November 22, 1956
West Germany, Central Europe

The first reports of the invasion reached SHAPE Headquarters, West Berlin had been seized and Warsaw Pact forces were entering Western Germany, a series of strikes had devastated the military bases near the front and sabotage had hit most equipment. Orders were sent to all still active units to hold their positions while reinforcements were heading in. The Second Allied Tactical Air Force or 2 ATAF received their orders to support The Northern Army Group or NORTHAG from Allied Air Forces Central Europe or AAFCE.

Rudolf Küchler was asleep when he was awaken by a siren, and the voice on the speakers.

“All pilots are be airborne at once, I repeat all aircraft are to be airborne.”

Rudolf ran outside as American and German pilots run to their aircraft, he spotted his crew chief at his aircraft, Feldwebel Jakob Mueller, a vet of the last war and friend of his father.

“Jakob. What is going on?”

“The damn Bolsheviks have invaded, your guys are now a active unit.”

“Mein Gott” He looked at the aircraft, a F-84F Thunderstreak, a American fighter-bomber. “No bombs?”

“You will be armed at wherever we are going.”

Rudolf climbed into his jet and waved to Jakob as he and the rest of the unit and the Americans take to the sky. In the sky, they learned of the next move, as the Oberst inform the pilots.

“We are going to link up other squadrons in the area, and form a ad hoc unit. We have been taken off guard and some bases were hit hard. We will be flying CAS and strike missions since we are a F-84F unit, while the rest will do the same or be doing air to air missions. Now, our current mission to link up at the airbase, and get some weapons and defeat the Bolsheviks” The commander avoiding anything that could sound “Nazi”.

As the aircraft landed at the airfield, they saw how bad it was, they weren't much of a sight either, they were a training unit, so they had only a few operational aircraft, Rudolf's unit had only 5 operational aircraft, including his, the Americans at his base had flown out in a transport. He sat in his new home's pilots room, with his comrades, waiting for the next moves of the ad hoc squadron.

November 22, 1956
West Germany, Central Europe

Douglass Winters was pushing hard on his stick diving down on the MiG 15 coming up at him holding down the firing stud as soon as he thought he had a shot to hit the bastard watching his ammo counter tick down way too fast towards zero as his four guns chewed up their belts. Barely a moment later the enemy MiG openned up with it's cannons and he felt more than anything else the impact that told him something had connected. Looking to the left he saw about two feet of wing were now missing and a bit more was threatening to come flying off. Some off his own rounds found a home though as Douglass saw smoke billowing out of it as the two planes passed. Immediatly he pulled up and to the left hoping to climb back and gain some altitude before the MiG found his tail though to his surprise after levelling found nothing behind him except a contrail burning back east and a radar contact telling himhe must have wounded the Mig worse than expected. He really wanted to pursue the bastard but knew that too many of his buddies were handing around and Douglass had expended every munition long ago while his guns showed themselves in the double digits on ammo. He checked his fuel gauge and tapped it a few times again but it seemed still stuck giving him no idea if he had fuel to make it back to their base.

Of course by now their base was a bombed wreck and probably occupied by Russians. He keyed his mic to try and get a message to anyone left in the squadron, "Anyone left in the skies, I am heading out of here, got no guns, probly got no fuel neither but the damn gauge is stuck. Headin west to the nearest friendly base. See ya when ya land."

---

It was a short flight west towards the nearest base as West Germany had been dotted with them for this kind of situation. He pulled his plane around to be able to make an approach on one of the runways as he openned communications to the tower, "Tower this is the F-100 coming in on approach, I need a runway to land, I am low on plane and probably fuel."

"That is a no go, we are currently taxiing several aircraft, maintain station keeping."

It was only moment after the tower responded when his plane shuttered and the jet part of his fighter jet died. "Tower, this landing just became non-optional, one way or another I am hitting the ground and I am picking runway 3," With that he angled his plane in, lowered the landing gear and proceeded to manhandle his aircraft down.

He managed to make it down and saw crash teams awaiting his arrival, smiling under his helmet he hit the tarmac hard and instantly knew things were wrong as his nose dived into the ground the front landing gear apparently breaking off from the flawed landing and now the rear landing gear followed suit. His plane scraped across the ground for several feet before finally coming to a stop. Popping the canopy he stepped out and began to walk away while crews doused his plane in flame retardant foam as a precaution just in case as Douglas yelled out, "I am gonna need a new plane, something fancy with lots of guns!"

November 22, 1956
RAF Gutersloh
Berlin
West Germany, Central Europe

John had been enjoying a pleasant dream, sparked out in his bunk in deep in the clutches of rest as the crashing jangle of alert sirens intruded on his slumber, blasting him mercilessly into being awake.
Shocked and startled, he was bought back to his senses as the squadron leader hammered on the doors of the squadrons' pilots, yelling to them all that it wasn't a drill, and to get their arses in the air double-quick.

Yanking on his flight suit in record time, John grabbed his flight gear in the press of bodies in the scramble to get out to the line of waiting F.6 Hunters outside. Already, engines were spooling up, the sound audible even above the chorus of sirens and shouting voices.
In the run outside, he found himself alongside his squadron leader, and glancing over to him, he yelled, eyes wide in alarm.
"Sir, what the hell is going on? What's happening, is it the bloody Russians?"
"Looks like it, old son. We just got the order to scramble down from on high. Sounds like a lot of the front-line bases have been hit. So far-"
The pair paused as they reached the aircraft. The first of the Hunters had already gotten airborne, while others were on the taxi. On the horizon, further over the skies of Berlin, fires raged and the concussive rumbles of explosions could be heard. There was a sound like screeching air and ripping canvas, and then the corner of one of the bases' hangars exploded in a ball of fire.
"Artillery!" remarked the squadron leader. "Go, hurry! They'll have the range of the runway or the aircraft soon!"
A second volley came in even as John began to haul himself up the ladder to this aircraft, this time finding the mark on one of the aircraft parked nearby. It brewed up in a tremendous explosion, taking the next in line along with it. Feeling frantic, John slapped the quick-start engine button, the ground crew having already removed all the jets' tags and covers. A quick glance at the instruments revealed he had barely a fighting load; just a handful of rounds for the 30mm cannons, no bombs or rockets.
"Get in the air," came the squadron leaders' voice. "We've been caught off-guard. Anyone who can get airborne is being redirected West to form a composite squadron-"
His words died out as the Hunter was hit by another mortar shell. Cursing out loud, John inched the throttle forward, the Hunter picking up pace into a fast taxi. As soon as he hit the runway, he advanced the throttle to full military power, keeping the brakes on. The Avon engine spooled up to speed with an ear-splitting shriek and he blasted down the runway, feeling as though there were a crosshairs on his head with every second the fighter spent on the ground. The roar of the asphalt under the wheels underscored his heart hammering against his ribs, until the airspeed indicator read true, and he hauled the stick back to his stomach, the grey-green fighter leaping skyward with seemingly as much joy as its' pilot.
He quickly cleaned up the F.6 and gained as much altitude as he dared - and not a moment too soon, as another explosion blossomed over the runway.

Switching over to the air control frequency, he heard dozens of voices all clamouring for the same information. The sky over Berlin - and Germany - seemed to be crowded with people confused and disoriented as the sudden shocking assault had rolled in on them. Heading on a westward course, as per the CO's last orders and the overriding information on the channel, he tilted the Hunter F.6 into a bank to the west, still stunned by the ferocity of the assault below. It was too dark to see much, but the fires breaking out all over, and the sporadic flashes of gunfire and explosions told as much of a story as any he needed to see.
Disheartened, but feeling the spark of anger and the desire to hit back light inside him, Buchanon steered the Hunter to the west, checking his charts for reference. There was only one base that was a likely location.

A little over half an hour later, the Hunter dropped out of the sky, landing lights ablaze as it straightened up on the runway centreline. Following a 'FOLLOW ME' vehicle, the Pilot looked on in amazement as his canopy opened during the taxi. A hodge-podge assortment of aircraft were parked almost haphazardly around the base, almost nose-to-tail. Some were damaged and being picked over by crews for spares, while others stood almost pristine and waiting for fuel or armaments.
The truck left him, and a crewman waved him into an empty spot of apron, and he shut the jet down, unstrapping himself while the engine wound down and a crewman pulled up a ladder.

With no sign of any further orders, he headed for the crew lounge, getting directions from a handful of crewmen, who looked harassed and overworked by the scale of operations around them.
He entered the room quietly, and nodded to the other pilot there, sinking into a seat and setting his helmet down on a table nearby, before lighting up a slim cigarette. Taking a breath of the smoke, he rolled words around his mind, before looking over at the West German - by his insignia - pilot, and speaking quietly.
"Hell of a night, eh, old chum?"