack shot. A future Olympic champion. I could ride, shoot, fence, run, and swim better than anyone in my class. Better than my old Junker father. Better than his beloved Rittmeister.

My pistol! In front of me!? I snatch at it and the pain in my left side drops me prone into the snow, causing the Cossack€s killing blow to miss my head and hit my leg. I don€t even feel it, shock I think distantly, and up comes the front sight to cover the Cossack€s head. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze,€¦I am laughing now, hysterical, I€m alive!!! I€m alive!!!

€¦. So there I was, all alone with nothing but a €¦.sword! €œAnother beer, miss, this verdammnt leg is killing me tonight.€

04-22-2005, 03:31 PM
Double bumper

04-24-2005, 06:20 PM
A short poem about combat ships of WW2:

"The Phantom Vessel"
by Boosh

Sliding 'cross nations of oceans,
Weary wand'rer of trials since past,
Flying high with war's emotions,
Its mem'ries now and ever, last.

04-24-2005, 06:22 PM
Night in the Ardennes:

A land combat story by Boosh

(I've been working on this one for awhile. It's not nearly as good as most of my other stuff, but it provides at least some entertainment and insight on war.)

Night in the Ardennes

My rifle pressed into my ribs. I was cramped in my small foxhole made with the bodies of my comrades. The forests were thick with black, foul smelling air. It was the Nazi€s fault I couldn€t see too well. They€d been throwing smoke grenades at us all day with mortars. My unit had been cut off from the squad, and got separated. Our Sergeant lay fifteen feet in front of us, his face buried in the mud. When he had jumped out of his foxhole to charge the enemy machine gun position, they mowed him down with ammunition. He was too far out to grab and bury, if we tried to recover the body, we would meet his same fate. An earthworm crawled through a gaping hole in his skull over what was left of the brain.
Two shots rang out in the air. They weren€t ours. The giant smack like two sticks hitting each other told me that the shots belonged to Nazi rifles. The bullets solidly hit their targets with a huge €œthunk,€ that sounded just like smacking an oak tree with a wooden baseball bat. The €œthunk,€ was followed by an eerie squelching noise. I looked quickly over to where the bullets had hit. The last men of my units€ bodies and necks whipped backward, their faces frozen in horror. Their backs hit the ground hard and they rolled over into another foxhole. Their faces planted into the earth. The ground, hungry after such a long time without rainfall, soaked up their blood. One of the men, hit in the chest, began to twitch, and shiver. Blood was still bubbling out of his mouth, which was half open in surprise. A light stream of red stained smoke started rising out from underneath of his torso. It wasn€t too much, but it looked like something that would come from rolled tobacco. I found the answer in his hands. A cigarette, which had probably given away their position, lay between his second and third fingers on his left hand. It was clutched tight, like a boy scared of the boogie man would hold his teddy bear.
Sickened, I turned my head back to the enemy. Someone was standing up, and running toward me. I pulled the trigger once€¦ twice€¦ three times€¦. I then shifted to my right, adjusting my position, and machine gun fire pelted the area of ground which I had been laying on only one and a half seconds before.
I waited seven minutes before any more action took place. I stayed still, watching, knowing that there was almost no possible way for me to make it out alive. I tried to remember, why had I volunteered? A bullet struck the dirt underneath me. I felt it stop short on my metal belt-buckle. God knows where it would have gone if my buckle didn€t stop it there.
I brought my senses back to the present. They knew where I was, I saw a man running to the machine gun encampment, and I knew I had to move. I fired the last five rounds in my clip, hitting the running man in the chest, and then discarded my rifle. I had used the very last of our ammunition, except for four clips of Colt .45 bullets that I carried with me. The only other ammo I could think of was the seven clips of sub machine gun rounds that my Sergeant carried with him to the grave, or rather, the cold, hard, mud. I quickly shifted to my right behind two trees. The machine gun nest destroyed my last foxhole, and then, having seen me move, started firing at the tree, splintering the wood and bark above me. Heavy branches pounded the ground, sharp wooden splinters rained upon me, but my thick canvas and cotton fatigues prevented any wounds from it. Leaves fell around me, but not on me, marking the spot where I lay. The leaves, having been covered in snow, left a white border around the damp, €œend of Winter€ ground around me.
The Nazi runner whom I had shot must have gotten his message across. The machine guns again pelted my position, for seconds at a time. With no reliable long ranged weapon and ammo within my reach, I stayed covered by the splinters and my white border, frozen in the position in which I was sure I was going die in.
Just as fast as the firing had started, the gunnery stopped. Out of nowhere, I heard dogs barking. The Nazis must have called them in. I looked at my pistol holster, the gun was gone along with the clips. I whispered a curse. The gun and the clips were lying two feet away from me, but if I tried to move, I would be shot.
The machine gunners picked up their rifles and pointed them my way. They took a few potshots in my direction, reloaded, and held their guns steady. Their guns€ barrels looked at me for awhile, and then cackled once more, spitting bullets at me. After three minutes they stopped.
The barking got louder and louder, soon, I could hear the pitter-patter of dog feet striking the ground, and the heavy clunk of soldiers€ boots running along with them. I groped, desperately, for the bayonet in its sheath on my belt. It was a clumsy, stupid knife, but I€d do what I could with it.
The pitter-patter from the dog€s feet got louder, and I could hear the shouts of the Nazi dog-handlers more clearly. My heart skipped a beat whenever I heard those heavy leather soled boots strike the ground. I knew that they would find me. When the shouts of the Nazis finally yelled out my position, they let the dogs loose. I felt the cold, solidified ground vibrate violently as the heavy and ferocious German Shepherds bounded my way. There might have been four of them. They were coming from both sides of the tree. If I moved out of the way, I€d get bitten, or shot. As soon as I saw a flash of fur on my right side, I immediately swung the knife to my left and kicked hard, with both my legs, on my right. I felt both of my strikes connect. The bayonet, on which I always kept a sharp point, pierced directly into the beating heart of the running canine, bypassing the ribs, and most likely splitting the lungs of the dog on the way out. My kick with both of my heavy-duty Army-issue boots had definitely bruised and cut the second dog, though I hadn€t hit it hard enough. Now I had three dogs attacking me at once. Not wanting to hesitate I swung my bayonet knife now to my right side, catching a dog in the rear left leg. It was wounded, but not badly, and I had under-judged my strength. My stroke kept going past the dog€s leg until the bayonet plunged into the tree behind me, and got stuck. The blood from my first lethal jab dripped from the knife€s edge, and it was sucked into the decaying ground. The two dogs, having run past me in the first attack, rejoined with the other dog, apparently the head of the pack. They charged me. Still trying to get the knife out of the tree, I kicked out with my legs, hitting one of them square in the face, knocking it unconscious, but the two others grappled a hold, and I felt their half an inch long fangs sink into my ankles.
In that spurt of adrenaline, with huge tooth marks and holes in my legs, I ripped the knife violently out of the tree and slashed another dog deeply in its face. This move caused me great pain, and I had to lay still. The vibration of me tearing the knife out of the tree sent more snow down on top of me, re-outlining my position. I was immobile, there was nothing to do but wait. The two dogs, however, kept their teeth bared, and occasionally nipped at my ankles, just to show me who was in control of the situation. The four Nazi dog-handlers, each with heavy packs on their backs, ran along to their dogs. One, who apparently was the handler of the dog I killed, became red faced with fury. You could see the blood bursting in his temples, his eyes turning red instantly, and welling up with tears. He buried his head in the dog€s fur, called it by €œher€ name. He turned the dog over. When he saw the gaping laceration in the upper chest, he sobbed even more and plunged his face in the wound, as though his salty tears could heal it. After five minutes of crying, he brought out some medical tape from his pack, and began to tape the slash. It was of no use. I had probably punctured the lungs, and cut the heart. No one and nothing could recover from that. In between his muffled cries of the canine€s name, he whipped my injured ankles with the butt of his rifle, causing me to scream and cry as well. After a particularly hard whipping, he got up and stood on my ankles, crushing them and intensifying my pain. He wanted to make me feel physically what he was feeling emotionally, and I was clearly getting the message the hard way.
The other handler who€s dog had been knocked unconscious, was busying himself so that he could carry his dog on his back, and was throwing away all of the things he didn€t need. He took an envious look at the six cartons of cigarettes he had in his pack. After eyeing them for a long time, he threw half of them away, tossed me a box, picked up his dog, and started making his way back to camp. He angrily carried his beloved animal slung over his shoulders.
I looked at the dead friends of my batallion, watching their faces, I spied many different feelings. Their faces were all frozen in rigor mortis, but it seemed to have put an accent on their personality. The two who died last looked as if they knew it was coming. The one man holding the cigarette had no definite look, as his skull was reduced to a gaping hole in which his brain and spine were visible. The only bit of skin left on his face was his mouth, which was wide open in shock. The other man, whom I had never made contact with at all, was missing one eye, and his eye socket on the right side of his face had expanded by several inches due to the bullet that had lodged there. Yet, in spite of the horror that befell him, his mouth was in a wide, satisfied, smile.
It was a bloody scene. Wherever bodily fluid had dried on their uniforms and bodies was a horrific reminder that it wasn€t the old, €œCops and Robbers€ we all played as kids. Yet no blood lay on the ground, where most of the bodily fluids had leaked. I looked back at our deceased Sergeant, who tried honorably to give us a chance to escape, and failed dismally. There was nothing identifiable about his front side. Maggots had eaten away the flesh that still clung to the muscle and bone, the flesh that hadn€t been ripped away by the sheer force of the bullets. It was so vivid and real. I could see his blood still leaking onto his hand. His neck had slowly rotted, leaving only the pure white bone. Although even though the white bones punctured through the holes in his thin, rotting flesh, tiny specks of shrapnel, blood, and other internal organs and fluids seeped out of his body, staining the bone, leaving behind tainted colors.
While I looked around the gruesome scene, the other two handlers were giving their dogs pieces of steak. I immediately turned toward this new source of food. My mouth started to water. One German brought out his canteen, and started pouring the water into his dog€s mouth. I had not had steak since I left for the Ardennes, and hadn€t even eaten or taken a drink in one and a half days. My mouth was too dry to water with envy. When the handler saw this, he threw a piece of steak onto my neck, right about where my jugular vein is. The dog leaped onto me, and started devouring the raw steak while lying on my chest. Blood from the steak dripped onto my neck. The other handler, clearly a medic, started bandaging up my legs, and grabbed the bloody knife from where I had dropped it in my final spurt of pain. He wiped off the soiled knife, and cut the bandages to size for me. He then proceeded to cut the extra rubberized canvas he carried so that he could make a stretcher for me. Tying the canvas to two smaller tree limbs, he and his friend lifted the hungry dog on my chest and I onto the stretcher, slung their rifles onto their backs, and picked us up on the canvas tied to the large branches. The medic gave me his canteen, and in perfect English, said, €œDrink, you must be thirsty,€
As the medic carried me he looked me over. He spotted my dogtags and pulled the chain they were hooked onto over my head, took one, and gave the second one back to me. He read them. He frowned. €œYou are Jewish?€ he asked, patiently awaiting an answer. The other men kept walking. One of them, however, kept shaking the stretcher, seemingly out of fury.
€œYes€¦€ I replied feebly. This was it, he was going to kill me here. He pulled out his pistol and cocked the hammer. The soldier who was shaking the stretcher laughed. The medic fired two shots, straight into the dog-tag, and then grabbed the remaining tag back from my neck. He destroyed that one as well.
€œMy superior would kill you immediately if they saw you were a Hebrew. I think it is nonsense. One of my best childhood friends was Jewish. My neighbors beat him to a bloody pulp along with his sister in front of me. They were normal people. However, my home country was threatened, so I joined the Wermacht. We must not let them find out you are Jewish.€
Two of the soldiers, who had joined up beside me after depositing their dogs for care back at the machine gun nest, nodded at the medic in agreement. The other soldier shook with rage. The stretcher left from his hands and fell to the ground. I started to slide forward. He started shouting in German, cursing at the medic, his senior officer. He pulled his rifle off his shoulder and smacked me with it hard in the stomach. I gasped for air and my ankles hit the ground. I clenched my teeth to keep from screaming.
The medic became infuriated. After ordering to put me back on the stretcher, he again raised his pistol, and emptied the rest of his clip into the chest of the shouting German. The man stopped shouting. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The medic ordered the men to pick me back up. They did so immediately. €œYou will be safe now.€ said the medic, €œDo not worry, we can keep it concealed. Just don€t go prancing around the hospital as a Jew, or you will be shot before you could hide by the medical staff!€
The two uninjured dogs now trailed behind us. The one on my chest with a gash in his face looked menacingly at me, but with an order from his handler, the animal stayed silent, and put its head back down peacefully. I put my arms around the bundle of fur that was the dog. My legs ached, my feet throbbed, and my ankles might have to be amputated.
The canteen that had been supplied to me was completely filled with water. I could tell the medic was thirsty too, I handed him the canteen. He shoved it back toward me slowly. €œI can get more water,€ he said, €œYou, however, have a long way to go before you may get a meal. Drink, it will tide you over for awhile.€
Trying to express my gratitude as best as I could, I replied with the only phrase of German I knew. €œermm€¦ Guten, ermm€¦ tag?€ The Germans looked at me and laughed.
€œThat means €˜good day€, my friend.€ The German medic corrected me, €œNot quite appropriate for, how do you say it? Yes, 11:30 PM, but I understand what you are trying to say. Don€t you worry. Go to sleep, you€ve had a long three days.€
As I put my head back on the rubber canvas, one of the dogs started licking the dirt off my neck. A soldier took off his jacket and placed it on me like a blanket. I took another sip from the canteen. I was in a lot of pain, but in good hands. I was going to survive.

04-26-2005, 09:58 PM
Dear Ivan:

I know that right now you are waist deep in mud and fighting for your life to throw back the Hitlerite Horde as it tries to grind Mother Russia under the bootheel of Fascism, but we need to talk.

It's not that I'm ungrateful for all you are doing to protect me and the rest of the Rodina from certain slavery and rape. All the sons of our Motherland are owed our lives, our souls, and the sweat of our bodies in this ever valiant struggle against the Hun. In fact, Commissar Volkhov has pointed out that we girls have a special duty to promote industrious motherhood to expand the lifeblood of our country so we may, after the Great Patriotic War has ended, help to throw the shackles of Capitalist oppression off the rest of the workers of the world!

He was showing us the new Order of Maternal Glory and all the other girls pledged to earn it right away. "Not one step back, brave shock workers for the nursery!", shouted the Commissar, and we were all quite caught up in the songs about it after the meeting.

So see, you have a duty to stand and, if need be, sacrifice your life in the struggle to liberate our Motherland and I have a duty to be a mother. I have to have 10 children to earn the medal so I need to get started right away. I hope you understand. You can help, too you know, the more fathers my children have, the healtier they will be. Commissar say it is really very correct for a good young Socialist that way and he gave me a very pretty red scarf for thinking of it.

The next time you are home on leave I will see you as long as it's between my shifts at the tractor works. It won't take long. Maybe after the war we can be friends?



04-27-2005, 05:32 AM
If you like this sort of thing, you're more than welcome to drop in to read our combat reports at:


They're in the "Briefing Room" pages for each of the three sector squadrons. Generally, after our official Sunday evening missions, someone in each flight of each squadron (three squadrons, so six flights, of course!) posts a colourful and detailed account of that day's derring-do. At least, usually...

Up to six different accounts of the same mission, which will have inevitably gone differently for each flight, are entertaining and interesting, at least for us. Expect doses of sarcasm and "humour". I think. http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_wink.gif

(By the way, our website is due for a face-lift over the next few weeks, but hopefully it'll still be up this week).

Remember: The Tangmere Pilots: Shakespeare in a Hurricane Mk I. Indeed, tragedy comedy and history in one incomptent package! http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/35.gif

04-27-2005, 08:54 AM
Rightio, my shot. Gonna suck and I'll probably give up after a while but hey...beauty I got it done. Enjoy http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_smile.gif
PS Mild Coarse Language involved
Pat and Alex had grown up together ever since they were little kids. They stuck together like glue, this lot. Once, Alex had saved Pat from drowning at the beach, and Pat had returned the favour when this big bloody kangaroo attacked him. He had managed to get this big gun and pulled the trigger, and somehow managed to hit the poor bugger in the head. Afterwards, they just had a laugh.
When Hitler declared war on Britian in 39, Pat and Alex were dyin to get to England and fight them. It was a big adventure. But the day after, when they were sober they started to think about how they were going to help. Now Pat, Pat had always been a flyin boy. Alex didn't mind planes, but he prefered tanks, these big bloody things with armour and big guns. But, Australia didn't have any at the time. So, after some serious thought and a coupla more beers, they headed down to the recruiting office in late 1940 when they were just old enough. It was jam packed all right, and there were posters all over the walls, for flyers, sailors, soldiers, drivers, everything.
When they finally got inside, they both told the officer they wanted to join the Air Force. The officer, who looked like a nice enough bloke, let them in on something. 'You know, the government have got this new thing called EATS' "EATS?" Mimiced Pat. 'Yeah mate, it stands for Empire Air Training Scheme. See what the thing is, we need a lot of pilots, and quickly. So instead of doin the ages of training ordinary Air Force blokes do, they just rush you in to become combat pilots for the duration of the war. Then, when it's over, you don't have to stay. Watta ya think?'
At the mention of combat, Pat's heart went racing. Combat! This was the stuff heroes are made from. He'd heard stories about all these ace pilots in the Great War, and by jingo he wanted to be one of them. So, they'd signed up for EATS.

Now, they were part of No. 3 Squadron. Normally, it was an air force proper squadron, so they would have been posted to an EATS squadron, but the bloke at the depot and mixed something up and posted both Pat and Alex, much to each others delight, to No. 3. They'd already had a couple of missions, but Pat couldn't bag any kills yet. They'd mostly been versing the Italians, who were using nothing more than old biplanes, and compared to the RAAF's Kittyhawks, a brand new behemoth of a plane, were taking high losses. But now, the Germans had entered the fray, and things were getting nasty. Now, they were up against Messerschmidt's, which Pat had read up about in the newspapers. Apparently, they were pretty good. No bloody fear. The officers of 3 Sqn weren't afraid, but were lookin forward to seeing how these Germans could go against the Aussies.

"My oath it's hot. More than the bloody heat waves we had back in WA, they went up to 40 degrees or so. This, this was much worse. Could barely sweat before the heat dried up all the water. But don't worry mum, Alex is takin care of me. Remember my old mate Alex, from school? We somehow ended up together, and we stick together. We make quite a lot of trouble though, and I don't think the Commanding Officer is too happy with us. No worries though. If you don't know, I'm part of Number 3 Squadron, RAAF. We got this fancy uniform and everything, you would be so proud mum. We're flying this beaut planes called Kittyhawks, you can chuck it through a sandstorm and it's fine. How's dad doing? Tell him his son's doin fine and can't wait to see him again. Say hi to Kate and the others too will ya.


'Come on mate, your gonna miss the bloody breifing,' shouted his best mate Alex with a grin. Pat returned the grin.

The gathered officers fell silent as the commanding officer Squadron Leader Gibbes entered the tent. After making sure everybody was present, he started the briefing.
'Alright guys, today we're going for Rommel. Our job is to make sure no fighters get through to the Hurricanes that are attacking the gorund troops. Also, reportedly, a brand new squadron of 109's has arrived. And, reportdely, these are a brand new type, so watch out.' Even though the thought of a superior enemy loomed, most pilots were genuinely excited, and started to talk with one another. Pat turned to Alex. "Watta reckon, think you've got a chance against those Huns this time?" He joked. Alex had already got one confirmed kill, but he got his Kittyhawk badly shot up in the process. However, the Hawk was a sturdy aircraft, and returned to the airfield well enough. 'Bugger off mate, it's you I have to be watchin to make sure you don't bugger up again,' Pat laughed. They always took the piss out of each other, but it was just a way to try and take away the seriousness of what a new enemy ment.

All the aircraft were lined up, with mechanics swarmed over them like monkeys. Pat's aircraft, GA-K stood gleaming in the summer sun, and once again he smiled. He loved this plane, and had even gone to the trouble of painting on, in big letters, 'You Beauty" on the big engine intake. Pat noticed Alex lookin at him out the corner of his eye, grinned and winked. With a parting "See ya mate" Pat climbed into the cockpit of his beast.
When they were in the air, Pat settled more comfortably into his cockpit, looked to his right where Alex was formed up, and gave him a thumbs up. Alex replied with the finger, and Pat laughed as he does everything, and cruised up the eternal desert sky.

El Alamein lay below, and dozens of puffs of smoke appeared around the city, and miles to the west. These puffs, Pat realised, where artillery rounds, ripping tank armour, vehicles and men alike. It did not discriminate in its victims. Pat looked at it both interestingly and miserably, and was glad he was thousands of feet up in the air away from it. 'Entering combat zone guys, keep ya eyes peeled' notified Gibbes on the radio. Automatically, a certain stiffness could be felt, as it transfered from plane to plane as pilot readied themselves, both physically and phsycologically for the upcoming combat. For Pat, his youth and inexperience showed, as he fumbled and figited. This was what he had been waiting for, a real fight. Nervousness and adrenaline pumped through his body just as much as his blood. He craved action, and he did not have to wait long. 'Targets 12 oclock high coming out the sun!!!' Screamed someone. Nobody needed a warning. Coming down on the Kittyhawks like a pack of hungry wolves were a flight of aircraft. It didn't take the swastikas to tell Pat what he already knew; they were 109's. However, they didnt have the 2 cannons protruding from the wings, which belied they were the knew type. Seeing them screaming down on them, Pat had doubts about his previous bravado about taking on the Germans, but he didn't have time to ponder. All was still for a moment, then in a flash the 109's had passed, and time rushed down with them. Pat looked left and right searching for them, but only when he looked back up did his eyes grow in horror. Gibbes' wingman was bailing out, his plane perforated with bullets, and the engine pouring thick, black smoke into the path of several aircraft behind him. But Pat was untouched, and ready for action. "Come on Alex, lets get the bastards,' he spoke into the mike, still looking down searching for the Germans. When he got no response, he looked at Alex's plane, and a sight met him that turned him stone cold. Alex's Kittyhawk no longer looked like an aeroplane, but more like a seive. Bullets were everywhere, in the wings, in the engine, in the tail unit, even the letters GA-S wre hard to recognise due to the big holes in the fuselage. But Pat was not concentrating on that. He was staring dead straight and the cockpit. A single hole on the top of the canopy told its own story. Alex, his body limp and lifeless hung softly in the seat harness. "Alex!" Pat screamed. All he got in response was a groan. This was music to Pat's ears, who had feared the worse. "This is Pat I gotta take care of Alex" Pat said, letting his emotionals overcome his sense. 'No! You'll be shot down in an instant,' replied Gibbes, without a doubt the most experienced pilot, an ace himself. "I don't care!" Pat said and looked back to Alex. He was still alive, if barely. The dogfight around him seemingly did not exist. All that mattered was him and Alex. He tried to coax life out of his friends body, tears running down his naive face. Desperation took over. "Sir this is GAK, I'm taking GAS home, over." It was not a request to his CO, it was a statement. And with that he throttled down and touched wings with his mates airplane. "Oi guys, can you keep the BLOODY GERMANS OFF ME!" Pat let all of his emotions run wild. He wanted nothing more but to get hold of the mand responsible and tear him to peices with his bare hands. He wanted to kill the man, 100 times over. He wanted to see the blood gushing out of his body satisfyingly, his shrieks of pain to fill the air.He looked down, to where there majority of combat was happening. Several aeroplanes, which looked like nothing more than flies were sqirling around the hot air, trying to get an advantage on on another. After the Germans and passed, the able Kittyhawks dove down on them, so Pat and Alex were the only 2 planes left at the original hieght of the patrol. Now, with several thousand feet of air, Pat could make out several opportunities to strike and kill the bloody Germans, and was just about to when Alex groanded. Pat froze cold still. He could hear Alex trying to make out a word, and it was tortourous to hear his best mates perhaps final words in so much agony. Memories flooded back, of the time when they made a cubby house in the bush, then found a bit of dinamite and blew it up, of the time they vouched for each other so the school principal wouldn't expel Pat. "But sir" they pleaded, we were nowere near the car when it was on fire. Of the time they got hold of a six pack of beers, and walked around the streets of town singing Waltzing Matilda half drunk, all the time pissing themselves with laughter. Well, he had bloody enough, and wasn't gonna let his long time mate die. He knocked wings of his plane with Alex's, and by tipping them in the appropriate direction, the 2 made their long journey back to the aerodrome, and medical aid.

It was the longest stretch of time in his life. Pat's eyes traveled from Alex, to his instrument panel to make sure everything was in order, and back to Alex, all the while trying to get some sort of response out of his mate. Pat's face was pale, but his eyes never stopped roaming the skies for possible trouble. Satisfied that all was well, he spotted Salima Airfield up ahead forming out from the haze, and let out a sight of infinite relief. He looked across to Alex, who was apparently getting better. For the first time since the attack, Pat relaxed, satisfied that his best mate would be just about alright. He had just called Salima on the radio to request an emergency landing, when he because aware of this strange vibration. Pat frowned in confusion, and was about to look at the Cooland Temperature Guage when it exploded, the glass casing falling symbolically to the ground. Pat just stared at it, wondering why his beautiful plane would suddenly start acting strange, when he noticed several other instruments has suddenly, instantly, exploded. The compass burst, and the liquid contained inside squirted onto his tunic. He looked down in dismay, when his whole body vibrated, and several wholes burst their way through his stomach. Blood mixed with compass fluid, and Pat looked into his rear view mirror. A sleek, elegant 109 bore its menacing face back, and Pat finally became away he was being fired upon.

For the air mechanics at Salima Airfield, a tense feeling of uncertainty hung in the air. An emergency landing had been called, and an ambulance was on the runway boundary, expecting casualties. Then, finally, the sound of Allison engines on the breeze announced the arrival of the airmen.Everybody on the whole base, mechanics, AA gunners, control tower personnel all tuned their senses to the cause of the emergency, which suddenly forged it's way through the gentle wind. It was the harsh, metallic spit of machine-gun fire. Eyes and ears stiffened, from where the east appeared a gaggle of aircraft. 2 Kittyhawks, seemingly stuck togther by the wing, were coming in to land. Neither had wheels nor flaps deployed. One of them, with the markings GA-K had it's engines turned off. The control tower officer put his binoculars to his eyes, and nearly yelped at what he saw. It looked as if the bloody planes had been made of bloody chicken wire, he didn't know how they were able to stay airborn. The ambulance started its expectant wail, as if the van itself was dreading taking in yet another victim. At far too fast speed, with one plane forcing the other down with its wing, crashed onto the sandy runway, bounced as one into the air, then smacked down onto the ground with even greater force, and sped along the ground till the planes had exerted all their energy, leaving nothing but a cloud of sand so bad if could have came from a sand storm. Figures from all over raced to the spot of the crash, the ambulance among the first to reach the tangled wrecks. A man burst out the back and nimbly jumped onto the fuselage of one of the aircraft. Pulling off the canopy, he saw a young pilot, barely in his twenties. Quickly searching him over, he didn't find any traces of wounds. It looked as if something at hit him with such velocity that he was knocked out. His mask had been blown off, and open closer inspection revealed it had been almost ripped in half. Above all, he looked exhausted. 'Sir!' Shouted the medic, expecting no response. Subsequently, to his surprise, the pilot's eyes sprang open wildly. 'What's going on?' He questioned, surprise and shock mixed in his voice. Then, as he looked around the cockpit, and finally at the base of his seat, were a large hole had knocked the control column out of place, he cursed loudly. He looked at the medic asking what happened, when out the corner of his eye he spotted a group of people crowded around another crumpled plane. After assuring the medic he was fine, he got up and stumbled out of the cockpit and onto the warm sand, as his legs were cramped after the long flight. Walking to the other wreck, he had barely opened his mouth, about to ask who it was, when a gentle hush fell open the gathering. Pushing aside mechanics, who gazed upon this intruder then quickly away as they say who it was, the flyer finally looked at what was inside the cockpit. Scarcely breathing, a shattered image of his former self, sat Pat. Alex felt an immediate sickening, sinking feeling in his stomach. He tried to get away from the scene, but his eyes were glued to the spot. Blood was everywhere, the cockpit instruments were all blown to peices, Alex could barely balance on the wing as it was so filled with holes it might collapse. The worst of all, there were no fewer than a dozen holes, large, horrific, cruely simple, were scattered all over his best friends body. His face, his arms, his legs were covered with blood. Under the torn rags of his flying tunic, Alex could thought he could see bits of intestine, and his face truly betrayed his horror. Here, was is best mate of 20 years, his life ebbing away, in some desolate desert in the part of the world he had never heard of. Alex looked up at the medical officer, who, sorrowfully, shook his head, whom then quickly looked away. He couldn't bear the eyes of the pilot, boring through his soul for some glimmer of hope, some medical miracle from the doctor where there was none. Alex continued to stare at him though, but suddenly a cough from Pat's lips brought his attention back to his mate. He looked up, then around, then his big, soft, droopy eyes fell upon Alex, and he managed a smile. "Ey mate." Alex was feeling a lump forming his throat. 'Yes mate?' he replied gently, afraid that even if his words were too harsh he would hurt his friend even more. Pat took Alex's hand, hand looked into his eye, an image that stuck into Alex's brain and would haunt him for the rest of his days. "It's been good knowin you mate..." Pat managed painfully. Tears were rolling in a constant stream down Alex's face. 'You too mate, you too' and squeezed Pat's hand, hoping for some sort of return pressure. But he got none. And Alex looked at his best mate, during his last few moments amongst the living on the earth, and then it finally ended. Pat's head softly dropped down, devoid of life and soul. Alex wept.

04-27-2005, 12:57 PM
Very cool story bushranger. Quite human compared to some of mine. I seem to place too much in the heart of the machine than the pilot him/herself.

I think what is best about writing, especially about something you know and love, is that you will improve if you just keep it up, and keep doing it. Writing also gives you the chance to look at your life, as most work is a reflection of the author. Most often the works are about the ethical decision of the right and wrong thing to do.

As for this story, bushranger, here's what I think you should do. Keep it. Let it stay how it is for a few weeks, and then come back to it. You will find that some things can be deleted, some things may need to be added. Some passages may not even be needed at all. You may find that in some passages time passes too slowly or too fast. It's all based upon your guidelines.

Remember that each story should start with some sort of conflict, whether it is about trying to survive war, realizing that war is ugly rather than a heroic vision, whatever, that conflict must be addressed. But you are NOT obligated to solve it.
I liked this story's plot a lot, and it has great basis. If you can work on it, it will produce an incredible short story with its own pumping heart and feeling. Keep writing, each story gets better and better.

04-28-2005, 03:00 AM
Thanks for the kind words Boosher.

As for this story, bushranger, here's what I think you should do. Keep it. Let it stay how it is for a few weeks, and then come back to it. You will find that some things can be deleted, some things may need to be added. Some passages may not even be needed at all. You may find that in some passages time passes too slowly or too fast. It's all based upon your guidelines.

Yes, I agree with you there. I wrote the story last night, and today all I could think about was possible adjustments I could do. One change I have made is moved the short patch of background info to the beginning, forming a bit of a prologue.

I seem to place too much in the heart of the machine than the pilot him/herself.

Don't worry, it's a different style in itself. I personally loved your story about the P-40C and 190 combat, and really liked how you described the aeroplane, things like " The old thing chortled delightedly at being flown again.", that is a good technique of writing/way of describing things, one that I try to stick to myself. My style of writing has been influenced by many books and war time stories, and some phrases that stuck with me were included, but don't sue me for plaguerism http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_biggrin.gif

I liked this story's plot a lot, and it has great basis. If you can work on it, it will produce an incredible short story with its own pumping heart and feeling. Keep writing, each story gets better and better.

http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_smile.gif Thanks mate. When I was reading this Combat Story thread, suddenly an image popped into my head, a simple scene where one characters (Pat) mate was badly shot up, and instead of getting revenge he helped his mate (Alex) home and saved his life, giving in own in the process, which I hope is a reflection of war. It all just went from there...

Congrats on such a great thread! http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/25.gif

04-28-2005, 05:03 AM
Originally posted by HotelBushranger:
Thanks mate. When I was reading this Combat Story thread, suddenly an image popped into my head, a simple scene where one characters (Pat) mate was badly shot up, and instead of getting revenge he helped his mate (Alex) home and saved his life, giving in own in the process, which I hope is a reflection of war. It all just went from there...
That's all you need. Stories are writing down the pictures in our mind. Now, I had a dream last night about Peanut butter and Jelly, and how it somehow ran away. It might make an interesting comical poem, but nothing I can think of now can really match the hilarity of that. However, I do have a constant recurring dream of my friends burning alive when I'm trying to save them, and that's very unpleasant. Instead of being scared of the dream, I write about it.
You will find, ultimately, that your stories do have lives of their own. They will not want to be steered in a certain direction, the characters will tell you to do something else. Once you have that, you know the story will be in tune.
Another thing: The only problem I had with the last bit of the story is that the point of view completely shifted. I think what you need to do next is tell the story of Pat's last seconds alive from the point of view of Pat, to keep the point of view consistent. In specific terms. For most of the story it was 3rd person limited, as in the character was being talked about in the 3rd person, but really only the mind of Pat was displayed. The last scene where Alex becomes the "narrator" can be a bit weird to a reader.

Come on everyone! Anything can be a story. All you have to do is captivate it with your mind. Writing, in itself, is just another art form. If you guys are capable of learning how to use a keyboard to fly an airplane, you can definitely write a story!

04-29-2005, 01:55 AM
For most of the story it was 3rd person limited, as in the character was being talked about in the 3rd person, but really only the mind of Pat was displayed. The last scene where Alex becomes the "narrator" can be a bit weird to a reader.

The reason I wrote it in Alex's mind in the last scene, was because it was sort of like the end of Pat, he was so incapacitated he was unable to narrate, if you get my meaning. If I did it from Pat's view, it would have just been 'Owwww....' http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_wink.gif. But after thinking of it, hey you do have a good point! I'll try and expand on it. Also, it helped to build up the suspense, and finally see what Alex was like, what sort of things were happening in his mind. I guess we'll have to wait and see who likes what http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_biggrin.gif

Cheers Boosher, waitin for another story! http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/25.gif http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_smile.gif

04-29-2005, 08:05 PM
Here you go Bushranger, check this one out, it's not too good, I'm very worried about the AP's. It's not the grade, really, but my parents have been giving me hell. My friends are the ones I've been depending on, they're keeping me sane, healthy, and loved.

anyway, here it is:

Carrier Trials:

"**** it's hot," Lt. Stevens grunted in the open air as we walked toward our planes. The sun blasted the carrier's pitching and rolling decks. By this point we were used to it. The up and down swaying motion of the ship was just as friendly to us as the swaying of our planes in a heavy breeze. As we neared the port wing of my plane, many pilots were gathered to help us with the formidable task before us.
"Just swoop it on in, cut throttle, and flare," said one pilot I barely knew.
"Nah, it's all about keeping your eyes on one exact point." said another.
I clambered into the cockpit somewhat hesitantly. Lt. Stevens looked at me and pushed me forward with his eyes.
"Start up the **** plane and go, Rick." he said. It was easy for him to say. He was sitting in the cockpit of one of the brand new planes. Some of the men called them "Wildcats," but they didn't look much like cats, more like giant wild boars to me. I got the "All clear!" from the flight deck officer and threw in the magnetos and the inertial starter. My chubby Brewster Buffalo delightedly gurgled its fuel and air mixture as it galumphed its way about the deck, almost dancing on its shocks and wheels. The old bird had eyes and a mouth painted on it, and with the vibration pouring out of the radials of the engine, she snarled and spat her hot breath on the wooden deck beneath her. She was warm, she was ready.
€œGood to go!€ shouted the deck officer, and waved me through. With our combined power I floored the throttle and the chubby Buffalo charged down the line on the flight deck. The radiator was full open, she was breathing heavily, huffing and puffing, straining every ounce of power out of her huge radial, all to get airborne in just under 400 feet! She needed help, she didn€t seem to be able to do it on her own€¦ But wait! Flaps, this mammoth of a plane needed her flaps! I added 20 degrees of the flaps and the struggling old bird clambered its way slowly into the air. She loved to fly, using her strength she pulled her weight slowly up to a thousand feet. I was just along for the ride.
€œAlright Rick, bring her back down.€ Called Col. Hendrick from the tower. €œRemember, nice and easy, keep her slow, and for God€s sake, don€t forget the arrestor hook, you gave us a heart attack last time.€
The power waned and the machine cried as I gently slowed her and took her back into the pattern. The chubby old bird gave herself to me slowly and I brought her back into my own control. She was best in her slow flight, and proudly showed it. With the flaps now down 30 degrees, she soared at ninety miles an hour easily and deftly. I slid the canopy back to enjoy the wind in my face as I turned onto the base leg of the landing pattern.
The gear lever dipped itself down with the lightest pressure and its mechanical whine sounded like the trumpets of an age long gone, calling the return of its brave warriors to an ancient city walled in steep stone. The wind in her struts whistled through and added the odd pitches of The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B. They echoed in my head as I rounded the turn for the final approach. I made my final checks in the cockpit, pulled down the arrestor hook, double-checked the fuel levers, magnetos, ignition, she was running smoothly, clean as daisies.

BLAM! Piff, puff, sputter, clonk! The chunky old doll began to lurch forward! Once again I was just along for the ride as she began to spiral down the 800 feet I had under me! I quickly adjusted for her and luckily she recovered, but she was badly shaken. Her engine clonked and cluttered at her own pace, she wouldn€t listen to reason. Her fear collapsed all trust of her pilot and she froze, yielding barely any control to me. Three hundred feet had dropped for us and we didn€t look good.
€œSergeant, abort approach, abort approach!€ The LSO was waving me off frantically with his orange paddles, but I couldn€t obey his commands! My Buffalo stubbornly refused to avoid death as I struggled to save us both.
€œSergeant, the winds are too heavy, we€re turning back into the wind, break off!
She was losing speed, losing power, and I was still too far from the carrier to land on it.
€œMayday! Mayday! My engine quit! She€s going down!€ My poor old bird was dying right before my eyes! I was low, too low€¦ the ship seemed so far away! My poor chubby Brewster was crying her oil away! Oh God! Oh GOD! The propeller was churning and washing up the wake of the boat, and my poor Brewster was about to hit it! Not this way, no, I don€t want to go like this!

€œHoney? Honey wake up!€ I flew upright looked around, my plane was gone, the carrier was gone, where was all the water?
€œEmma? What happened? What€s going on?€ Emma was right next to me, holding onto my shoulder and trying to shake me awake.
€œYou were shaking violently, are you alright?€
€œRick, did you have another bad dream, about the war?€
€œNo€¦ no.€ I stammered, €œI€m fine.€ I didn€t understand, I could vividly remember hitting the water hard, my poor Brewster smashed by the giant propeller of the aircraft carrier€¦
Emma put her head on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. €œWell, I know it€s 3 AM, but I€ll go make some coffee for you, and then you can tell me all about it.€
€œYou€re too good to me,€ I said. We both got up to head to the Kitchen.

05-09-2005, 06:59 PM
umpbage with a poem!

Ode to a Kittyhawk:

Ah, P-40,
both beast and queen of the skies,
look at the grace with which she flies
Dominance looming in all our eyes
merciless grin
And meanest of all that firey hot chin.
Ah, the dulcet P-40..

05-09-2005, 08:17 PM
I know it's not WW2 ... but here's a story from the USS Biddle DLG/CG 34.

<span class="ev_code_YELLOW">USS Biddle DLG/CG 34</span>

The following is a press account about the evening that many of us Post-Vietnam sailors heard referred to in awed tones as "The Night Of The MiGs." We found this article in the archives of the Navy Historical Foundation at the Washington Navy Yard.
By JO3 Tom Kelly

TONKIN GULF, July 19, 1972 €" In the Combat Information Center of the Guided Missile Frigate Biddle, Ship€s Weapons Coordinator CWO2 Loren "Gunner" O€Neal had only one thing on his mind. Navy A-6 aircraft flying over North Vietnam had been hit by either antiaircraft fire or a surface-to-air missile and the task at hand for the Biddle was to guide the crippled aircraft with her wounded co-pilot navigator back to the carrier Midway.

Overhead one of the two Navy aircraft flying Combat Air Patrol had been dispatched under Biddle€s direction to escort the A-6 back home. Though this task had the attention of most of the Condition III watch in CIC, they continued to search the skies or hostile aircraft.

It was well they did. At about 10:20 p.m. five North Vietnamese MiGs were taking off from two separate airfields in North Vietnam for the specific purpose of destroying the Biddle.

Normally, enemy aircraft would only fly to the coastline, feign an attack, and then turn back. This practice was known as keeping their "feet dry" or staying over land. When picked up by air search radar the MiGs were still "feet dry" and their presence was neither unusual or cause for exceptional alarm.

Normal, immediate precautions were taken, of course. The captain was summoned to CIC and all watch personnel were placed on alert. In the ensuing moments came the change that would make the night of July 19 different from all the drills and alarms of past weeks. Moments later the MiGs were "feet wet," or over water, and with that knowledge came the realization that this was no fake attack. The MiGs were attacking for real.

As Captain Edward Carter, skipper of the Biddle, hustled to the CIC, most of the crew was still asleep. As soon as it appeared that the MiGs were a threat to his ship, he ordered General Quarters sounded and took up his command position in CIC.

As awakened members of Biddle€s crew leapt from their bunks and hurriedly threw on their clothes, the air attack was developing rapidly. The first group of three MiGs was approaching at 500 knots from the northwest. The Fire Control Systems Coordinator, Chief James Caswell had the MiGs on his radar scope and was and was waiting for an engagement order from Capt. Carter. Chief Caswell was working side-by-side with Fire Control Technician First Class Lawrence Knight, the engagement controller. When at General Quarters under normal conditions, Caswell and Knight would be relieved by two of the ship€s weapons officers, but in this instance, the aircraft were so close, and coming so fast, that there was no time for them to be relieved. They stayed on station, controlling the engagement and the firing of the missiles. In fact, on accpordance with the ship€s doctrine for such an emergency situation, the entire Condition III was remained at their stations the first attack.

While most of the crew was still scrambling for their GQ stations, Capt. Carter worked quickly to coordinate the efforts of the CIC personnel in identifying and "locking on" to the MiGs in preparation for the launch of the surface-to-air-missiles.

In the missile house, Gunner's Mate Second Class Dave Bayless was not terribly surprised when the order came to send missiles out onto the launcher rails. Several times in the past weeks similar incidents had always resulted in false alarms, and he expected this night would have the same result.

In the aft 5" gun turret, Gunner's Mate Seaman Lance Stock was standing his normal watch. To fill his time he was taping a message to his mother with a small cassette tape recorder. He was just finishing as General Quarters was sounded throughout the ship. As was most of the crew, he wasn€t terribly surprised at this, so he decided to tape the events in the turret while at General Quarters. He had no idea, of course, that he would be recording an important part of a major surface to air engagement.

On the bridge, the OOD, Lieutenant Jim Mleziva responded to the GQ alarm by ordering the bridge secured and intensifying the bridge watche€s navigational efforts. His primary concern was to keep track of the Biddle€s "Shotgun" the destroyer escort Gray that was on station nearby. From CIC came an order from Capt. Carter to increase speed to 25 knots and begin a series of evasive maneuvers to which he quickly responded, As he waited for his relief, Lieutenant Nick McKenna, to reach the bridge, he heard the blast doors to the missile house open.

The launch of the Terrier missiles shocked most of the crew into the realization that this was not a drill or another "false alarm." The illumination of the ship by the boosters, and the blast and noise accompanying their ignition, could only mean that they were being fired in anger. For many crewmen the knowledge that they were actually being attacked brought the sensation of fear that men inevitably experience in combat. As has often been the case, the fear proved useful in motivating greater performance.

In CIC, Capt Carter and his weapons specialists "waited for what was only a few seconds, but seemed like eternity," as the missiles streaked toward their target. Finally, the range rate on one target went to zero, indicating that one of the MiGs had been shot down. By radio, the Grey reported missile detonation on the proper line of bearing, as did topside personnel on the Biddle and in the Combat Air Patrol overhead. Biddle€s missiles had done their job.

Almost immediately, the two remaining MiGs in the first flight turned around and headed back for North Vietnam.

A period of relative clam overtook CIC for the next 15 minutes, General Quarters was set throughout the ship but most everyone became convinced that the attack was over. The notion was quickly proven to be an illusion.

The detection of a second MiG attack gave Biddle even less time than had the first. A pair of MiGs flying in slot formation, one behind the other, at a very low altitude, were picked up off Biddle€s port side.

Capt Carter knew that the altitude of the aircraft would make it difficult to "lock on" to them with the fire control radars, While bringing the radars to bear, he ordered the 5" gun on the fantail and the portside 3" gun to open fire.

On the port 3" mount, Gunner's Mate Third Class Bruce Tanner, the gun captain had made it to his GQ station just as the first missiles had been launched. No one on the port gun crew had ever been on the weather decks during a missile firing, and the experienced "scared hell" out of all of them. As they waited through the seemingly endless minutes between the first and second raids, all were acutely aware that they were in a situation where their performance could very well determine their own survival and that of their shipmates.

In minutes the order was passed: "Lowflyers, 270 degrees, commence fire!"

The gun crews on the 3" and 5" guns went into action, In the aft 5" turret the excitement` was still being recorded on the cassette deck Lance Stock was taping for his mother. "Well, Mom, now you've heard it," Stock said into the microphone, "my first time in combat."

On the portside 3" gun mount, the ammo handlers and gunners worked harder than they ever had before, In the past, they had never managed to get more than 20 rounds per minute out of their manually loaded gun. This night they would get 28, "Fast enough," said Lieutenant Jack Crowley, "to make the MiG s think that they were coming at a battleship."

As the guns lit up the horizon to port, the CIC personnel under the direction of Capt. Carter had "locked on" to the second flight of MiGs. As the gunners worked furiously, Terrier missiles were again launched at the "low flyers" that were now five miles away from the Biddle.

Within seconds of the launch of the missiles, one of the MiGs disappeared from the radar scope. Either the aircraft was hit and destroyed or it crashed into the ocean while attempting to evade. Regardless of what happened, the fate of the first MIG caused the second pilot to panic and pull his plane into a steep climb, passing directly over the Biddle, After climbing sharply for several thousand feet the pilot dove back down to a low altitude and sped back to the safety of the North Vietnamese mainland.

All the action was not over, however, On the 3" gun mount, a shell had jammed in the breach, rendering the gun inoperable and dangerous to the men around it. The gunners hurriedly raised the barrel to a vertical position and shook it back and forth by means of its controls. When the shell was finally freed, Gunner's Mate Third Class "Buck" Owens picked it up, carried it to the side, and threw it overboard, removing the last threat to the crewmen of the Biddle.

In CIC, Capt Carter ordered that General Quarters be held. He kept GQ intact through the next half hour until he was absolutely sure that the raids were over. Only then did he allow his crew to return to their bunks or their watch stations, all of them logging in their minds forever the memory of the events of the past hour.

Although she had deployed from Norfolk on only three days notice, Biddle spent a full four months on the firing line off the coast of Vietnam, During that time, Biddle controlled a total of 102 Navy and 56 Air Force major air strikes against North Vietnam, She was credited with directing the intercept and destruction of 13 enemy MIG aircraft by Navy and Air Force fighters, In addition, she directed the rescue of 17 American pilots.

Their single most exciting performance, of course, was the July 19 confrontation with the five North Vietnamese MiGs. As a result of their success that night Capt. Carter received a letter from Admiral Elmo R, Zumwalt Jr., Chief of Naval Operations, which read in part:
"Your out standing leadership and the superb performance of your crew are a tribute to the United States Navy. You and your men have clearly demonstrated the effectiveness of a highly disciplined, imaginative and dedicated fighting force. Biddle distinguished herself in this engagement and, to a man, you should be very proud of her achievement."

It would seem that the boldness of Captain Nicholas Biddle has been inherited by the men who sail the ship that bears his name.

05-09-2005, 09:26 PM
That's very cool, Woofie, and I like that new picture of Woofie (the dog). Naval combat in Vietnam doesn't get enough press, I'd say. I liked this a lot.

However good this is, I have only one peeve about it. It's not written by you! Of course, this article is close to you, no doubt about it, and it deserves to be in this thread. But one thing I would love to see you try is to write down an experience, one of your own personal stories, or something that happened in IL2, Medal of Honor, Red ORchestra (I actually have a story in progress now about an RO game i just played), whatever...

A writing sample, much like a blood sample, is an impression of you. Everyone has their own unique style, vocabulary. Some people like poems, others write plays, stories... There are innumerable ways to express it. Make it come alive. It could be about something as simple as a rolling Pencil on a TB-3's navigator's desk, or as complex as a multi-bomber engagement with CAS going on beneath it.

In essence, the story you posted is great, but it is part of Tom Kelly. I want to read part of you.

Come on, I know you're up to it.

05-12-2005, 10:30 AM
This a great thread. I have added it to the Essentials list under essential Reading... and I took the liberty of pruning it some. If I offended anyone by deleting your post I didnt mean to. If this thing keeps on growing it may become a sticky. As it is now you can get to it through the Essentials link. Very good stuff guys.

05-12-2005, 03:11 PM
Thanks Bearcat, This one about the war on the ground. It was a lucky round for me in RO, and unlike the story, I actually survived the encounter.

We huddled in the dank light through the smoke and fire at Ponryi. The stone buildings of a burned out city lay behind us, now only rows of wheat separated the Fascists from our reach. Our Commander held off at the rear with his DP28 light machine gun. "You will charge the enemy for your motherland! "None of you, turn back. I will accept nothing but victory!"
"ZA RODINU!" "FOR THE MOTHERLAND!" we cried in our fierce patriotism. Rifles lifted themselves off the ground and bayonets glinted as we presented our arms forward. Bloodcurdling yells escaped our lips. We charged the invaders, two hundred men strong! Each with the fortitude of a rampaging Griffin. With every smack of our burdened feet on the ground we gained more of a victory for our Motherland, for our families. A mass of tan and green assaulted the enemy horde of black, and I, charging with them, carried our standard and my pistol. The red and gold flag bearing the hammer and sickle waved flashingly in the ripping wind and smoke. The gold blazoned violently our truth, and our red banner bore our toils in blood, sweat, and tears. Our screams were wild, rampant... deafening. Bayonets to my left, to my right, dropped heavily, but I kept running. I raised my pistol in the air and rallied the troops onward, firing upward and out. I could see nothing. I could hear nothing. Only the whistle of the wind and the rush of my speed blasted my ears. Men overtook me in their furious charge for the Rodina, and I ran with them. A brave charge, a just charge... across the plains of Ponryi to obliterate the invaders. THe men in front of me fell boldly, their rifles flung backward at the sheer force of smacking machine gun bullets, I didn't see the one that flew back to hit me in the head.

The air smelled thick with smoke. My eyes watered and hurt. Everywhere, the stench of absolute death. The standard was in tatters, my pistol was nowhere to be seen. The setting sun glowed red with Russian blood. Rifles, bayonets, grenades, ammunition, all lay at my feet. My head was ablaze with thunder and my eyes seared with red, or was that blood? My head kept circling the scene... the blood... oh the blood. The eyes of my comrades lay open, at least the ones that still had them. Sickening. I don't remember how long I wept for. I slung a rifle over my shoulder and took what ammunition I could find. The bayonet would be too easily seen in the sunset, so I slid it into an empty sheath and attached it to my belt. What was left of our standard I shoved into my pilotka. Now it truly was red with our blood, and it would be my blood that would avenge these fallen men.
I crept slowly along the rolling hills until I came to the ruins of a house. Not much of it was left intact. The southern wall barely held itself together. Not trusting it, I held my weight up against the wall toward the East and rested. I knew the German lines were close. The rumble of artillery fire sounded so very near, was I right next to it? Each deafening boom shook the crumbling walls of the old ruin. They were the footsteps of giants, bounding their way toward Russian lines. My eyelids swelled and shaded the entry to my darkened soul. Everything fell black underneath the rolling thunder and bright flashes in the distance.


"Suchen Sie dort."

"Wha...?" Quiet voices whispered their way through the cracks in the walls. I awoke from my sleep abruptly. I feared I had made too much noise, and huddled against the corner of the walls, away from the bombed out windows. Footsteps calmly crinkled the pebbles on the hard ground and approached the window. "Nein. Es gibt nichts." said the voice. The Fascists! I peeked over my stubby little wall. There were thirty of them, thirty! I had absolutely no chance... I fell flat on my chest, but a spherical object in my pocket bruised my chest. A grenade! I waited until the footsteps grew somewhat distant, then pulled the pin...

"GRANATE! GRANATE!" shouted panicked voices as my bayonet and rifle flew from the ruins of the house. A quick flash of steel, a rifle butt to the head, another thrust to a stomach... Bright flashes... intense heat! All fades to black in the end.

05-12-2005, 06:30 PM
A period of relative clam overtook CIC for the next 15 minutes,

I used to hate it when that happened. http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/16x16_smiley-very-happy.gif

I was in the Tonkin Gulf at that time. Was aboard the USS AMERICA CVA-66. My squadron was VA-82 and we were attached to CAG 8.

We had Russian KOMAR boats make a few runs at us on different occasions. It's amazing how fast a CVA can go if it needs to. THe komar boats never got close enough to launch. ( that was the official version http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_wink.gif )

Our missiles never hit anything that we knew of. We fired a LOT of them on occasion.

Great stuff gents, keep 'em comin'. http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_biggrin.gif

05-13-2005, 08:58 PM
un otro bump!

06-03-2005, 10:13 AM
Just a quick bump with a fake journal entry from one of the Nachthexen back during their Training in Engels:

October 21st, 1941

Marina Raskova said I would be able to fly more often now. She was more strict than usual these days, and always walked upright with her medals brandished on the breast of her coat. I met a girl who Marina Raskova had just finished with, and she was pouring tears like a waterfall. She had been commanding a flight of three planes when they all got lost in a snowstorm. The girls she was leading seemed to have crashed. She was the only one that made it back. We all waited for them to show up, but they never did. After the storm had settled, their bodies were found, all four of the girls. They were our first casualties.
While I am friendly with Lilya now, she is getting to be a bit of a pain. She always challenges authority. Her surname is Litvyak. She appeared in formation this morning sporting a beautiful fur collar. Many of the girls were admiring her handiwork. I too liked very much the style she had created for herself. I stood right next to her and wanted to talk to her, but formation rules prevented it, so I held my tongue. Marina Raskova was inspecting our formation. She stopped right in front of Lilya. I looked down and realized that the fur cuffs of her boots were missing. I can remember the criticism plainly.
€œWhen did you do this?€ Marina Raskova had asked her.€ Lilya answered plainly and proudly, €œDuring the night.€
We were anxiously awaiting to hear what was going to happen. Marian Raskova looked furious, but Lilya stared right back into her eyes without any fear. Everyone gaped at the two of them€¦.
Marina Raskova made sure Lilya won€t get any sleep tonight. She be spending all night in the guardhouse switching the fur back onto her boots.

09-13-2005, 05:20 PM
I figure we should bump. Why not, someone may not have seen all our stuff yet.

09-14-2005, 04:19 AM
Rightio, I'll try to get another story up tonight, maybe witha DC-3 in it-just had a flight in one (check thread). Oh, and Kitthawks http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_smile.gif Just gotta make sure I don't use up a whole night doing it! lol

09-14-2005, 06:59 AM
Writing is never time wasted, unless you're writing about wastes of time.

09-14-2005, 08:06 AM
Haha I'll do it another night, wayyy too tired and gotta get work done. I'm picturing some PTO action http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_cool.gif

09-16-2005, 02:23 AM
PBNA-Boosher... Quote... However good this is, I have only one peeve about it. It's not written by you!

Well here it is...

A True Tale!

The sun was beaming directly over our heads... burning with Anger. Sweat was pouring from every gland on our body's.
Where the Hec is that Supply Run!!

Pearing into a vast wasteland... we needed that resupply fast.
We are down to our very last!

And the Captain had left hours ago to try and break through the Lines.

Keep those Coal's Burning Boy's!
Dang... How many times have I said that today!

The boy's are getting restless and my throat is burning dry!

Wait... I see movement up at the corner... is it our long awaited relief??

No... Dang those new replacements. I can't tell them enough to Hold Tight.

With my last warm swig... cooling my dusty throat... I see a dust cloud heading striaght for us!

Hope at Last!
A spark of relief runs up my backbone!

Bless our Lucky Stars!!!

My wife is back from the Beer Run!

A tale from Woofiedog Productions

09-21-2005, 12:59 AM
Tall Tales...

How long has it been now... 4 hours... 6 hours!
I can't tell any more, it's all one Big Blank Page.

And this Ocean of Fog seems to go on forever. Not a ray of sunshine since I left the target area.
At least we hit that Bridge once and for all, 3 missions over that SOB to knock it out!

And how many are there left of us now,6 maybe 5 from the Squadron.
I guess Tom won't be needing those new boots after all.

I better check these gauges again or what is left to them.
That fuel gauge better be off a little... I might have just enough to hit the Coast, with some Luck!

Wow that hole in the wing is big enough to put my head through!
I'd have to say this crate is ready to be spare parts... if we make it home.

Boy that flak was right on the money today. 12 of us going in and maybe 6 leaving.

What's that I felt shaking the controls? More pieces coming off?
I better be seeing land real soon!

Dang... there's that shaking again... both hands on the stick and I need 2 more.

What is my altitude now... 1200 feet. That gauge is just springs and broken glass.

Hec what's that leaking out Now! Coolent... we won't be lasting long now.

That shaking is getting worse... can't be to much left of the tail surfaces.

Dang... This is it! Time to bail out... but over what?? I still can't see diddily out there.
And this crate is shaking to pieces!

See if I can get this canopy open!

Hey John!!! Hey John!!!
Are you getting up or what... this Pass is for only 24 hours.
Let's get the lead out!

Woofiedog Productions

09-22-2005, 02:01 PM
I call this one: a different point of view; from the diaries of flight leftenant Thomas Sharpe

Somewhere on Sumatra,

that's where I am now, Together with Flight Sergeants Hakeswill, O' Brien and Harper. Our orders, teach our Dutch allies to fly and fight with the Hurricane.

I was at the dispersal today. My beloved S for Susan proud RAF heritage is gone. She looks strange now, sporting that weird Dutch jungle camouflage and what's even weirder, the Orange triangle.

Strange bedfellows those Dutch but that's the war I guess,their local mess is above anything ever served in England. I feel I must mention this.

there are also some keen guys in the fighter outfit over here...

my writing gets interupted as in the distance a siren starts whailing, an alert. Lieutenant Mark Peters, our liaison scrambles into the building shouting something about an incoming Japanese air raid.

All four of us charge out of the building for our planes. In the distance I can see the Brewsters starting their engines as well. I hope those lads make it off in time. In the meantime our own engines have been brought to life. As fas as we can we get airborne

pulling maximum boost I assemble the flight over the field at 15000 feet. I see the Ack Ack already firing in both east and southeastern direction. Most of the outgoing fire is heading east.

"090, lads looks like that's where we'll start the show." with three Hurricanes behind me I head directly East.

It doesn't take me long "Woodenshoe lead talley ho twelve o clock bombers! Break left and climb."

Our Hurricanes gain altitude, but not with ease. We're approaching twenty thousand feet, the ceiling of our kites.

As I level off, I study the bombers again. Vic formation, no fighters visible, a fighter pilots dream!

" Woodenshoe flight let's go get them!"

With that I pull Susan over into a screaming dive, and center my gunsite on the leader.

playing a hunch, at the last moment I switch from the mainbody to his starboard engine and press the tit when he's in range.

My aim must be a bit off, for my shots hit the wing root instead. but the result is indeed more then I had hoped for.

Before I pull up out of the dive, groaning under the forces of gravity, I see flames erupt and hear Harper mutter " Good shooting sir, he's toast now."

at altitude I briefly roll her over and commence a check of my flight and my own kite. All present and accounted for and everything in working order.

"Woodenshoe lead, Woodshoe four, I think they're strafing the field."

" Woodenshoe three, confirmed, let's get down there sir."

I nod and key the mike " three and four, any bandits over the field are yours two, follow me."

09-22-2005, 10:52 PM
Sharpe26... Not bad at all! http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/25.gif
Will we be hearing more from leftenant Thomas Sharpe later on?

09-23-2005, 05:08 AM
just a quick one from me

tracers whizz past,
engines scream for mercy,
cannons blink and roar,
fuel gushes,
canopies come open,
controls shudder,
wings bend,
pilots swear,
planes afire

09-23-2005, 07:24 AM
Pacific payback

At 0700 i whent to a mission briefing for this days CAP. In the office was a young pilot who was new to this theater. We were introduced and i got the "its your new wingman ( a m8 of mine just starting to play PF)" speetch. We went to our planes F4U-D`s and when through the checklist and some info on how to use coms (he is werry new to this sim lol)

At 0800 we took of heading 171 climping to 4000m. it was a clear morning and we could spend abit of time of follow the leader before entering hostile airspace. At 0820 we saw 3 dots at our 10²clock at around 2500m heading in the direction of our base. Gave the order 95% throttle and we ziped down to identefy them.

Then the shock came to me. We had 3 KI-84`s on our hands, but atleast we had speed. Well my young m8 with all hes "piece of cake" mentality was not around me when i zoomed up for alt, nooo he had made a loop to get direct on the KI`s six, so now we had me at 4000m and a slow F4U at around 2500m with no energy to spare, i called a 180 turn atleast to get him closer to me but i could se he was allready trailing 2 dots while he was shooting at the one infront of him. when they passed below me i got vertical cutting throttle..hanging by the prob tilting over full throttle and manouvered behind the two foes, i came down fast (love the F4U for this) made a under above attck on the first one and flames came out of hes side...my m8 now allmost crying im hit im hit help me help me discovering is mistake, but im not going slow against those hell maschines and i tryed to calm him down while i got into shooting position of the second plane. Then it happend...in all my confusement with the two bandit on my m8`s six i forgot about the one he was shooting at and i noticed my mistake when i saw i plane in my mirror and tracers zipping by ok im cool...no probs...untill my headset virbratet to the "thud thud" sound...geeez 84C`s

I still had some energy left made a spiral climp and away he was.....he when all the way over to my m8....i just heard him...hes hitting hes hitting...f*** my plane just blew up*...at this time i made a hammerhead came down fast, the last actions had splittet the enemy up and i came down on one of them....under & above attack and black smoke....i used the best part of 30 mins looking for the last bandit, but couldnt find him...flew back home and landet...

Sorry about my spelling aint native English and a great tx for the fight to the Japanese pilots on the server....and my m8 is now thinking potential energy and kinetic energy all the time..

09-23-2005, 04:45 PM
True online story this is.

Here's the situation. Flying on UK-Dedicated in the Kuban 1943-144 campaign. The mission takes place in the gap between Crimea and Kuban maps (the area that is overlapped). Its a bit of a channel between the two and the map involves quite a few ships and ground targets on either side.

I was flying a fighter sweep in an effort to defend friendly IL-2s (mostly IL-2T) from attack while they did their torpedo runs and rocket attacks. My aircraft was Yak-9T.

I encountered two bandits during this memorable fight. The first bandit was a 109G-6 Late which I got into a fight with. Our altitude was about 2500m so were were neither high nor low. I managed to get the upper hand scoring a 37mm hit on an elevator (blowing it off) and scoring a few UBS machine gun hits on his fuselage. He was damaged but not out of the fight. At this point, both planes were heading straight up vertically and I was focused on shooting the bandit with precision gunnery and not my speed.

The speed dropped drastically low and both planes were standing on tail. Just then I heard over the TeamSpeak channel "ICE, Focke Wulf, six!" Sure enough, a Focke Wulf was screaming in slightly lower than us and preparing to shoot me...while I was stupidly standing on my nose.

I kicked the throttle to 110%, and slammed hard rudder. The Yak-9T is a pretty good performer but with no speed...it wasn't reacting. I figured I was toast and the FW190 would get me. Recluctantly, the Yak turned nose down (with quite a bit of sway at this point) and began picking up speed.

All this time, the 109 was still struggling to keep his nose high and be ready to drop on me (despite his damage). Well at this moment, while my Yak was starting to head back down and the Focke Wulf had just managed to miss me (but was very close) there was a large explosion.

Hilarity ensued. The Focke Wulf had pulled up straight into the 109 that was now about to settle on my tail and the two of them had collided.

Better yet, the remaining hulk of 109 that made it to the ground landed me the kill.

The end of the story goes that my Yak was damaged in the explosion and I crash landed near base...however, my pilot walked away.

One of the best stories I've had in a long time!

09-23-2005, 10:51 PM
Sweet stuff guys, keep it coming!

09-24-2005, 03:02 PM
As Lt Dan stepped down from the sizzling lump of metal that was once an elegant P47 obedient in the grasp of his palm, he shivered, long and cold, then fell to the ground and grasped his stomach. Immediately Ambulance crews were rushing towards him from the field by the tower, but Lt Scott had already jumped out of his plane to help him. He rolled Dan onto his back and jumped back at the sight of it! Blood! In every thread of material that he could see. On every part of Dan's flesh. He had a hole in him somewhere under his huge flight Jacket. How the hell did he fly home? That's all that Scott wondered as the ambulance people pulled him away from the horrible scene that was unfolding in front of him, like the ground had opened up and Satan himself had hurled rocks at him. Poor Dan, what had happened?...

Nine hours earlier, Lt Dan and Lt Scott sat at Breakfast in the little hall across the airfield from their Nissen hut. It was bitterly cold outside. Some of the coldest Scott said he had ever experienced. It was their first meeting, second if you include the night before when Dan stumbled in drunk, shook a bottle of beer at him angrily, then fell onto his bed in a heap of flying clothes. Conversation was scarce. Lt Dan had been at Horsham for 8 months already, and Scott was fresh from training, expected to fly wingman to a seasoned fighter ace. They spoke about the weather, about the horrible eggs that would disgust even vultures, the P47, and then the weather again, seemingly Dan was avoiding personal issues. The briefing revealed that they would be escorting Bombers to Essen then they would return home, P51's taking over from there. Dan briefed scott on what to expect, the flak, the fighters, the armada of B17s, then shook his hand coupled with a friendly smile and ordered him to his plane for pre flight checks.

They were off the ground and climbing with the rest of their squadron by 0800, three whole hours after they had woken up. They climbed in a huge circle, each plane turning and throttling in unison like a beautifully orchestrated opera. After half an hour, they pulled up above the clouds. The sky was gleaming, and the sun was directly behind them where they wanted it. They rendesvoused with the B17s an hour later and were on their way. Over the coast, Dan had felt nervous with the new pilot under his wing. Was he up to the job of taking care of him was what he wondered. It worried him that he had a mother back home, praying on his safe return, which was now his responsibility! HIS! What were they thinking!?! He glanced nervously back at his new wingman, but he wasn't looking back at him. He was busy scanning the sky for fighters. New and eager, Dan thought to himself. As he moved his head back the other way to look for fighters and check on the rest of his flight, a gleam of light, a flicker, caught his eye! He quickly flicked his head back round again, and THERE! About 4 O Clock to their position and above them, about 3km away, were bandits, coming in FAST. They were diving in fact! They were heading right for them, not even paying attention to the bomber force! "Dont break up with your wingman" Dan shouted over the intercom., "stay together, they wanna break us up". Just then they realised they were 109's, so close that they could see the gun nozzles start to blaze! Dan let out a burst of his eight 50's into his target, then pulled up and to the left. He was sweating.

He glanced back over his shoulder, Scott was still there, thank god! He glanced back left and noticed a109 turning for him, he banked hard over and pulled right head on to the 109, then blew him up! A wing departed the 109 the minute his bullets had contacted and he shouted in victory. No chute came from the plane. He quickly changed his thoughts to the pilot of that plane. His family. What they would think when they learned of his death. His feelings changed so quickly from joy to sorrow. He threw his head around to see that Scott was gone! He pulled the stick back and climbed for the heavens, then pulled a hard left turn. Everywhere he could see fighters mixing it up. They were still near the Bombers, but the concentration wasn't on them. Then he spotted Scott he was in trouble, waggling his wings and adding sporadic elevator movements to lose the 2 109s on his six. Dan pulled left again and rushed into the melee. A 109 broke off and he poured lead into the second one. He saw debris flying off, then the canopy opened and the pilot climbed out. He glanced at Lt Dan from his plane, a look of Horror and Fear. It was a horrible moment in war when you have to look your opponent in the eye and feel his feelings. He thought the german was scared he would shoot him. He waved the german off of his plane and waggled a wing, then the German jumped. He watched his chute open and then immediately his attention turned to Scott's plane that was heading towards him, with a 109 about a Km behind hurtling towards him. Scott broke left and Dan was facing the german head on. He gave a burst of machine guns, then pulled up. As he did so, he heard a huge burst and a smashing noise. His canopy had been blown open.

It became apparent that he was bleeding. He felt wet by his stomach. Looking out of his canopy he saw his wings had many holes walked across them. Fear struck him when he noticed the artificial horizons position. He was diving rapidly towards ground. He thought of bailing, but as he grabbed the stick he still had control. He was in alot of pain. ALOT! He did manage to level the plane off then head back toward the Channel Coast of France by stickin his head out of the canopy which he had opened to see outside. It was bitterly cold. When he flew in that direction for two hours, he glanced to the left and realised he had actually been flying parallel to the frenchcoast and was probably somewhere near St Nazaire, very far from where he wanted to be. This triggered a feeling of despair inside him, that he had let himself down, that he had let his mother down. He toyed with the thought of bailing, he needed treatment and he knew it. Hell, he was covered from head to toe in blood and was slipping towards unconciousness. His radio was shot out. He hauled the control column to the right and pulled back to make a sharp turn toward the English Coast where he could find his base from. Then he fell asleep.

He woke an hour later with the plane tilting onto its side and 3000ft up from the ground. It scared the hell out of him how close he was to death. BUT he noticed strait away that he was over Kent, a part of England that he knew well from his days of flying with the Eagle squadrons. He was only thirty minutes or so from base. His legs were trembling , in fact his whole body was! It was getting dimmer outside as he sighted his field, he guessed about 1700. He flicked his lights on to get the towers attention and lowered his gear, then flew his plane into the messiest landing that field had ever seen! It probably helped him as it startled his body when the beaten 47 hit the ground. He got the engine off and held the brakes as hard as he could. Dan stumbled out of the plane in a bloody heap, and Lt Scott magically appeared rushing towards him. Lt Scott knew that Dan had saved his life at least twice up in the French sky six hours earlier. The last thing Dan thought was where had Scott come from to help him. That was the last thing he remembered. And the Blood!

09-24-2005, 07:01 PM
Very nice story Danjama.

Here's another post: some things that may help you when you write, facts about aircraft, combat, concentration, etc...

On sound:
Your airplane's engine is most likely the loudest thing in your world when you fly. It is more than likely that when flying you will not hear anything but those (anywhere between) 150 - 3000 or more horses pumping their pistons.

On airplanes:
Yeah, i'ts really simple, But remember that you are inside your airplane, or your character is. You or they will see only from the angles they can view. Remember that hydraulic fluid is red, same as blood, so it's hard to tell the difference between the two. Remember that aircraft don't just fall apart because they're hit, structural G force can rip them to shreds too. Combining the damage from bullets and cannon fire with excessive G force will snap the plane. This could be an accountable reason in some scenarios.

On concentration in combat:
Your pilot will be SO focused on his objective that unless he is distracted, it really is highly unlikely he will notice a wound to himself unless damage to the plane makes him realize something. Yes, normally a rattling sound or a noise will indicate you've been hit, and it definitely comes out of nowhere if the enemy jumps you.

Think about those for a second, and think of some other things tha have to do with aviation or combat that would make your story better.

09-24-2005, 11:26 PM
Remember that aircraft don't just fall apart because they're hit, structural G force can rip them to shreds too. Combining the damage from bullets and cannon fire with excessive G force will snap the plane. This could be an accountable reason in some scenarios.

Yah, I've got that included already in my upcoming story http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_wink.gif

09-24-2005, 11:37 PM
And now a dramatic monologue:
It's a funny thing, time. It never goes the same speed. Last week when our squadron was racking up kills like crazy it seemed like nothing, but this week unbearable. The German bombers are raini ng hell down over the RAF, and their fighters are dropping ours like flies. It's hard to... you can't understand what it's like. It would be like me trying to describe the pain of birth or a gallstone to you. You have to live through it yourself. You see, I'm a Spitfire Mechanic at Sutton Bridge. I work on several different planes, but of course I have my favorite... well, had my favorite. N3178 was the best Spitfire I've ever seen. It was a perfect example, flew exactly with the charts, you know? Flew brilliantly. Leftenant Hiss was on his 43rd flight that week, and it was only Wednesday. he was **** tired, barely got sleep. I tell you he was running on empty.
I'd like to be able to say that the Leftenant died heroically in combat, I really would. But Leftenant Hiss didn't die in heroic battle. It was a landing. N3178 wasn't even damaged. Hiss brought the plane in fine, and then he just dropped it. It was like he fell asleep in the cockpit. He hung loose in his straps, his head and arms went limp, and the plane ploughed into the runway. That happened on last Friday and we're still finding pieces of him. Fact is, we're losing more pilots to fatigue than we are to enemy action. It's November, and since the combat started eighteen of our roster died from their lack of energy. I can't believe I'm saying it, but I've gotten used to it. I can understand what those guys were going through, I fix their planes. Every bullet that went into their planes, I took out, every piston that blew its valves, I replaced. These planes are like friends to me, There were many of them, good ones. N2498 in particular. She was missing a few rivets on her right side, at the wing's leading edge. Nothing harmful, it happened during a training exercise, the wing scraped the ground and the rivets popped out. It was a quick patch job. I had it ready again within a few hours. But it was later on... the big thing was later on. The pilot I usually worked with was at the controls of N2498. He was a great pilot, dealt with fatigue well too. I could only figure he was a morning person, as he's sleep all the sleep he could get. When the air raid sirens went off, he woke up instantly and ran for his Spitfire. N2498 was his plane. He put an eye on top of the engine's exhaust vents on either side of the plane. The eyes were green, like his girlfriend's. They were going to be married, Lt. Mailer and his girlfriend. And I remember, one day, the air raid siren blew and off he went. I had just finished putting the finishing touches on the eyes above the exhaust when he clambered in, saluted, and took off.
The day was more than a disaster. The Germans put up 44 bombers over our airfield, we were in our shelters, but everywhere we went the sounds of the bombs smacking into and exploding on our runways. Dirt, metal, and stone flies everywhere. And fire, red hot fire burns. It's a wonder they don't often hit the fuel stores. I don't even know what happened, he didn't have the chance to file an after action report. Seven of the eight of our Spitfires had come in. He was the last one, and an hour later we saw him coming in for final. The plane looked in a bad way, you could see through our binoculars. There were large holes in the wings from cannon fire. It looked like the plane was peppered with machine gun fire. Lt. Mailer was struggling real hard to keep the plane in the air. The loss of lift must have been enormous. The left wing was heavily frayed and peeling apart at the rivets, but the wing that didn't have some rivets was holding together fine, even if it did have that huge hole in it. Mailer came on final approach with almost full power in. He still was barely making enough RPM's to keep the plane airborne.
It was instantaneous. The left wing just wouldn't hold. The sound... it wasn't what you'd think it'd be. It wasn't a snap. The metal wrenched and creaked. There was no twang, just a sharp twist. I don't even know if it made a sound when it crashed. He had to land hot, he was going about 150 knots, The plane just jacknifed the grass. It looked like someone stabbed its way onto the runway. It just melted into the ground. We all ran over as fast as we could, but we couldn't get to the plane. Fire sprang out from the engine, the oil and fuel in the lines was igniting and spraying all over the place. If we went too near the leftover ammunition could go off and kill us all.

We just stood there while Lt. Mailer screamed. It was all we could hear above the roaring fire, his screams. The stench, oh god the smell....
As we recovered from our shock someone had the sense to run to the plane to try to save him, but we'd hesitated too long, there was no way.... I took a last look at N2498 before tending to my other planes. From where I was, fifty feet away, I could see drops of oil pouring from the eyes painted on the aircraft, crying at it's failure to bring its pilot home.

09-25-2005, 01:15 PM
Originally posted by woofiedog:
Sharpe26... Not bad at all! http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/25.gif
Will we be hearing more from leftenant Thomas Sharpe later on?

oh yes, afcourse you will!

As I start to bring my Hurricane back in the direction of the bombers, I notice a new pair of yellow tracers near the edge of the runway. Thats not right. Our's are red, not yellow.

" Two, follow me."

we level off at some distance from the field, but still close enough to see two shapes pulling away at high speed, towards the east.

" max power, let's get them before they get three and four."

The Merlin engine howls as I move the throttle forward. It may take a bit for us to get to them. But we'll manage.

We finally catch up just as they commence the attack on Woodenshoe Green three and Green Four.

Again my burst of fire punches through to a fuel tank in a wing, again a Japanese plane falls from the sky.

By then it's over.

The bombers are now to far away. and the remaining fighters are now leaving. Time to come home, and see if we have a place to sleep tonight.

09-28-2005, 02:31 AM
My first one, more to come later
the story is writtin from Si's and Martins point of view


Part 1

The carrier rolls and tumbles with the sea as if it is playing with it. As I look out of the cockpit I see the other SBDs lined up ready to takeoff. I notice that my engine is running hot, as I open the cowl flaps I hear my gunner, Martin say €big one today eh Si?€
I reply €œna just a patrol€
€œ awe€œ!

The SBD in front of me powers up, waits then chocks away. My turn, I pour on the coal (as my gunner refers to it), then signal, chocks away!

My plane trundles down the deck, tail up, flaps 2/3. The engine roars, loving the extra fuel. Then I feel the sudden drop, Martin calls out €œclear.€ I pull up the gear and flaps, gunning the engine, trying to get anyway form the hungry sea.
I bank to the left, forming up on my leader, flying in loose formation waiting for the others. The plane is stable, it loves low speeds, I check my enbien instruments, all good.

2 hours later

My leaders calls out over the radio €œtransport ahead!€. He waggles his wings I fall in behind putting on more power, supercharger stage one, prop pitch selected to fine. I see the ship ahead through a break in the clouds, my leader rolls in, I wait, then roll in myself.
Suddenly AA fire erupts around my ship, I hear a dull whoomp, and my ship starts rolling to the left, I counteract and look out my starboard wing to see a massive hole in it, it must be 2 ft wide, I can see the sea below. I correct my plane and roll back towards the ship. Only now I can see that what where cargo boxes are now guns! Martin calls out, €œZeros, coming in hot 5 o€clock low!€

I forgot about the zeros, I close my cowl flaps and roll in towards the cargo ship. I see my leader drop his bomb and bank away, my turn. I line up abeam to the ship,
Bombs away!
When I release the 500lb bomb the plane jolts, I hear Martin shooting at the zeros, then a thudding sound, we€ve been hit!

The sea rolls, as if to try to grab my plane, I look out my window at my port wing, a massive hole, fuel gushing out, the I see red, I feel my chest, blood welling out. Then nothing.

Martin ( point of view)

€œ Si, si, can ya hear me€?
€œwha? How?€ said Si

€œYou blacked out, I flew the plane from the rear seat€

Sh*t, I thought, we are going down, what€s Si doing?, I looked into the cockpit, there was blood everywhere, the instruments were out, the plane was rolling to the side. Suddenly I hear the tear of metal and the thump of cannons, I quickly re-cocked my guns and drew a bead on the fighter. It was a zero, firing hard, I knew I was low on ammo, I gave it a squirt, pieces flew off it, thump thump thump, dang he hit us again, I saw our rudder fall apart, this time I was angry. He got close, I fired hard, then he started smoking, a fire, he flipped on his back, stumbling in the sky.

09-28-2005, 09:02 AM
<Please note I am only using the word Jap because it is appropriate in its context>

Black Magic
The sweet smell of the Allison engines fumes poured through Lens nostrils. Len Waters, the RAAF's only Aboriginal pilot, climbed aboard his P-40N, aptly named 'Black Magic'. He was leading a flight of 3 Kittyhawks north of Morotai, on a patrol looking for Japanese aircraft. Taking off, he looked to his left and right, and saw 2 other P-40Ns rising into the Pacific sky, with the majesty of a swan gliding through water. Circling above the island of Morotai, he looked down with pleasure as he saw 78 Squadron€s Kittyhawks in service, men dozing under palms trees and wildlife flirting through the trees. Despite the horrible weather, it was a nice place to be at.

An hour later, and several hundred kilometres north, the reports came through. There was a big dogfight occurring, based around a formation of Betty bombers, with American P-38's trying to shoot them down, and Japanese A6M5's trying to defend. Len smiled as a thick, barely understandable American drawl spoke on the comms. 'When are you Ossies gonna get your asses in the fight? We need a hand!'. There was no need to ask where they were; in the distance, Len could see dozens of aircraft. Although they didn't look like aircraft, more like disturbed bees, running angrily after their aggravators. It was early in the afternoon, and the sun was at its zenith. Len made sure his wingmen new what was up. 'You blokes ready?' he called. 'No worries Leader' said his No. 2, Bluey Stevens, whilst his No 3, Simon Partridge replied 'Let us at em'.
Len took a last look around before diving into the hailstorm of metal bullets and bombs. He saw clouds, seemingly rolling into eternity. He saw his flights Kittyhawks bobbing in the wind. And he saw the sun beaming down on a beautiful world. Then he dropped his tank, rocked his wings and turned onto his back, diving down to the furbal several thousand metres below. After looking behind him to check his men were still in form, he fixated his eyes onto the massed bombers below, trying to distinguish one in particular to go after. He saw a GM4, with yellow tipped wings, flying as the leader for the whole group. Setting his mind to go after that, he turned his aircraft more to get a good deflection shot in. 'You blokes till good back there?' he called, not daring to take his eyes off his prey. 'Startin to shake up a bit skip,' cautioned Bluey. Noticing his own airframe was starting to vibrate, Len had a quick look at his airspeed indicator. It registered 680 km/h and rising. Looking back up at his gunsight, he was startled to find he was already upon the Bettys, and could barely fire a burst before he hurtled by at terrific speed, his mates following suit. He winced as a burning P-38 missed him by barely metres, on its own kamikaze course heading for a Betty. Unknown to them, a solitary Ki-61, in intricate and stunning markings, flew through the bomber formation too, in a manner of complete stealth that had only been mastered by aces of the Japanese air forces.

Len had to watch out. If he pulled up too fast, he risked blacking out under tremendous G's. He also risked warping the airframe under such huge pressure. He, only ever so slightly, pulled back the control column, till he could see the sun in his eyes, using advantage of his high speed to regain his height. 'You still back there' he verified, his thoughts only concerning how to get at the bombers. 'Umm..Len I can't see Simon anywhere' confessed Bluey, a hint of fear in his voice. Len went cold. Looking back, his heart racing, he could see, almost a kilometre below him, the shattered carcass of a P-40N, its port wing cut in half and shredding itself to bits. The cockpit was still occupied. An experienced flyer, Len was too smart to continue gazing at the doomed machine, but looked around sporadically to find the hunter. Finding nothing, he started to feel a real twinge of fear. He feared no enemy he could see, but an invisible foe is a menace to the soul. 'No 2 break,' he said. He could hear the sounds of his wingman€s engine receding as he broke off. 'Get to the clouds and look for this bastard'. Clouds of various types and heights now encircled the combat zone. The rest of the fight, the bombers, escorts and interceptors all flew out of Lens mind. His one focus was finding his enemy; this ninja of the skies, who was able to stalk his flight, his men, and shoot one of them down. Simon was a young bloke, with barely 15 hours solo flying. He had his 19th birthday 2 weeks ago. In Lens opinion, the Jap had killed a boy. That called for revenge. Experience in the Pacific taught Len to always keep one eye on the sun, which is what he did.
Somehow, he did not know how, the Jap, flying a Ki-61, appeared right in front of Len. How he get there he did not know, but all he wanted was his blood.

The clouds had stopped moving, in the absence of a strong wind to guide them, they formed a perfect circle, several kilometres in diametre, which constructed a classic Gladiator style scene: 1 on 1, fight to the death. Len knew this and so did his opponent.

He pressed the firing button on the top of the control column. The familiar rattle of six machine guns came to Lens ears, and he saw the tracers leap seemingly slowly towards his opponent. However, he seemed to be able to dodge every bullet, because he also kept flying straight and level, straight for Len. He could see the muzzle flashes from the Hei's guns, the cockpit almost concealed by the flashes, and the wing cannons blaring away.

Time stopped.

Two birds of prey, masters of the sky, hung motionlessly in the cloud strewn skies above the Pacific

Len was certain he could have unstrapped his harness, opened the canopy and walked along the constant stream of tracers which raced from his guns, all the way to the Japs plane. However, he stayed put. In a split second of time, both aircraft passed by each other, turning so they could both see their opponents. Looking up, Len could see a man. Just a man, a pilot. Just like him. No gun ho, banzai loving, bandana wearing maniacs like he had believed, but just another ordinary man, like Len, doing his job. No doubt, the Jap would have thought otherwise of this black man who was flying. As the Hei passed from view, Len felt a surge of respect for his adversary. He also realised that he was truly fighting for his life. €˜2, stay high in the sun. DON€T get in the way€ warned Len. The last thing he wanted was a second plane to get in the way and cause confusion. €˜Roger€ complied his wingman. Len could sense the disappointment in his voice; he had yet to score a kill.

Len performed a yo-yo to utilise his aircrafts speed, whilst not resulting to pulling straight back on the stick: P40€s weren€t good turners. Coming back in the opposite direction however, Len could see no one. By instinct, he pulled the stick back fiercely, pushing the Kittyhawk into a sharp climb. The move undoubtedly saved his life, because directly in the space he had just been, cannon and machinegun tracers zoomed past. Len sighed with relief, but could imagine the other pilots frustration at having lost a good chance of a shot. Len flung the Kitty on its back and dived after him. Whilst pursuing the Tony, Len thought with the speed on which fighter pilots are dependant. The Ki-61 can out turn the P-40 far greater than it can out dive it. Therefore, the other pilot would probably use that tactic more. Len was watching the other aircraft, waiting: they were approaching 600ks an hour; at that speed Tony€s aren€t able to turn as much. He was waiting for the moment the Ki-61 would turn, lest it plummet into the ground. He was always ready, but how the Ki-61 managed he didn€t know. It suddenly halved its airspeed, and pulled back powerfully. Len, still travelling over 600km/h, overshot, and zoomed past with frightening speed. He wasn€t sure wether to get some distance, or come back straight at him; this man was obviously a master of stalking. He decided to utilise his speed at get some distance and height. Slumping back into his seat, Len had a moment to sit and let his muscles languish in agony. He was reaching the limits of his bodies endurance. Still, mind power prevailed, and he once again pulled back into the Gladiators arena.

Searching the skies endlessly, he quickly got a bead on his opponent. He was climbing just the same. Len decided to finish this now; he flung his beaten and battered, but full of spirit Black Magic straight at him in a collision course. He could see the 61 accept this challenge, and directed his bird of prey the same way, much like a pair of jousters riding into each others oblivion. They were actually about 800 metres apart, heading straight for one another. At the speeds each aircraft was it, it would take several seconds to get into firing range. Len never took the enemy€s engine out of his gunsight, yet his mind raced. Could these really be the last seconds of his life? The time before the action, like with all soldiers in war, was much worse than the combat, because it gave him time to realise how ****-scared he was. But at last, the Tony got close enough, and he thumbed the control column. .50 calibre rounds raced forth, representing RAAF skill and power, whilst the Tony replied with 12.7mm and 20mm rounds, symbolising Japanese engineering and grace. Len closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable crash which signalled the end of his life on this world. However, he wasn€t afraid: he would join his fathers and ancestors in spirit. The wailing of engines reached a terrifying crescendo, and Len bit his lip.
There was no crash. Len opened one eye, then another. He was alright. He must have missed his adversary by centimetres. Despite the sounds knowledge of joining his parents in a better place, he could not helping feeling a surge of love for his enemy pilot, for letting him live that much longer on Earth. However, with a sinking feeling, he realised that this wasn€t over. Looking around frantically, Len yelped with fear as he saw his opponent draw up right beside him. However, he didn€t look like he was looking for a firing solution. Now both in level flight, Len looked across and saw his Japanese counterpart, smiling. Unable to restrain himself, Len grinned and waved a hand. After such an intense dogfight, Len thought it was funny that after each others throats, these two pilots were as good as mates, as much as political and national diversity would allow. Chuckling to himself, Len wondered what his wingman, still up in the clouds, would think if he saw these 2 warbirds flying in formation.

Sadly, Len realised it was time for soldiers to part, as could his fellow pilot. Looking directly into the pilots eyes, he saluted with deep respect. The smiling Japanese man replied with a parting wave and, breaking to the right, departed the Gladiators arena. Watching the Tony out of sight, Len broke down, and tears fell upon his uniform. His nerves had been shook to bits by this engagement, and this simple act of friendship, in this time of cruel war, had been too much for him. Eventually, he recollected himself. Calling his wingman back into form, he set a course for home. Bluey was full of questions, but Len didn€t respond. He couldn€t stop thinking of the beautifully painted, and piloted, Ki-61 Tony. He would remember it for the rest of his life.

Len Waters, 78 Squadron RAAF, wore a curious smile on his face as he landed at Morotai.

09-28-2005, 04:07 PM
Very nicely done Bushranger. There are a few nitpicky things, comma splices and such. Also, if it is a little after noon the sun would have just left its zenith.

Si- the story was really in the action but in order to make a warstory you also have to delve into the sentiments of your characters. Also, I've told this to Bushranger and he took it greatly to heart, but your point of view change isn't necessary. Si isn't dead, he's merely passed out. There would be a sequence of dreams there. Passing out can be like falling asleep, and when the body drugs itself with adrenaline like it would have for Si when he was hit, nothing seems very clear. You will dream. It's a great overall story, but if you try rewriting from only one person's perspective you may find it'll be even better.

Just because I'm sleeping doesn't mean I'm not conscious.

09-28-2005, 05:42 PM
I'd like to say to All that have Posted their Stories here... What a Great Job!

These stories are Mint! http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/16x16_smiley-very-happy.gif

I have enjoyed reading them All!

09-28-2005, 09:44 PM
Yep, I've greatly enjoyed writing these stories. Especially in the last paragraph of Black Magic, that was far more than just fun, it tugged a coupla heart strings.

10-18-2005, 01:25 AM
A Close Call
Dieter stood on the wing of his beloved Bf109F-4, the breezy October wind blowing his brown hair. JG54 had been moved up closer to the front to help support Wehrmacht troops on the offensive against Russia and even months after the initial invasion, enemy pilot quality was very low and it was a good time to rack up scores on the fuselage.
"White Six" stood on the grassy airfield, awaiting take-off confirmation by the tower. Up ahead, the first squad of 109's was bringing their throttle up, kicking up dust down the field. Dieter didn't notice as he sat in the cockpit, strapped in. He checked his fuel, oil, and tempurature gauges before taking off down the field and catching up with the rest of the squadron.
It was a simple mission. Escort 16-20 Stukas on an bomb run. Simple enough, all it needed was eight planes. A quick in and out, it was just 60km from the field and resistance was informed to be light with the possiblity of Pe-2's in the area. Reports of I-16s and Yak's on patrol was also of concern, but it didn't matter, Dieter had racked up four kills and had hundreds of flight time under his belt. Along with Major Pfalz and his best friend Hans in the flight, everything was to be easy.
About twenty minutes into the flight, four Yaks came into view, escorting a gaggle of Pe-2's.
"Attention, fighters and bombers, 1 o'clock low!" Shouted the Major over the radio. The first squad broke off to engage while Luetnant Boris took Dieter and the other two 109's to protect the Stukas.
"Schiese, no chance to rack up a kill," Dieter thought. It had been nearly two weeks since he had seen another enemy in the sky and now a chance to score was impossible.
"Achtung! More Pe-2's!"
Dieter grinned and test fired his guns. The two 12.7mms and the 20mm cannon were working properly. Now would be the time to get out of the slump.
What followed was something Dieter did not expect.
The Pe-2's went evasive, twisting and twirling, forcing Dieter and his comrades to over shoot. Dieter hadn't perfected his snap-shots at high degrees, but was dead-on with precise shots from above or below and straight behind. He was able to sneak below a turning Pe-2 as it leveled out.
"To my friends in Stuttgart!" Dieter crowed as he pressed down on the trigger and button for his machine guns and cannon. The strikes landed on the right engine of the Pe-2, which started to spout smoke. Unfortunately Dieter made a mistake. To avoid collision and to put some vertical in between him and the Pe-2, he started to pull up. The rear gunner surprised him with a quick burst into his engine, oil and coolant spraying onto his windshield.
Now practically blind, Dieter looked around to see if he was safe. A few hits from a machine gun told the tale of the chasing Pe-2, and Dieter utilized the 109's split-S capability to get out of the combat area.
Now it was time for survival. Oil pressure and temperature rising, Dieter looked down his map and looked at his surroundings. According to his calculations, he was only 42km from the nearest post behind German lines. His best bet was to get there and land safely so that he wouldn't spend the rest of the war shoveling snow or painting Stalin's walls.
He opened up the radiator cowlings and adjusted the throttle, hoping to get as much life out of his engine. After nearly thirty minutes traveling at a safe and slow 200kph, Dieter spotted a medly of trucks, tanks, and various buildings. It was the plotted point that he wanted and hoped for.
He spotted an area of grassland next to a small river that would be perfect for a landing with gear down, so that "White Six" could still be used. The words of the Major still rung in his ears that the squadron was down to eight operational fighters was weighing heavily on keeping his mill in one piece.
Gear down, flaps down, engine coughing and spewing oil, Dieter lined up his approach and eased his dying 109 onto the grass field. He loosened his straps so that he can get out quickly in case of a sudden fire. It was at this point Dieter missed the slight hill that was approaching, forgeting to slow down. The 109 hit the hill and rose up quickly as the shock made Dieter pull back on the stick sharply, and the 109 stalled to the left. the wing dipped into the dirt and pitched the 109 into the ground. The propellor, still spining, sheared off, and the wing bent itself nearly clean off the root. Dieter's head jerked violently forward, banging the gunsight.
He came to hours later in a hospital, lucky to be alive with just a concussion and a nasty cut on his head. It would be a few weeks until he returned to his unit and discovered that his precious "White Six" was still in service.

10-19-2005, 04:01 AM
2 vs 1 is a fun way to start the night I'd say.

While flying online wiht the squad last night In ended up in a 2 vs 1 situation. My opponents were flying G2s while I found myself in a 2 cannon version of the MK Vc.

I was climbing to get some altitude when I spotted the first G2. I managed to keep some resemblance of speed and manage to close with him. Much to my own enjoyment, he starts to turn allowing me to close to gunrange.

Not soon after this one's down, I spot number two, and he spots me as well. This results in a turning match. Here's were the G2 has some advantage, esspecially since he's got combat flaps, and my Spitfire doesn't. Strangely enough I manage to keep inside of him by liberal use of the throttle and WEP.

to make a long story short, scratch two 109 G2s

10-19-2005, 06:48 AM
Sweet Zaku! Only thing I'd pick out is that the 109F-4 had 7.62mm's, not 12.7's. The 13mm guns came into existence on the later G models.

Sharpe, awesome stuff man. I'm not a fan of the Spit, but that's because I suck in it! lol :-P

10-19-2005, 09:16 AM
Yeah well, Boosher whne Oleg's BOB comes out...... http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/16x16_smiley-wink.gif

10-19-2005, 09:15 PM
My bad on the 7.62's being 12.7s, I always get them confused.

I'll be flying more missions tonight, so perhaps I'll have a more engaging story!

10-19-2005, 10:10 PM
Sharpe, when BoB comes out I'll be flying Hurris. Workhorse of the BoB, and the real hero. :-P

11-01-2005, 12:39 PM
Hi, everyone. The following story is a mixture of a couple of things. It is partially written from an experience I had in Pacific Fighters as a bomber pilot (USAAF career) in a B-25J, but converted to Europe. It€s written from the point of view of my dad€s uncle, a Canadian who flew Blenheims, Beaufighters, and Lancasters for the RAF from 1940 until 1942, when he switched over to the USAAF (in exchange for American citizenship). His picture is my avatar. So this is partially based on reality, partially on speculation, and partially on my first mission as a USAAF bomber pilot in Pacific Fighters. There's a little more drama in here than actual flying stuff, but during that mission it was a struggle to keep the plane airborne, and then the message came up on my screen "Top Gunner Killed. Waist Gunner Heavily Wounded." As I look at it posted, there's not much here, but it's a start.

The Mission

Sweat poured down my brow as Brandy and I fought to keep the bomber level. I quickly glanced down through the hole in the floor, which had been left by the dud flak shell that passed up from below and had smashed a neat hole in the canopy above my head. It would be a long way down to the ground from up here. I didn€t even have time to think about the casualties in the back of the plane, even though I knew Cobber was dead and Tommy was shot through the leg and would probably be dead by the time we landed. The yoke shuddered in my hands as the engines strained to pull our craft through the skies and out of danger. The wind blew around our small cockpit, as the hole had now expanded and taken all the glass out of one of the panes.

€œStarboard manifold pressure is down to twenty-five percent!€ Brandy shouted over the din. This meant that our right-side engine would be giving out soon. Looking over at my copilot, I saw that he seemed completely calm, if hyper-focused on the controls in front of and around him.

€œShut it down,€ I yelled back. Brandy flipped a fuel cutoff switch and shut down the engine. We both pulled back on the yoke, desperate for some altitude. Flak continued to explode around us as we climbed into the clouds. The roar of the starboard engine in my right ear was replaced by a high-pitched ringing. That probably wouldn€t go away for a couple of days, assuming that I lived that long. I subconsciously ran through a checklist of my crew and their status.

P/O Luc €œRed€ Herring, bomb aimer, in the waist giving first aid to
Sergeant Tommy Wilkins, air gunner, shot through the leg and bleeding profusely.
Sergeant Bruce €œCobber€ Clark, wireless operator, dead.
Sergeant Richard €œTwo-Step€ Barrett, air (tail) gunner and flight engineer, watching our rear.
P/O Paul €œBrandy€ Gulbrandsen, co-pilot, fighting to keep this ****ed thing airborne with me.


It was a sunny day in Oakland. They were all sunny days back then. Five months before I€d left behind my brother and an education from the University of British Columbia and moved down here to participate in Boeing€s flight training programme. What an adventure.

The first thing we€d flown was an old plane from the First War. There was no throttle. Of course, where there€s a throttle, there is a certain amount of power at the disposal of that throttle, which is why this two-wing machine didn€t have a throttle. What it did have was a push-button atop the flight stick. Pushing the button turned off the engine, which was useful if you wanted to slow down. Releasing it kicked the engine back to full power, which we used for take-off and normal flight.

Soon after we graduated to the Boeing Stearman. What a lovely craft. The engine was powerful and the controls responsive. We liked it immensely. One could perform a number of aerobatic manouevers in it, and it helped our confidence greatly (much more so than the first thing we flew).

Of course we got cocky. Pilots always do. We would dare each other to see who could fly the lowest and the fastest. Patrick Wilson once lost his port landing gear when he flew too low and clipped the rooftop of a house that he€d thought lower than it really was. He was grounded for a few days. But it was helpful, really. We pushed each other to push the edge of the envelope, so to speak. We all knew that eventually we€d be fighting in the war, so we figured (correctly) that proper responses developed here would save our lives a year or two down the road.

In April of 1940 we started seeing recruiters from Canada, England, and even Australia, all asking for our help in flying for their side. We considered this to be what we were training for. I knew right away I was going to join the RAF. Sure I was Canadian, but never mind the Crown. My father and his family came from Scotland; I was doing this for my people. I signed up April 21, 1940. They made me Pilot Officer right away.

It was off to Canada for me. I was sent through the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, the largest flight school in the world. Because I€d already been through Boeing€s flight school, I was easily sent through the pilot€s training programme. We trained on single engine planes like the Westland Lysander and the North American Harvard (known in the States as the AT-6 Texan). One afternoon I was feeling rather flashy, and zipping along I performed a snap-roll. This is a rather violent manouever, and probably shouldn€t have been done in that aeroplane. But I knew I could handle it. Later that evening I was eating in the mess. The chief of the ground crews came in, looking furious. His eyes met mine, and he stormed over.

€œWhat did you do to that plane!?€ he demanded. €œThe control surfaces are all bent!€ I proceeded to tell him about my little trick, and he promised to have me transferred to the infantry if I ever did that again.

We trained on multi-engine craft as well, like the Avro Anson and Bristol Bolingbroke, which was my favourite. The Bolingbroke was the Canadian version of the Blenheim bomber used by the RAF. A handsome aircraft, I€d seen it in the newsreels back in Oakland. We practiced formation flying, bomb runs, night flying, flying with instruments only, and flying in bad weather (as we were assured to see that in England). We did it all. The fellows in my class were first-rate, and I€d hoped to be assigned with them once we got to England.


We broke through the clouds at about 6,000 feet, and flew straight and level for a few moments to see if any enemy fighters were following us. Satisfied that there were none, I had Brandy take over so I could go back and check on the situation in the waist. As I passed under the top gunner turret, I noticed the shattered glass covered in blood and tissue. It had probably been one of those 20mm shells from a 109. Cobber probably hadn€t felt a thing. I stepped carefully through the bomb bay to the rest of my crew. Cobber lay covered in a blue-grey blanket. I passed it and knelt next to Tommy, who was lying on the deck, his legs elevated and in Red€s lap (P/O Luc €œRed€ Herring was our bomb aimer). His face was ashen, and he€d obviously lost a lot of blood. I didn€t think he€d make it, but I wasn€t going to tell him that. I looked over at Red.

€œJust make him as comfortable as you can.€ Red nodded in understanding. €œHow many syrettes do we have?€ He shrugged.

€œMaybe six.€

I knew Tommy was in pain, but I couldn€t afford to use all of our morphine on him. I had the rest of the crew to think about. €œYou stay here with him for now,€ I said. Brandy could man either the top turret or the nose turret if need be, and Red could handle the waist guns. His main task was finished anyway.

Back in the cockpit, in my seat on the left side, my hands gripped the yoke. I knew any fighter that wanted a piece of us could have it, and following our trail of black smoke wouldn€t be tough. But after hours that felt like days, I finally saw the faint outline of our landing strip. Only one of our wheels dropped, so Brandy had to lower the other one manually, but with only one engine working our airspeed had dropped considerably, and landing was not as hairy an operation as we€d thought. The €œthump€ and bounce that came when we touched down was a welcome familiarity. We taxied for a couple hundred meters, and came to a halt. Shutting the working engine down, I felt a huge wave of relief and weariness wash over me. We€d landed safely, but the death of one of my crewmembers and the critical condition of another weighed heavily on my mind. Out the window to my left I saw the ambulance rushing towards us, along with vehicles carrying firefighting equipment and the jeeps carrying our ground crew. With leaden limbs I pulled myself from the craft, sliding out the open bomb bay doors. After the debriefing we found that Tommy had stabilized, but was out of the war; the flack had shattered his femur. We trudged back to our quarters tired, disheartened, and sick for Cobber€s family. He had a girl back home that was waiting for him. Nobody spoke in the officers€ hut as Brandy and Red and I pulled off our flying boots and jackets, and each of us slept for several hours.

11-01-2005, 03:00 PM
very well written story, air bomber.

11-02-2005, 02:15 AM
Yes, very nice http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/25.gif http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/25.gif

I like your avatar too.

11-02-2005, 05:19 AM
THat was great Air Bomber! Very nicely written!

I'd been wondering where this thread was!

11-02-2005, 09:07 AM
Yeah, I was too. I'd been working on the story, and I thought this topic was a sticky a while ago...maybe I was mistaken.

Anyway, thanks for the comments. I haven't been writing for a while, so I'm trying to get my chops back. http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_smile.gif

01-10-2006, 03:16 AM
The Russians were all lined up at attention to orders along the taxiway that was in front of the Officers Club, a former farm building we called it the Beehive, trying not to freeze their eyes shut in the cold gusts and listening to the citation being read by the political officer with the earnestness peculiar to their type. The red banners snapped in the wind and the deep liquid tone to Sergey€s voice was sometimes lost in the snapping and popping flags. Sergey let out all the stops for this one, he wanted to make an impression on these new guys. Or maybe we just had him pegged wrong all this time. When I could hear it, Sergey€s deep liquid accent rolled out like a megaphone,

€œThe Soviet People wish to recognize and commend the actions of our American volunteer comrade, Podpolkovnik Gianopoulos, for performance beyond the call of ordinary duty€¦€

We had been in the fight on the Russian side now since late €42 and now it was winter €45. The casualty list included not only the names of a lot of good volunteers from little steel towns and farms, but also our idealism and desire to €œsee a little action.€ I listened to Sergey along with the rest of the 58th, all lined up under the porch awning, sensibly out of the wind and getting sensibly drunk on ouzo and vodka. Valya, Mike€s mechanic was holding the ratty stuffed wolverine that is our mascot. Mike€s idea was to bring the beast with us from Alaska to be our mascot since he didn€t know they already grew even bigger ones here in Russia. Unfortunately it broke out of its crate while somewhere over the ocean in the transport. The scared witless crew shot it full of holes, but we had it stuffed and mounted in the Beehive by the front door. We always pet the thing when we leave for a mission and when we return. We flew a lot of missions so it had gotten a little threadbare.

The mission was to hunt down a company of Hungarian tanks that was approaching the bridge near Schagarren. There were so many river crossings that it was important not to lose a single bridge so the Red forces could maintain their momentum and not get pocketed between rivers. We were going to take all the stormoviks and escort them with the remaining Cobras and some Romanian 109€s that the Russian boys had picked up from a base we had overrun. I don€t know what happened to their former owners, Sergey said they were moved to support operations in another sector. Well, we were low on the Cobras so I was glad for the relief.

As the bomber commander Mike led the stormoviks for the ground attack in two formations. He took the lead formation. I led the Cobras in one group; the 109€s were in the second. We expected to run into stiff opposition by the Hungarians but had no idea what they would be flying since the Russians had been shelling and bombing the hell out of their forward bases for the last few days. Probably more 109€s, which would make identifying the enemy in a dogfight tricky.

The stormoviks in Bear Flight formed up tight and flew along at 200m over the rolling snow and pine forests. The weather was pretty clear and the shadows under the planes were crisp and black; the ghosts of our former comrades were following us into battle.

As we reached the fields the Hungarians had been seen in earlier that morning by scouts the leader of our 109 group reported light flashes to the west and high. Canopy flashes. Mike led his lead stormovik flight into a pop up maneuver that let him take a quick look around to hopefully spot the target. I had told him before it was like watching whales spyhop but coming from his dad€s farm in Wyoming he had never seen a whale so he didn€t understand.

Mike saw the tanks running down a road to the north and I watched his planes slide down on their right wings, roll out, and set up for a run on the Hungarians. As his formations opened up my radio went mad with frantic calls of attacking Hungarian 109s.

I turned with my 4 Cobras to shadow Mike€s bombers and try to keep the 109€s off them while they made a run on the tanks, but Hungarian fighters bounced us and we scattered. I saw Mike lead his planes down in a shallow dive and watched them spread out. Three 109€s flashed down past me and went after them like sharks. Mike saw them too, and I could hear his calls for help over the net, and behind his voice I heard his gunner open up on the oncoming fighters. I firewalled the engine and dove after them€¦

€œComrade Gianopoulos led his flight against superior forces and while in imminent danger of certain death kept control of the forces under his command€¦€

I saw my wingman flash by over my canopy in hot pursuit of a 109, I hoped it wasn€t one of ours and then concentrated on willing my plane into a faster dive. Two of the 109s chasing the lead stormoviks fired on one bomber as one and I saw the stormovik split down the middle just behind the gunner€s pit. The nose pitched up as the tail broke away and the gunner spilled out at 350 kph and 200 meters off the ground, he looked like he was making a belly flop into the pine trees. The two Hungarian 109s broke away and climbed, off to join the rest of the feeding frenzy and pursued by two Cobras. The one remaining Hungarian was closing on Mike and ducking and weaving behind his big tail to keep the rear gunner from getting a clear shot.

€œ€¦after his gunner was killed while valiantly defending their plane€¦€

I was almost there when I saw the first burst from the 109 blow the gunner to pieces at no more than 100 meters away. The gunner was blasted all over the rear fuselage and across the rear canopy. It was bright red, brighter than it should have been, across the whitewashed stormovik. I was closing fast, though, and I tightened my fingers on the trigger.

€œ€¦he kept the presence of mind to skillfully guide his squadron while under constant fire himself, €¦€

Just as Mike€s voice came over the net passing the location of the Hungarian armor to the second flight I saw his rockets come off the rails. At that moment, that split second, which slowed down to the span of my held breath I pulled the trigger on the Hungarian fighter and he pulled the trigger on Mike. The Hungarian staggered under the impacts of the fifties, but I didn€t see if he went down or just ran off. I instead saw every single piece of Mike€s plane that blew away under the 109€s cannons and spun off into the field. The stormovik shattered and tumbled, and as I flew past €" slowly, so slowly €" I thought to open my door and reach down to catch Mike. Snatch him out of the inferno like I was reaching down and scooping up one of his grounders in our between mission baseball games. But I didn€t have my mitt, and time was speeding up again until I was past the great scorched gouge in the field and back in the fight.

€œ...which gave his flight the needed direction to completely destroy the enemy armor. His sacrifice and bravery is an example to all and he is now awarded the Order of Glory for his actions.€

Sergey turned on his windup gramophone and a tinny, scratchy rendition of the €œInternationale€ braved the wind from the dented speaker cone. The recruits, we always thought of the Russians as recruits because they changed out so often we lost track of how many were new or veterans, snapped to attention and the honor guard dipped the colors. Valya started sobbing a little and spilled his ouzo, Mike€s ouzo €" from his own private stash, God knows where he kept finding it out here. The rest of us each lifted our vodka while internally thanking God it wasn€t himself that plowed into that snowy field, and hoped this would all be over soon so there would be at least some of us left to tell about it and remember the others.

The €œInternationale€ slowed to its final moan as Sergey€s gramophone wound down and the honor guard snapped to attention. Valya lifted his glass, staggered from the porch and yelled, €œPlay ball!€ He then pitched face forward into the dirty snow and passed out. Sergey winced at that, but I personally thought it was a fitting tribute to the guy who had been on my sandlot team since we were kids in Cody. After the Russians clumped off, Sergey worrying them like pudgy sheepdog, the rest of the AVG pilots fled to the warmth of the Beehive. I looked down at Valya, curled up in the snow clutching that ****ed stuffed wolverine like it was a teddy bear, and thought of Wyoming, summer baseball games after bucking hay all morning, and kids€ dreams of flying.

01-11-2006, 06:12 AM
CivilDog... Excellent story, enjoyed reading it... really like the stuffed wolverine mascot.



03-31-2006, 02:05 PM
BUMP http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/16x16_smiley-wink.gif

04-01-2006, 08:21 AM

04-01-2006, 08:34 AM

04-01-2006, 05:38 PM

04-01-2006, 05:47 PM
Well, if you missed it that much, I guess I could whip up a few more stories. http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_smile.gif

04-02-2006, 08:57 AM
An Obituary (fake):

The New York Scroller
German WWII ace and local volunteer Ernst Paul Altmeier dies at 83
Westbridge, NY

"Everyone should live so they have something to be proud of, everyone should have something to strive towards, nobody should have anything they regret," were the last words of of Lieutenant Ernst Paul Altmeier, who died this past Friday of acute renal failure. He leaves behind his wife, his children, and four grandsons and grandaughters.
In his early life, Lt. Altmeier was a part of the Hitler Jungund in Germany. In his diaries and interviews, he admits that he believed wholeheartedly in the messages he was being fed since his birth. In an interview with his wife, she stated, "For most of us in that time, we believed what our government told us. They had just brought us from the depths of poverty. It seemed that they were acting in our interests."
When the war started Lt. Altmeier joined the Luftwaffe and was approved for fighter combat. He completed his training at Berlin-Gatow and then served on the Western Front. It was there that he became a 22 kill ace in the period of 1940 to 1945.
Realizing the errors of his society, Lt. Altmeier sought to re-pay the debt he felt he owed after the war. He took a job, despite his qualifications much above it, as a manual laborer. For three and a half years he worked re-building the cities of Berlin and Munich.
In 1949 he moved to the United States, where he found a job with a local church. He was merely the janitor until 1954, when he began a non-for profit program on the weekends for underpriveledged children. The program has continued to this day. His staff will continue the program in his name. The Ernst Altmeier Children's center is located at 93 Chimney Road, Westbridge NY.
The funeral services for Lt. Altmeier will be held at his church, St. Augustine's here in Westbridge at 9:30 AM, this upcoming Wednesday. All members of the community are invited. The family also requests that anyone who wishes come to the grave to bury Lt. Altmeier with them. From there, if you so wish, a reception will be held inside the church for the Lieutenant celebrating the life around him, as per request in his will.

05-13-2006, 04:49 PM

05-13-2006, 09:33 PM
Nice obituary http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/16x16_smiley-happy.gif

05-26-2006, 04:51 AM
Returning to base in fog and snow

Most combat stories are about combat with enemy planes, but this one is special, because it was a struggle against worsening weather just as much as against the enemy.

Me and my new wingman were flying a patrol south of Stalingrad in our brand new La-5s. They were delivered from the factory a few weeks ago, they smelled brand new and looked very modern compared to our earlier Yak-1Bs. It was a joy to fly them in practice dogfights and now we wanted to see how they do in real combat. Unfortunately, the weather was pretty bad down below. Above the clouds at 3000 meters however, it was a different world with good visibily in all directions. We wanted to make sure that the Germans don't dropy supply to their straving troops in the encirclement and stayed above the clouds.

Soon we engaged a pair of Bf-109s protecting the airspace above their encirclement. My wingman was separated by the first Bf-109 heading towards us. As they started dueling out in big loops just above the clouds, I decided to engage the other Bf-109, which seemed more experienced, waiting for the right moment to strike. The fight was relatively short, he tried to pass below me on the right but I had great luck in shooting into his engine as we passed in opposite direction. With a trailing thick smoke, he turned towards his airfield. Immediately I looked for my inexperienced wingman and he was obviously having problems, the other Bf-109 was gaining on him rapidly. I have caught up with them and tried to shoot the enemy off his tail, but my comrade was in complete panic, not even listening to the radio instructions. By this time, our altitude decreased and the severe turbulence was throwing the planes violently. I had trouble to hit the Bf-109, while I saw the Bf-109 hitting my comrade's plane from closer distances. I nearly shouted "Damn it, poor guy, he's got it!". Moments later I succeeded in hitting the Bf-109 which disengaged from my comrade and started evasive manouvers dangerously close to the ground. I was careful not to follow, the sense of height was deceiving in the fog and the moderatee snowfall. Instead I made climbing turns under the cloud layer and dove on him with short firing passes. I noticed that after every defensive hard turn, the Bf-109 became slower and slower. I only hit him once more on the outer wing, but soon he lost control and crashed in the snow and exploded.

Meanwhile, I lost visual contact with my wingman and I also had problems to determine my own position. Looking at the fuel gauge, I decided that we should both come towards an emergency airfield close behind our lines. There was still enough fuel, but I wanted to be cautious, as navigation in the worsending weather was really difficult. Turbulence was also a problem, I was getting sick from the gusting wings nearly throwing over my plane and tearing the control stick from my hands. However, I wanted to stay under the clouds because of locating the emergency landing strip, as well as avoiding engagement with an arriving German re-inforcement.

Despite flying the approximate heading with discipline and also knowing the area from previous missions, I just couldn't see the emergency strip. My wingman was nowhere near either, he desperately called on the radio a few times, telling how much difficulties he has with his damaged plane, but his transmissions stopped and didn't reply any longer. The cockpit instruments had to be illuminated, a look at the green fluorescent clock and the fuel gauge was telling me that me that I was running out of time. Instead of searching for the emergency strip among the hills, I changed course towards East, thinking that whereever I am, I must fly above the Volga river, easy to recognize, and that will lead me to our normal airfield. On the way, I radioed back to the base, that my chances to reach an airfield are slim. I successfully reached the frozen Volga, but I couldn't realize which part. I took a turn to South and soon found a characteristic combination of river arms and a road, which I could identify on the map as well. The airport was close, but in the other direction. Turned around immediately and followed the river upstream, looking for the familiar sight of a village, where the final approach to the airfield must begin. The fuel was really low, I decided that if I don't find the airfield in 2 minutes, I will make a powered emergency landing on the ice, instead of letting my tanks dry completely. But the village wasn't anywhere yet on the left side. A look on the fuel gauge was followed by a look out of the window on the left, and so on. Finally I pushed the nose into a gentle decent, looking for a landing area on the ice... but... there was something in the distance...a light in the fog and snow... a camp fire? Here? Why? As I got closer, I realized it is a camp fire burning at the outskirts of the village near the airfield. My heart jumped: my comrades heard my radio call and set up a fire to help me navigating to the end of the approach path! I quickly looked at the fuel level again: seemed enough for shooting an approach to the field, but no go around. Can I do it? Yes, I must do it!

Energized and anxious about finding the village was great, but seeing the snow-covered airfield through the falling snow and fog was a challenge of its own. I was bending forward in my seat, trying to maintain visual contact. I had no doubt now, why I hadn't seen the other airfield. This one I knew exactly where it was, but lost sight 2 times during the approach. I was so much concentrating on looking at it during the turbulence, everything else I did like a machine. Power idle, align with runway direction, slow down under 300 km/h, combat flaps, maintain altitude, 250km/h flaps down to takeoff, desent, gear down, flaps to landing, power up to maintain 200 km/h, runway approaching, gear light check green, over the runway, power idle, flare, speed bleed off, tires contact the runway, medium rudder to get back to runway centerline, flaps up, gentle breaking, slow down, and exit to the right towards the parking area, stop, stop, stop, at last. Final check of the fuel gauge: there was indeed nothing left for any go around.

As I turned off the ignition, I watched the snow falling quetly on the AAA guns, fuel tanks, parking aircraft. The whole world was white, but I found my only safe place in it. It was like a miracle. I shall be graceful for my luck and the help of my comrades.

Shorly after in the headquarters I reported the damaging of a Bf-109 and destruction of the other, but we weren't happy as usual. We were hoping that our inexperienced comrade made a safe landing or at least bailed somewhere out in the snowy fields, soon to be picked up by our ground troops. He was surely not flying, as his fuel must have run out about the same time as mine. I stayed near the radioman for the next 2 hours, when ground troops reported finding the wreackage of the other La-5, and minutes later, the dead pilot nearby with an open parachute. From their description, it seemed that the damaged plane disintegrated in the turbulence and the pilot din't have enough altitude for bailing. He was only 19 years old, killed in action during his 2nd combat mission. I recalled his young and optimistic face, and remembered how enthusiastically he was aspiring to become a good pilot and the Hero of the Soviet Unit.

While I walked back to our barracks, the snow fell even more intensely. I could not even see the village houses any longer. We are not going to fly any more misson tonight. Tomorrow the weather will clear and the missions continue. Who knows how long will we live? And who cares anyway? Let's eat something quickly, open that secret bottle of vodka in my bag, then go and feck that naughty Nadya living near the village main road. This I can surely do until tomorrow's next combat mission.

06-26-2006, 06:40 PM

06-26-2006, 07:06 PM
Originally posted by rnzoli:
Returning to base in fog and snow

Most combat stories are about combat with enemy planes, but this one is special, because it was a struggle against worsening weather just as much as against the enemy.

Me and my new wingman were flying a patrol south of Stalingrad in our brand new La-5s. They were delivered from the factory a few weeks ago, they smelled brand new and looked very modern compared to our earlier Yak-1Bs. It was a joy to fly them in practice dogfights and now we wanted to see how they do in real combat. Unfortunately, the weather was pretty bad down below. Above the clouds at 3000 meters however, it was a different world with good visibily in all directions. We wanted to make sure that the Germans don't dropy supply to their straving troops in the encirclement and stayed above the clouds.

Soon we engaged a pair of Bf-109s protecting the airspace above their encirclement. My wingman was separated by the first Bf-109 heading towards us. As they started dueling out in big loops just above the clouds, I decided to engage the other Bf-109, which seemed more experienced, waiting for the right moment to strike. The fight was relatively short, he tried to pass below me on the right but I had great luck in shooting into his engine as we passed in opposite direction. With a trailing thick smoke, he turned towards his airfield. Immediately I looked for my inexperienced wingman and he was obviously having problems, the other Bf-109 was gaining on him rapidly. I have caught up with them and tried to shoot the enemy off his tail, but my comrade was in complete panic, not even listening to the radio instructions. By this time, our altitude decreased and the severe turbulence was throwing the planes violently. I had trouble to hit the Bf-109, while I saw the Bf-109 hitting my comrade's plane from closer distances. I nearly shouted "Damn it, poor guy, he's got it!". Moments later I succeeded in hitting the Bf-109 which disengaged from my comrade and started evasive manouvers dangerously close to the ground. I was careful not to follow, the sense of height was deceiving in the fog and the moderatee snowfall. Instead I made climbing turns under the cloud layer and dove on him with short firing passes. I noticed that after every defensive hard turn, the Bf-109 became slower and slower. I only hit him once more on the outer wing, but soon he lost control and crashed in the snow and exploded.

Meanwhile, I lost visual contact with my wingman and I also had problems to determine my own position. Looking at the fuel gauge, I decided that we should both come towards an emergency airfield close behind our lines. There was still enough fuel, but I wanted to be cautious, as navigation in the worsending weather was really difficult. Turbulence was also a problem, I was getting sick from the gusting wings nearly throwing over my plane and tearing the control stick from my hands. However, I wanted to stay under the clouds because of locating the emergency landing strip, as well as avoiding engagement with an arriving German re-inforcement.

Despite flying the approximate heading with discipline and also knowing the area from previous missions, I just couldn't see the emergency strip. My wingman was nowhere near either, he desperately called on the radio a few times, telling how much difficulties he has with his damaged plane, but his transmissions stopped and didn't reply any longer. The cockpit instruments had to be illuminated, a look at the green fluorescent clock and the fuel gauge was telling me that me that I was running out of time. Instead of searching for the emergency strip among the hills, I changed course towards East, thinking that whereever I am, I must fly above the Volga river, easy to recognize, and that will lead me to our normal airfield. On the way, I radioed back to the base, that my chances to reach an airfield are slim. I successfully reached the frozen Volga, but I couldn't realize which part. I took a turn to South and soon found a characteristic combination of river arms and a road, which I could identify on the map as well. The airport was close, but in the other direction. Turned around immediately and followed the river upstream, looking for the familiar sight of a village, where the final approach to the airfield must begin. The fuel was really low, I decided that if I don't find the airfield in 2 minutes, I will make a powered emergency landing on the ice, instead of letting my tanks dry completely. But the village wasn't anywhere yet on the left side. A look on the fuel gauge was followed by a look out of the window on the left, and so on. Finally I pushed the nose into a gentle decent, looking for a landing area on the ice... but... there was something in the distance...a light in the fog and snow... a camp fire? Here? Why? As I got closer, I realized it is a camp fire burning at the outskirts of the village near the airfield. My heart jumped: my comrades heard my radio call and set up a fire to help me navigating to the end of the approach path! I quickly looked at the fuel level again: seemed enough for shooting an approach to the field, but no go around. Can I do it? Yes, I must do it!

Energized and anxious about finding the village was great, but seeing the snow-covered airfield through the falling snow and fog was a challenge of its own. I was bending forward in my seat, trying to maintain visual contact. I had no doubt now, why I hadn't seen the other airfield. This one I knew exactly where it was, but lost sight 2 times during the approach. I was so much concentrating on looking at it during the turbulence, everything else I did like a machine. Power idle, align with runway direction, slow down under 300 km/h, combat flaps, maintain altitude, 250km/h flaps down to takeoff, desent, gear down, flaps to landing, power up to maintain 200 km/h, runway approaching, gear light check green, over the runway, power idle, flare, speed bleed off, tires contact the runway, medium rudder to get back to runway centerline, flaps up, gentle breaking, slow down, and exit to the right towards the parking area, stop, stop, stop, at last. Final check of the fuel gauge: there was indeed nothing left for any go around.

As I turned off the ignition, I watched the snow falling quetly on the AAA guns, fuel tanks, parking aircraft. The whole world was white, but I found my only safe place in it. It was like a miracle. I shall be graceful for my luck and the help of my comrades.

Shorly after in the headquarters I reported the damaging of a Bf-109 and destruction of the other, but we weren't happy as usual. We were hoping that our inexperienced comrade made a safe landing or at least bailed somewhere out in the snowy fields, soon to be picked up by our ground troops. He was surely not flying, as his fuel must have run out about the same time as mine. I stayed near the radioman for the next 2 hours, when ground troops reported finding the wreackage of the other La-5, and minutes later, the dead pilot nearby with an open parachute. From their description, it seemed that the damaged plane disintegrated in the turbulence and the pilot din't have enough altitude for bailing. He was only 19 years old, killed in action during his 2nd combat mission. I recalled his young and optimistic face, and remembered how enthusiastically he was aspiring to become a good pilot and the Hero of the Soviet Unit.

While I walked back to our barracks, the snow fell even more intensely. I could not even see the village houses any longer. We are not going to fly any more misson tonight. Tomorrow the weather will clear and the missions continue. Who knows how long will we live? And who cares anyway? Let's eat something quickly, open that secret bottle of vodka in my bag, then go and feck that naughty Nadya living near the village main road. This I can surely do until tomorrow's next combat mission.

Nice mate, i really enjoyed that read, thanks http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_smile.gif

Nothing like a nice tale before bed!!

06-26-2006, 11:14 PM
Every once and a while I think it's good to bring this thread back from the dead.

06-27-2006, 03:23 AM
Aye, I'll see if I can get something done soon.

06-27-2006, 07:38 AM

Nice story. It feels like I flew it myself now. 'Manual' navigation adds heaps to the flying xperience, eh.

06-28-2006, 02:18 AM
I'm glad you liked the story http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_biggrin.gif

When I open the CD case of PF, sometimes it is like opening a good book.

I mean it can provide the same level of immersion, the same 'forget-the-real-world-for-a-while' recreation activity, like an excellent book.

08-27-2006, 07:26 AM
Another bump for those who've never seen it.

09-28-2006, 06:34 PM
Another bump for those who haven't seen it.

03-17-2009, 06:27 AM
<-------- GHOST WARNING: OLD POSTS ABOVE!!!! ---->


Notes from an unknown Sturmovik pilot.

Archipo-Osipovka, October 11th, 1942

On our second mission today, we will target Krasnodar with 2 flights. We even get fighter escort for this route, but it means the Bostons have to go to Khadizhensk without protection. I wish I could join them with my single seater Sturmoviks, the situation is getting very dangerous around Tuapse, but I am still under the mental pressure of the morning mission, where I was chased by enemy fighters for a good 5-8 minutes, until I found the way back to our fighter escort. What was even worse is that we had no chance to hit the German columns advancing towards Tuapse.

For now, everything is routine. The thunderstorms in the morning are completely gone, the weather is absolutely beautiful autum day, visibility is excellent, with only a few cloud rings around the mountain tops. We gained height over our airfield and now all 4 flights are airborne. We start out on our intended heading of 60 degrees. I can see the second Sturmovik flights on my low 9 o'clock, the Bostons are ahead of us, speeding away, and 3 fighters are the ones climbing fast behind us. They will catch up by the time we reach the frontline.

It's all calm up to the point where the Bostons turn right towards their target, and we turn left towards our target. I keep my eye on them for a long time as they get smaller and smaller, I still wish to go with them and bomb the hell out of the German columns advancing towards the Black Sea coastline, but the order is an order, we continue towards Krasnodar. Hopefully we will find large military concentrations there too, and blasting them out will deny the enemy from reinforcements.

As my eye follows the Bostons, I suddenly see small black spots in the distance, coming over from the enemy territory. German aviation for sure. I turn left, try to let the escort fighters in between our flight and the Germans. The events speed up. The radio crackles "Fighters at 12 o'clock", and our escort moves in to the space I just opened up. I count 8 German fighters, and our brave 3 fighters engage them without fear. Tracers, radio calls erupt as they engage.

They are too close and there is a danger that some of enemy fighters will see us and go after us. Return to base to save the aircraft? No. The morming mission was unsuccessful too. We must press on. I throttle up and lead my flight into a shallow dive, away from the fighter battle and we soon leave them behind. I make small S-turns to check, but only my 2 wingmen follow. The other Sturmovik flight did the same, they are on our 4 o'clock now, on the way to Krasnodar.

It's routine flight again in the next few minutes, checking my map for landmarks. Due to low altitude it takes a while to establish our position, but the black anti-aircraft smoke puffs leave no doubt that we are getting there, Krasnodar is ahead of us. Soon the 2cm guns also open up from a nearby airfield, we dive to the ground level and go around the city. I do not see targets yet, no matter how hard I try. I decide to fly over the city from north to south and hit anything that moves, it can only be German. We turn back, climb slight and we see the other Sturmovik flight arriving from the south. This is bothering me, we need to avoid the risk of collisions and I still don't see targets below.

The arrival of the other flight is good however, they spot several tanks, standing on the side of a street. They attack and we follow. I fire 2 rockets into the group and release my bombs. The rockets hit, the bombs miss. We make another turn and attack once more, but the rockets only hit burning wreckages, the tanks are all damaged. I climb out to see if there are other tanks nearby, but the streets are empty. I call my wingman and we fly over the outskirts, but still nothing. It's a great disappointment, why did we come here with 2 Sturmovik flights, when our comrades on the ground need our help on the frontline?

I ask my wingmen to form up, but #3 doesn't answer on the radio and I cannot see him. #2 and me have to start our jurney back to our territory. The bitter thougt of having a lot of unused ammunition in the guns keep bothering me. We made this risky jurney for a few tanks...why....

But there is not much time to think as we spot 2 more aircraft in the distance, coming from the frontlines. They may be fighters returning from the battle with our escord. I take no chances, accelerate again and go to treetop level until they are out of view. When I climb again, I notice that #2 is far behind me, must have been damaged during the attack on the tank column. But we are at the front, so he will make it. While I do S-turns to let him close up, I spot the city of Goryachiy Kluch. This is where our morning attack failed. There must be Fasists there... and I think no further. But the city is empty, they all moved on, but where? I fly over a near-by valley and I suddently recognize this as the area, where heavy ground fighting was reported earlier, with Germans gaining ground. I spot one large group of vehicles already parked, not moving. Yes, I will strafe them and give them hell with my remaining ammunition in the guns. As I line up in the shallow dive, they open fire on me, but too late, they are in my sight, I press the trigger and the trucks and armored vehicles burst into flames on by one. I climb out from the dive, proud from the successful strike, when other German units open up their anti-aircraft guns from the distance. Too late, I am far away for them!

Then suddenly explosions rock my airplane as I am trying to turn back towards the burning vehicles for another pass. One, two, three, very close, large caliber guns. This is much worse than over Krasnodar. I tighten the turn and drop height, but there are many 88mm guns firing at me and they are too accurate, I fear the worst. Suddenly a shell explodes and my engine stops right there. Get out of here as far as possible!

Trailing smoke and propellor standing still, I glide the damaged Sturmovik towards a road. I am scared that the anti-aircraft guns will really hit me now, but they stopped firing on me. I concentrate on gliding as far as possible, because I am afraid this is German-held territory. Not much time to think, speed drops to 200 km/h, 180, combat flaps, 160, 150.... tail nearly touching ground, edging of stall, and finally, the sound of belly landing. I look around, waiting for the Germans to shoot me, that was it. I see #3 flying over, I wave him off by the radio and exit the cockpit with my maps.

To my very pleasant surprise, Soviet comrades are coming to me and quckly haul me away. I just landed in a narrow corridor controlled by our own forces. I was not going to be captured that day and my thoughts focus on how to find transport back to my base, just in case I need to fly a 3rd mission today. I am in luck, there is an intelligence officer going to Novorossysk, and he can drop me on the way.

As we move along the road, I lay my eyes on the city of Tuapse. Firmer than every, I know this city must not be captured by the enemy, we must defend it with everything it takes.

Finally back at the base, I get the news from the command post that the German ground troops further gained their position around Tuapse. When I ask about the #2 aircraft, my wingman, I am told his damaged aircraft crashed near the base and the pilot was killed. I silently go and get ready for the 3rd mision to be flown today.

03-17-2009, 06:38 AM
slightly otish, but not a combat story.

Airshow impression

The drone of the turbo props and the whine of the jet engines paled in comparison to what was standing in front of me, all her deadly assets now removed to save weight, fuel and ultimately, money.

I looked at her clean and fresh painted lines, eyeing her eliptical wings with envy and requesting eyes at the same time. In my mind I saw myself sitting in her cockpit, angling for the promised heights and the freedom that enthralled......

Yet was it wrong to want freedom like this? Somehow and someway, the thought evaporated as the prop on the Spitfire completed its first revolutions..........

03-17-2009, 10:20 AM
Nice thread recovery http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_cool.gif

03-17-2009, 10:20 AM
Originally posted by Sharpe26:
slightly otish, but not a combat story.

Airshow impression

The drone of the turbo props and the whine of the jet engines paled in comparison to what was standing in front of me, all her deadly assets now removed to save weight, fuel and ultimately, money.

I looked at her clean and fresh painted lines, eyeing her eliptical wings with envy and requesting eyes at the same time. In my mind I saw myself sitting in her cockpit, angling for the promised heights and the freedom that enthralled......

Yet was it wrong to want freedom like this? Somehow and someway, the thought evaporated as the prop on the Spitfire completed its first revolutions..........