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.

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."

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.

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 “battering 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 â€" the “Gustav 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 â€" 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 “black 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 â€" 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 â€" 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 â€" work hard and play hard!

I’m daydreaming, only to be snapped back into reality by the harsh voice of my commander, “Wake 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 â€" 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 â€" some beautiful, some blown into submission. I can even see little black objects in the city â€" WAIT! “Herr Oberst, this is Black 17, I see the heavies! I see the heaviest!” The black dots were the bombers! “Vitamine! 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. “Indianer, 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 â€" it’s clear. Where did they go!? I check my six again, it’s clea â€" 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 â€" 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 â€" an unfortunate site. I slowly watch as he slowly gets smaller, and silently merges with the ground.

There is no time for celebration â€" 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 â€" right in front of me! I check quickly and see a dark dot quickly growing close to my sight. “Achtung, 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 â€" he’s turning as hard as he can. We quickly pass once again as he continues to turn â€" silly mustang. I climb quickly, roll, and spit S right on top of him. I’m almost in position â€" 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 â€" 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 â€" please don’t stall baby, just a bit more! He’s hanging, hanging, hanging, and suddenly I see contrails off of his wings â€" 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 â€" he bailed out! I sigh, very relieved, but must continue to fight.

The Oberst’s words come back to me once more. “Get 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 â€" 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 â€" 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. “A 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 â€" 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 â€" 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. “Great job, my friend. You will go down in the history books some day.” “Danke, 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.

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."

This message has been edited. Last edited by: PBNA-Boosher,

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.

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.

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!!!

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 “Thanks!” for not killing him on the spot. “Yhea, 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.

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 “spider 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: “ALARMSTART! 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 “clunk!” 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. “Status?!”

“Two OK!” “Three and four OK!” “Second Schwarm OK!” Came back reports. “OK 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. “Karl, cover me!” I called to my wingman. “Yhea, 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.

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

“Schwarm 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 “ZipKLONK!” 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.

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."

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 “flight” 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 “tulip” 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 “War 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.
“Leopard flight...Clear to takeoff” came the tower. “First 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... “Second Schwarm cover the 190’s, first gets fighters with me!” “Victor!” I streaked past the first of the four P-40’s, and shot the second one down from formation before pulling into the vertical. “Ahhhh....” Somebody groaned “Klaus took some hits!” called Walter, flying in the second pair. “I think their leader got me” Klaus said “Break as a Rotte, turn for home!” I told them, before destroying my second P-40 of the day.

“BREAK 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. “I got one! I got one!” cheered my wingman. “D*** 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. “Taking 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. “Wrong 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 “Seat of the Pants“ 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.

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!

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.

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!

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.

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 “parents” and to them, we are their “daughters.” 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 “mother” had so much strength, to cook for two hundred of her hungry “daughters.”
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 “Mama.” 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…

‘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 “Sturmbocks”. 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 “275” 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. “Attention! 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. “Attention! 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.

“Achtung! Dicke Autos! 11 o‘clock!” A voice called “Ja!” I replied, looking closer “Indianer! Ami’s!” I yelled to warn them, and took a closer look: “Looks like Mustangs! OK, lets get them, clear a hole for the Sturmbocks.” “Victor Victor!” We met them head on, and the sky filled with tracers as we swapped shots. “Victory!” cried one pilot “AHHH! 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. “Number three, break left!” “Five 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. “I’m hit! Bailing!” “Hang 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. “Third 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. “2nd Rotte out of ammo, RTB! 4th Schwarm is destroyed!” “Cant be so!” “We got some 17’s!” a jubilant voice yelled. “Dora’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. “Good 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 “KABOOM!”
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. “HEY! 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..."

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.

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.