The sky was almost completely clear, with some low intermittent cloud cover. Visibility was excellent, and today's mission was a scrub. Fähnrich Sigurd flew his new bf-109 in formation with the rest of his squadron. Their task, escort Ju-86 and -87's to their target, a train yard just past the front lines, and see that any allied fighters were kept off of the bombers for as long as possible.
The formation reached the target on schedule, a miracle in and of itself, and AA fire was light enough. Sigurd climbed above the fray with his squadron keeping their eyes peeled for the allied fighters that would surely be scrambling to meet the threat. Sigurd's wingman spatted a flight of Hurricanes flying at 10 o'clock, coming in low, under the sparse clouds. The German fighters dove to meet the threat, and the Hurricanes didn't see them coming until the bullets were flying. Three Hurricanes fell in the first pass, with two others trailing smoke. Jubilant the Germans turned and pursued the remaining enemy fighters, oblivious to the squadron of twin tailed devils rapidly closing the distance from the bomber's 2 O Clock. The bombers released their loads, shortly before the last of the Hurricanes fled, and the P-38's hit. The P-38's tore through the unsuspecting bombers, and passed through the formation to engage the bf-109's that were just turning back from chasing the last of the hurricanes. Sigurd now flying on his wingman's six, dipped down, and fired his 30mm under his wingman's plane, at an oncoming P-38, scoring a visible hit as an engine caught fire and the plane dove to maintain airspeed while cutting fuel and power to the dead engine in hopes of preventing a fire.
Sigurd stayed with his wingman, who moved on to the next plane, banking hard right, and pulling back on the stick, to roll in behind a P-38 and opened fire. The enemy pilot juked away, and then weaved back across the line of fire, avoiding the worst of the firestorm and slipping momentarily out of harm's way. Sigurd glanced back over his shoulder and saw a P-38 closing on his own 6, he radioed to his wingman and the broke in opposite directions, so that by the end of the turn one of them would be able to cover the other as they flew past each other. Sigurd lost sight of his shadow, and he pulled up into an immelman turn, to try and catch sight of the enemy, or at the least gain some altitude. When he looked forward again, Sigurd saw a Hurricane flying head on and closing fast, he opened fire instinctively and was rewarded with a solid kill, the Hurricane breaking up as it fell. Sigurd tried to to avoid the debris cloud, and almost succeeded. A dull clang, and short screech later, and the needle in his oil gauge was taking a nose dive of it's own. Cursing Sigurd radioed the damage in to his squadron leader and turned for home, diving to gain speed. But he was followed and soon bullets were scraping along the fuselage of his plane. He banked hard left, pulling out of the stream of bullets, just in time, though his ailerons and elevators were damaged greatly reducing the plane's maneuverability, he wrestled it into a more or less level flight, and ejected as his plane cleared a ridge with meters to spare. His own velocity carried him forwards, until his chute opened and he realized he was too low.
Not that he could do anything about it now, Sigurd tried to curl up to better protect his vital organs. His feet hit the ground and he started rolling, his chute dragging him along the slope. When it finally collapsed, he lay still on the ground, one of his legs bent and twisted so his right toe pointed at the arch of his let foot. And his left arm had popped out it's socket while he tumbled. Gritting his teeth, Sigurd put his shoulder back into proper position, crying out in agony at the the pain of it, and his broken leg. Sigurd looked at his leg and grimaced, his face pale from the pain. His training kicked in as he fought shock, and he rolled over onto his side, and began gathering his chute up, so recon planes wouldn't be able to spot him so easily. He only hoped he be able to get to shelter before the locals showed up. He'd seen in Spain what awaited a downed pilot if got caught by the locals. He'd never forget the sight, and desperation to avoid a similar fate drove him past the pain, to keep moving, slowly gathering his chute and stuffing it back into the pack.
The formation reached the target on schedule, a miracle in and of itself, and AA fire was light enough. Sigurd climbed above the fray with his squadron keeping their eyes peeled for the allied fighters that would surely be scrambling to meet the threat. Sigurd's wingman spatted a flight of Hurricanes flying at 10 o'clock, coming in low, under the sparse clouds. The German fighters dove to meet the threat, and the Hurricanes didn't see them coming until the bullets were flying. Three Hurricanes fell in the first pass, with two others trailing smoke. Jubilant the Germans turned and pursued the remaining enemy fighters, oblivious to the squadron of twin tailed devils rapidly closing the distance from the bomber's 2 O Clock. The bombers released their loads, shortly before the last of the Hurricanes fled, and the P-38's hit. The P-38's tore through the unsuspecting bombers, and passed through the formation to engage the bf-109's that were just turning back from chasing the last of the hurricanes. Sigurd now flying on his wingman's six, dipped down, and fired his 30mm under his wingman's plane, at an oncoming P-38, scoring a visible hit as an engine caught fire and the plane dove to maintain airspeed while cutting fuel and power to the dead engine in hopes of preventing a fire.
Sigurd stayed with his wingman, who moved on to the next plane, banking hard right, and pulling back on the stick, to roll in behind a P-38 and opened fire. The enemy pilot juked away, and then weaved back across the line of fire, avoiding the worst of the firestorm and slipping momentarily out of harm's way. Sigurd glanced back over his shoulder and saw a P-38 closing on his own 6, he radioed to his wingman and the broke in opposite directions, so that by the end of the turn one of them would be able to cover the other as they flew past each other. Sigurd lost sight of his shadow, and he pulled up into an immelman turn, to try and catch sight of the enemy, or at the least gain some altitude. When he looked forward again, Sigurd saw a Hurricane flying head on and closing fast, he opened fire instinctively and was rewarded with a solid kill, the Hurricane breaking up as it fell. Sigurd tried to to avoid the debris cloud, and almost succeeded. A dull clang, and short screech later, and the needle in his oil gauge was taking a nose dive of it's own. Cursing Sigurd radioed the damage in to his squadron leader and turned for home, diving to gain speed. But he was followed and soon bullets were scraping along the fuselage of his plane. He banked hard left, pulling out of the stream of bullets, just in time, though his ailerons and elevators were damaged greatly reducing the plane's maneuverability, he wrestled it into a more or less level flight, and ejected as his plane cleared a ridge with meters to spare. His own velocity carried him forwards, until his chute opened and he realized he was too low.
Not that he could do anything about it now, Sigurd tried to curl up to better protect his vital organs. His feet hit the ground and he started rolling, his chute dragging him along the slope. When it finally collapsed, he lay still on the ground, one of his legs bent and twisted so his right toe pointed at the arch of his let foot. And his left arm had popped out it's socket while he tumbled. Gritting his teeth, Sigurd put his shoulder back into proper position, crying out in agony at the the pain of it, and his broken leg. Sigurd looked at his leg and grimaced, his face pale from the pain. His training kicked in as he fought shock, and he rolled over onto his side, and began gathering his chute up, so recon planes wouldn't be able to spot him so easily. He only hoped he be able to get to shelter before the locals showed up. He'd seen in Spain what awaited a downed pilot if got caught by the locals. He'd never forget the sight, and desperation to avoid a similar fate drove him past the pain, to keep moving, slowly gathering his chute and stuffing it back into the pack.
