vicar

Sorry for the double post. Good story, xclusiv8! Yes, there were some small mis-spellings, but I wouldn't worry about it. It wasn't anything that a reader couldn't figure out, and the story itself was incredibly entertaining. Good job, and keep it up.

Greetings, Comrades! These are truly the days that try men's souls. 2 November 1962 We were told that this was to be another big operation. Eight Su-9's, intercepting a large American force over Haina! We took off and moved in. The weather was terrible. It was like soup. Still, we do what we have to do. We are soldiers, comrades! The flight was short, and we had almost reached the target before the number four of the second flight had even taken off. The enemy was right where Control had told us to look for them. A flight of no less than six B-27's! I let them pass, and turned into their rear, in order to shove missiles up their backsides. This is my favorite method of fighting, and is far preferable to any other. I like to call it "The Italian Method." I told the squadron to engage and dropped my tanks. Of course, before I had even completed my turn, I was hit by the American escort following the B-57's. I knew right away that I was hit because my Bohdana slewed hard to the right side. My panel came to life with red lights telling me that she was on fire, and punched out. As I floated down, I saw the Americans that had done it. F-100D Super Sabers! I turned my attention from them and watched Bohdana sink into the fog, turning everything around her a wet orange-red. I will admit to you that as I watched, I thought to myself, --It is not so bad. She was a Boris anyway. I am ashamed of myself for these thoughts! She did the best she could, and I dishonor her memory in such a way? 3 November 1962 There were no missions today, and it is just as well. Perhaps the Lieutenant Colonel realized that morale in the 179 was low and gave us a day off. Perhaps the weather was just too bad to fly. Who knows. All I know is that I slept, for a long time. When Matus asked me if I would like to meet my new airplane, number seven, I shouted at him. --NO! I would not like to meet her. I would not like to name her. I would not like to fly her! Matus left me alone after that, which is just as well. I am obviously irrational, and the loss of Bohdana has affected me more than I realized. I did not get out of bed today, at all. 4 November 1962 Another large operation. An intercept over Merseburg, which is right next door to our base in Allstedt. I am beginning to dread these large operations. Fedya Smirnov flew my wing. You will remember him. He is one of the Smirnov brothers; his brother Donat was wounded at the very start of this war. Again the weather is like soup. This makes four straight days of rain, comrades! I climbed into the cockpit and I was numb. I do not know how else to describe it. I wasn't feeling anything. I wasn't thinking anything. I performed the pre-flight mechanically, like a robot. I lifted off, like a robot. I headed for the target, without thinking, without feeling, without even realizing where I was or what I was doing. Of course that all changed when Control told us that our mission had changed! --Come to 0 degrees heading and climb to 30,000 feet, she said. A flight of three B-52's had been spotted, and we were tasked with the intercept. At last! More B-52's! I felt myself come alive as I climbed above the cloud cover and blinked into the sun. There, I could see them, and began to intercept. Closer I crept, and closer. I got the lock, and I launched. Two missiles, away! I watched them streak toward the target, and I watched the B-52's drop flares and chaff, and both of my missiles missed! Damn! And then the tracers started streaking toward my plane, and I turned hard, realizing that I had allowed myself to get too close. No luck, comrades. My airplane shuddered and again my cockpit lit up with fire warnings. Again I punched out, the second time in two sorties. I did not even name this airplane. She died without a name. The numbness returned to me as I watched her descend into the clouds, a flaming corpse. It is cold at 30,000 feet, comrades, but I did not notice. When your stomach is already ice, everything else seems warm by comparison. AUTHOR'S NOTE: I apologize for not having any pics for 2 November. It all happened quite fast. Really, I thought I had one, of me burning with 2 F-100D's streaking by (quite a nice pic, too), but apparently I didn't actually press the button. Strange, that. Anyway, my apologies. Somebody said that he hoped I wouldn't die, so that I could continue the story. These two missions, coupled with the one earlier, make for quite a few near-misses. More than I think should, by rights, have occurred. I don't believe that I've ever been shot down so many times in a campaign without having a campaign-ending finish such as an MIA, POW, or even a wounding. The only thing I can think is that, as an interceptor squadron, I'm flying the majority of my missions over friendly territory. Still, I have now flown only eight-ish sorties, of a maximum twenty-five for this campaign. If it keeps up like this, I'm definitely going to have to figure out a way to end the story semi-realistically, with a dead pilot obviously being unable to speak of his experiences. Hmm. Quite the challenge.

Nice. I really get a kick out of reading all these reports on here.

Greetings, Comrades! 31 October 1962 Today was a relatively uneventful day for Mother Russia and her pilots in the 179. Almost immediately I knew something was not right. I tried to wake Matus for breakfast, my faithful wingman, but he said he was sick! --You are not sick, I yelled. You are hung over! --And you have a medal, he replied. --HA HA! You are jealous! Fine, stay here in your bed like an old toothless babushka. I have Americans to kill. But of course I didn't. Today we would be on ready alert, but otherwise there would be no missions for me. So instead we washed our airplanes! Yes, we get them clean, and shining, so that the world may see the Soviet silver glinting in the sun from miles away, and crap their pants in fear! And crapped pants at twenty-thousand feet is not a pleasant experience, let me assure you, comrades. Shortly after lunch we all hear airplanes, incoming! What is this? No warning from any of our spotters? Our AA lights up, and two F-105 Thunderchiefs streak over our base, heading northeast. I was standing out in the open next to my Bohdana, and after I made sure that I wasn't bombed to smithereens without my realizing it, I climbed into the pit and began warming the engine. Imagine the size of those Americans' balls, I thought, to fly so low (only 1000-1500 feet) over our base! We shall teach them a lesson they will not soon forget. I and the three others on Ready Alert shortly lined up and took off in pursuit, going as fast as we dared with cold engines, gradually increasing throttle as much as was safe. We caught up with them about halfway to Gross Dolln, and I ordered the engagement. I pulled in behind them, and crept closer, and closer, but the radar would not lock! About a mile out, the Thunderchiefs must have seen us, because suddenly they lifted into the sky, and I had a lock! I switched over to my R-55, and got tone as well. Launch! I watched my missiles head toward the target, but then he dove toward the earth, and I lost the lock! My missiles missed. Again, he lifted himself into the sky, and again I got lock and tone. Launch! And again, he dove to the ground and I lost the lock. Stupid Mechanic! What sort of missile gunnery principles are these that waste ammunition because the radar cannot keep its lock so close to the ground? Frustrated, I turned for home, and hoped that one of my flight would manage what I had not. No. We returned home without further incident, missiles exhausted, Americans safe from harm. Americans safe from harm! What sort of nonsense is this? Idiot mechanic! If I had all four R-55s, maybe I would have had a chance. At least I would not have had to rely on a radar so easily fouled by ground-clutter. 1 November 1962 Again, Matus was sick, and so I flew with Valdemar Reshetov as my wingman. We got our orders mid-morning, and set about prepping our airplanes. There was to be a large operation, comrades! Eight of our airplanes would be flying Combat Air Patrol over Frankfurt Am Main. Takeoff and the flight was easy, and the weather was clear. A perfect day for shooting Americans! Soon enough one of the flight called the sighting, and we headed towards them. They must have seen us at about the same time, because we merged head-to-head! As the enemy flashed past us I noticed they were again those West German CL-13s, and began to sweat and shiver at the same time. I could not control myself. The comms came to life with my comrade pilots yelling, Get him off of me! and He's on my six! I managed to get behind one of them, but he would always bank and turn. It made getting a clear shot difficult; I noticed that this enemy plane was not a CL-13, but an F-100D. There was more than one enemy squadron, and I was already shaking! Already I had to fight the bastards who killed my Alena, now I had to deal with their friends as well, at the same time? I will admit to you, comrades, that I did not wait for tone and lock, but wasted my first two missiles in futile gestures. I heard at least one of my brethren call out that he was hit. Finally I saw a CL-13 chasing one of ours. I lined up behind him, and got a tone and a lock both! Launch! Nothing, comrades! Nothing, and the CL-13 took down one of my wingmates. I had had enough. I was beaten, and I was out of missiles. I ordered the squadron home. We took stock of ourselves after we arrived. Two of us had been killed and one wounded, to none of the enemy. It was a bleak day for the 179. This is a list of the dead and wounded to date: Jr Lt Valery Lobov - Missing - 26 October 1962 Jr Lt Donat Smirnov - Wounded - 27 October 1962 Sr Lt German Litvyak (3 confirmed kills) - Deceased - 28 October 1962 Sr Lt Iosef Sutzkow (1 confirmed kill) - Deceased - 1 November 1962 Sr Lt Semyon Gerasimenko - Deceased - 1 November 1962 Jr Lt Valdemar Reshetov - Wounded - 1 November 1962

Greetings, Comrades! Again, it has been two days since I last spoke with you. 28 October 1962, after the loss Today started as a not very good day. First, yesterday when we returned to our airbase at Peenemunde, we were told that we were re-basing to Allstedt. This would normally be good news, but you can imagine how I took it, after all that had happened. Especially when I was told that, as opposed to the rest of the pilots, who would fly their airplanes to our new home, I would ride in the bus with the mechanics! I was not happy, comrades, but strangely I did not get angry. There was no anger left in me, only great sadness. My beloved Alena, she was gone! So I packed my belongings, which consisted only of, other than a couple of changes of clothing, a half-drunk bottle of vodka and the book Fathers and Sons by Tergenev. I climbed onto the bus and settled in, and began drinking. It was not long before we were on the road, and it was not long before I was drunk. Of course, being a Russian man, and being drunk, are two things in this world that I cherish. The third was Alena. I was eyeing my bottle of vodka, wondering how long it would last, when I noticed the weapons fellow that I had bribed earlier, he was also drinking vodka. My vodka! The last good vodka! Better than the harsh sadness that I clutched so impotently in my bitter fist! He must have noticed me looking at him, because he came over and sat across the aisle from me. --Get away from me, mechanic! I roared, and tried to stand up. Of course I couldn't, and only succeeded in dropping my sad bottle on the floor, which rolled somewhere that my drunk blear could no longer see. I felt, more than saw, a bottle being put into my hand. I looked at it, and knew right away that it was the happy bottle. I almost cried. What? You do not believe that I, a pilot in the service of mother Russia, could cry? I am a sensitive man, comrades. Besides, I said almost. --We are all equal in Lenin's eyes, he said. --True enough, I replied. --Why did you ask for four R-55s today? He asked. --Because I killed Americans with them earlier, and wanted more, I replied. --That is what I thought, he said. You wait to get a tone, or a radar lock, and you fire your missiles as soon as you do, yes? I must have looked surprised. What could a mechanic know of such things? --Of course I do, I said. --You shouldn't do that. --No? How the hell would you know? --Because it is not proper Soviet practice. --It isn't? --No. --I've never heard of this. --Then your instructor did you a dis-service. --You are RIGHT, comrade mechanic! My instructor was a washed-up drunk who wanted nothing more than to get back to his bottle of vodka! He was pathetic! The mechanic looked at me and laughed. I don't know why he would laugh, but he did. Maybe he saw something funny in what I said. I don't know. --Then what is the proper protocol? I asked him. --Patience, he said. --Patience? --Yes! Patience is everything! You do not fire your missile as soon as you have a lock or a tone, you wait! You wait until you have both a lock and a tone! And then you fire two missiles, both an R-55 and an RS-2US! The answer surprised me. Of course. It made so much sense, but was something that I would not have realized on my own. --Thank you, comrade mechanic, I said, and gave him back his bottle of vodka. Then I fell asleep, which is the only place that Alena and I can still fire missiles at Americans. 29 October 1962 I was awoken roughly. I looked around, bleary. I was still on the bus, but it was not moving. The mechanic had shaken me awake. --What time is it? I asked. --It is noon, he said. Or close enough. I stood on unsteady legs and gathered my things. I left the bus, and blinked in the bright noon sun. In front of me the Lieutenant Colonel approached. --You are scrambling, he said. --What? --You heard me. Intercept over Rechlin Larz. Your new plane is number four, over there. I looked to where she sat, and then turned back to the Colonel. He was already gone. I walked to number four, and looked at her. I reached out my hand, and felt her. --Trying to decide on a name? asked the mechanic from behind me. --Yes, I replied. --Looks like a Boris to me, he said, and laughed. --I'm still half-drunk, I said. --Yes, yes. Give me your things. I handed him my bag and climbed the ladder to the pit. I looked around, and saw Matus Boytzow in number two, flying my wing. I didn't bother looking for any others. I performed pre-flight and lined up on the runway. Before I knew it I was airborne, and ATC was saying its goodbye. I got on the comms and asked Matus, --Rechlin Larz, isn't that almost all the way back toward Peenemunde? --Yes, it is, he said. Boy it's a good thing we moved then, I thought. The flight was silent from then until we hit our target and began scanning. It turns out my number three and four were Senior Lieutenant Iosef Sutzkow and Jr Lt Matus Klubov. I had never flown with them before. Before I knew it my wingman was calling targets, and we headed in. I gave the order to engage, but I was too fast and too close so I pulled around right away for another pass. B-57s again, flying low. I moved in, but Iosef was faster than I, and had positioned himself properly the first time. Before I even had a good target I saw one of them fall to a missile of his. --Good hit! I called to him, and then concentrated on the Canberra in front of me, trying to remember what the mechanic had said. Patience. Wait for lock and tone both. I had them, launch! Two missiles, streaking toward the target. They both missed. --So much for our good mechanic's principles, I thought, but still had lock and when I switched back to the R-55 immediately got tone. Launch! This time, I did not miss, and saw my target head toward the ground. I scanned around for more targets but only saw one more B-57. Had somebody taken another? Iosef, the number three, moved in behind the last one and launched, but got nothing. We were out of missiles, and headed home. I cannot say that I was excited by my fourth kill. It simply happened. Perhaps it was the mood I was in, I do not know. Perhaps I was emotionally drained from all that had happened over the last couple of days. When we arrived back at Allstedt I immediately went to take a shower. Halfway through, the shower water went ice-cold! I cursed and jumped out, entirely naked, to see my entire squadron laughing at me. In front of them all was the Lieutenant Colonel, holding a wooden box, which he presented me. I opened it, and saw a Medal for Combat Service! --The approval came through quickly, after your performance yesterday, said the Lieutenant Colonel. --Thank you, I replied, and for the second time in twenty-four hours almost cried. --Now put on some clothes, he said, and walked out of the lavatory. The rest of the squadron followed him. 30 October 1962 Today was a day of rest, which is just as well. The weather was terrible, and I was given a reconnaissance mission over Wunstorf, which I did without hesitation. Everything went smoothly, and I did not even see any enemy airplanes. It did, however, give me time to think of a name for my number four airplane. It would not be Boris, like that crazy mechanic suggested, but Bohdana! Yes. Bohdana. It is a good name.

Thanks for the compliments, guys. @ xclusiv8 - I'm flying a Nato Fighters 4 campaign, with some small modifications made by myself (a Soviet-flyable campaign, the addition of B-52s as proper targets for the high-altitude Sukhoi interceptors, and the reduction of starting-campaign unit experience from 100 to something a little more realistic). I like to play everything on hard settings because it boosts my ego, but after testing the Nato Fighters 4 campaign for some time, I've realized that certain custom airplanes are almost certainly designed for a normal flight model settings, so I'm playing flight model on normal with non-stock planes. I realized this after getting frustrated in both the Su-9 and MiG-21 originally, and then trying out the F-102 Delta Dagger and not even being able to turn in a complete circle on Hard. It just didn't seem quite right to me. Now it does. I don't know if it's just the delta-wing craft or what, but oh my God were they awful to try to fly.

Greetings, Comrades! It is two days since last I spoke with you, and there is much to tell you about! 27 October 1962 The day started slowly, and we were all itching to get our new missions. At 1030 hours myself, Matus Boytzov and the Smirnov brothers, Donat and Fedya, were scrambled. There was a flight of inbound bombers, heading to Juterborg! It was our duty to intercept them, and destroy them before they reached their target. Takeoff was uneventful, as was the flight. We made good time, rose to 16000 feet, and waited. My skin crawled, I was so anxious. My eyes, constantly straining to see our targets on the horizon, began to ache. But it was worth it, comrades! Time itself, that constant of motion, demanded that eventually we locate our targets, and we did. They were not so terribly far away from where we were being directed to look for them. I ordered the flight to drop tanks and engage the enemy. I, in turn, turned on my radar and positioned myself behind the right-most airplane. They were huge! So much bigger than the B-57's that I had such ill luck against on my first mission. There was only one thing they could be: B-52's! Two of them. What do you Americans and your love for acronyms call them? BUFFs? Big Ugly Fat F***ers? Now, I thought, was a target for which my Alena was designed to fight! I positioned myself, seeking a lock, but no lock came. I crept ever closer, and I began to get a suspicion that one of my comrades would shoot them down before I even got the chance. I looked around for my brethren, and saw them keeping pace with me, although Donat was definitely moving in for the kill above me. Steady, I thought to myself. Keep your eyes on the prize. Still no lock. I switched to boresight mode, and guessed my distance to be about two miles away. It is so difficult to judge distance when your target is so big! Still no lock. I switched to my R-55 missiles (AA-1C). HA! A lock! Wait, no, that is Donat swooping low behind my target. Damn! Good thing that these are heat-seeking missiles, eh, comrades? A tone! Donat was too close to be entirely comfortable with the shot, but I took it anyway. I thought, which would my missile prefer, the heat of a little Fishpot, or the four giant engines of a BUFF? And I was right! I saw the explosion, and the giant heading toward the ground. I could hear Donat cursing over the comm. I do not know if he was frightened by my missile, or angry that I took a kill he thought was his, or both. Probably both (it was not until after we landed that it was revealed that Donat had been hit and wounded by the Ugly Fatty's rear guns). As much as I wanted to watch the Big Ugly smash into the unforgiving earth, I forced myself to seek the second one, and again positioned myself behind him. This time none of my flight was in my way. This time I got a lock immediately, and tone as well. Fire! Again, a kill! I watched for a moment as he plummeted, and then ordered my flight back into formation and headed for home. The return trip was not nearly so long as it was reaching the target. I was so giddy, I didn't notice Germany passing beneath me, and before I knew it I was back, on the ground. Although, it must be stated, that I again landed on fumes. If I were not so high on victory I would be concerned for the future. There are only so many times that you can push the limits, comrades. It is sobering to think how close I have come, twice now, to not making it back home. But, I am a hero to my squadron! I have scored the first kills in the 179 of this war, and what kills they were! The Lieutenant Colonel does not agree, and does not give his approval. We were too late, and the BUFFs had already bombed their target. Because of our tardiness, some of our Soviet brothers in arms no doubt paid with their lives. Bah. Such is war. Tonight we celebrate victory! Tonight is vodka! 28 October 1962 I awoke today with a hangover, but I did not mind. Not only had I scored two victories, but word came over breakfast that our forces had liberated Fulda from the American Imperialists. Following breakfast I received my orders. I was put on Combat Air Patrol over our home base of Peenemunde at 12 noon. The flight was four strong: myself, Junior Lieutenant Matus Boytzow as my wingman, Senior Lieutenant German Litvyak as number three, and Senior Lieutenant Semyon Gerasimenko as his wing. I was filled with pride as I climbed into the familiarity of my Alena; there were only two pilots now that had scored kills (myself with two and German with three), and we were both on this flight! I still had a bottle of vodka that was given to me in appreciation of my two kills last night, and I bribed the weapons manager with it. I had such success with the R-55 last flight, why change a good thing? I would load up with all 4 R-55s this time. HA! Watch out, American flying swine! It was such beautiful, clear day, nothing could go wrong. We climbed to 10000 feet and I began whistling Rimsky-Korsakov. You may not think much of it, but if you have never tried to whistle "Flight of the Bumblebees", you should think again! Soon, we were all whistling merrily over the comms when Matus called out targets, just over twenty miles away. I ordered our flight to engage, dropped tanks, and went full afterburner to engage. Soon I will have even more Americans killed, I thought, and turned on my radar. I set it right away to boresight mode, not even bothering with the search mode that refused so stubbornly to give me a lock last time. I positioned myself behind them and began my approach. I was no more than 1.5 miles out, maybe even as little as 1 mile, and could neither get a lock nor a tone, when they suddenly spotted us and began to turn sharply. That was when I noticed that they were swept-wing aircraft of some sort. Maybe the infamous American F-86? Soon we were turning, turning, myself on full afterburner in order to keep my speed up, not able to turn with these fiendish devils that seemed to be everywhere. German started calling out that he had one on his six just as I noticed the enemy chasing him. I turned into him to give pursuit (as the devil gave pursuit and I was in turn pursued) and got a lock and tone. Fire! The enemy did not react to my missile launch, but instead continued his harassment of Senior Lieutenant Litvyak. My missile went wide. I still had lock and switched to another missile and got tone immediately and launched. Again he ignored me, and again I missed! Perhaps he was turning too hard, I thought, and gained altitude. I came around for a level and straight shot. Just as I re-acquired the target I saw Senior Lieutenant Litvyak burst into flames. There was no parachute, either. It was only a small comfort that my missile found its target in a righteous display of furious vengeance, as we had just lost our only other kill-scoring pilot. Being so intent on watching the missile head towards its target, I finally noticed the markings on the enemy planes. These were not Americans, as I had first thought. These were even worse. They were the unwitting slaves of the Americans, the West Germans! That would make their planes not the F-86K, but rather the German CL13 Saber variant, armed with missiles! Of course I realized this just as my faithful wingman Matus Boytzow called out a missile launch. I had been so intent on the enemy in front of me that I had forgotten about the enemy behind! Thinking quickly, I immediately cut my afterburner and began a sharp turn. I didn't know if these missiles were radar-guided or heat-seeking, but it would be prudent to cut the source of heat just in case, no? One American missile went wide. HA! I knew that the American missiles were over-rated. Of course, I did not have time to get comfortable before Matus yelled out a missile launch again! Thankfully, again it went wide. But wait, again Matus calls out a missile launch! Again I turn and again. It is not enough. If I were not convinced of the truth of Lenin's words, I might be convinced of this as a sign of a divine hand at work. What are the odds, that just as my third missile of vengeance found its mark, the West German puppet's third missile would also find its victim, me? Luckily, I knew that there was no escaping this one. I could see it coming straight for me as I turned, and I was able to parachute away in time. A close run thing indeed! I landed safely, but my beautiful Alena did not. I like to think that it was because of her that I survived, that while she could not out-turn that damned American missile, she let me see it coming, and got me out in time. I like to think that she gave herself for me. The 179 suffered a grievous loss today, comrades. We not only lost two of our limited supply of Su-9 airplanes, but we also suffered the death of one of our best pilots, Senior Lieutenant German Litvyak. Not to mention that there is still no word of Junior Lieutenant Valery Lobov, my wingman from the very first sortie. Tonight we honor the dead and the lost, and wish them safe passage. Tonight is a night for vodka.

Greetings, Comrades! On this, the eve of our ideological victory over the decadent and morally corrupt west. Lenin spoke of this day, and I am proud to play a part in its realization. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sukhoi Bolshie. I am known to those in my flight group, the 179 IAP PVO, flying the Su-9, based out of Peenemunde, as Red Rover. Here is a picture of me, that you might know me better: 26 October 1962 The first blow against the American lackeys would come at Bad Hersfeld. Our forces were moving to strike there, and I was given the assignment of performing reconnaissance over the location. It was my first combat mission. In fact, it was the first combat mission for many in my group. We had been training for this day, and our morale was high, but we had not seen any action. The only pilot who had scored any kills at all prior to this was Senior Lieutenant German Litvyak, with 3. It was my first mission, and I decided upon bringing Valery Lobov as my wing. It was his first combat mission as well. We loaded up our "Fishpots" with 4 extra fuel tanks, and I decided to bring 2 additional RS-2U (AA-1A) missiles as well, just in case. Takeoff was a pleasure, even as loaded down as my Alena (the name of my Su-9. Yes, I named my airplane) was. I love this craft. Flying it, I can imagine what it must be like to be a bird. A very very fast bird. We took off at 1320 hours and headed towards our destination. Everything went smoothly until I hit the entrance to the target, when I noticed the unmistakable shapes of B-57's heading toward the line, toward our soldiers! Well, this was exactly why I brought the missiles, I thought, and turned on my radar. I positioned myself to attack, and immediately got a lock on one of them. I launched my missile, excited at the prospect of bringing down one of those vaunted Western aircraft. Alas, my missile went wide. I began to turn for another pass when I noticed the airplane burning, and saw that he had succumbed to the fire of a comrade in a MiG-19. Here is a picture, so that you might understand: Notice my Alena, in the foreground. Is she not beautiful? Are her sleek lines not a joy to behold? I turned, searching for more targets, but even as I found one, he would spout flames and head for the earth, another victim of our universal superiority over all things American. This happened to me time and time again, until there were no more targets. But suddenly my wing, Valery Lobov, beloved son of our mother Russia, screamed that he was hit. Hit by what? I thought, and searched frantically for him. I saw his chute, and was relieved that he had ejected. I decided, however, that the time had come to go home. I brought my nose around to the mission target and sped up to 65% throttle. As I reached the target, Bad Hersfeld, and was looking around, performing my reconnaissance duties, I noticed the shape of a swept-wing fighter, perhaps an F-86, behind me and approaching fast. He was only about 1/2 mile out, so I punched my throttle to full afterburner and went to the deck. Of course I outflew him. It would be strange if I had not, no? Alena is the fastest machine in the sky. I watched him, and as soon as he gave up pursuit I throttled back and made a course for home. Of course my adventure was not over yet. My fuel gauge was approaching empty, and I was not even halfway home! It would not be good for the morale of my comrades in the 179 if we lost both airplanes in our first combat flight. I looked around me, wishing I had a navigator right now to tell me where to land, when I saw my salvation: Neeuruppin Airfield. Of course I did not know at the time that it was Neeuruppin, only that it had a landing strip. And land I did, on what must have been fumes. Have I said that I am in love with my Alena? If it were any other airplane, I am convinced that I would not have made it. But Alena did what I asked of her, and more. So in conclusion, my first combat mission was a success. But I lost my wingman Valery Lobov, and only hope that he ejected over friendly ground.

Oh man I'm excited. Can't wait for the first. I've been training day and night. The best I've done yet is almost making it through The War for the Waters (early 1967, IIRC). 6 AA kills with that Israeli Mirage III, almost all of which were from guns (those early missiles were about impossible to hit anything with. Maybe I'll get better. Maybe I won't. Who knows). One thing I did discover, me being brand-spanking new to jet sims (all my time prior to this has been spent in CFS2 and IL-2, and not a whole lot of time at that. I've been gone from the sim scene for about 10 years) and all, you guys probably know this already, but you really start wishing you'd brought along some more friends when it's only the 2 of you in a knife-fight against 4 MiGs, and your wingman can't seem to be able to turn to save his life.

I love this idea. Count me in. And hello everybody. This is my first post. I've been lurking here a while and finally decided to step out of the shadows when I saw this. I just managed to get my hands on WoI, and I really like the idea of running all 3 campaigns (plus Pancho's 3 additional - War of the Waters, Attrition War, and Golan Stalemate) back to back. Let's see if I can survive 19 years in the air, eh? I know. I'm a glutton for punishment. I'm running Hard everything except visual targeting and HUD display, Normal campaign difficulty, Normal AI skill, Normal supply. Ack. I bet I've bitten off more than I can chew. I do that sometimes. And then I choke, and people look at me funny. Ack.