Carrier Swimming

Crash are 3 stories I wrote after several crashes I made in the Fortress Malta Campaign from vpmedia.

We are en route to Malta. Our carrier has been loaded with several Spitfires. The air force jocks will take off from our decks and join the defenders of Malta, provided we can get close enough. The whole trip we Navy boys have been comparing our Seafires to the Spitfires. Unlike the Spits this is not a one way trip for us. We have the hooks to trap the arresting cables on the deck. Suddenly the alarm bells sound. Radar has picked up several echos heading straight for our armada.

We are too far away from Malta, so its up to us sea lads to protect the carrier and its precious cargo for Malta.

All of us rush to our fighters, which are hastily brought up on deck. We quickly jump into our cockpits, performing the a quick check. My mechanic shouts something about tanks and half empty, before his voice is drowned in the sea of roaring engines. The deck rush below my wheels, before dropping away underneath me as I take to the sky.

Below is are small armada. As the ships anti-aircraft gunners prepare themselves for the German attack, we rush to the sky.

Several miles away, a large formation of He-111's lumbers towards our armada. Equipped with torpedoes and bombs, they have only one target: our carrier.

Soon we are on top of them. Their shadows racing over the waves, reveal their position.

The wing commander cries tally ho and one by one we dive towards the low-flying bombers. Soon my first target appears in the gun sight. Shells and bullets rain down on the helpless bomber.

Riddled with holes, the bomber lumbers on. I am sure it will hit the water before reaching our carrier, but I have no time to admire its demise. There are too many bombers and to few Seafires to send them to Neptunus'realm.

The rest of my squadron pitches in too, as bombers start catching fire everywhere around.

My second victim spins towards the sea, without an engine and rudder. There are no parachutes to be seen.

Circling around the enemy formation, I admire the strings of black smoke falling out of it. This Germans will learn that the Seafire is as deadly as it land-based cousin.

There goes my third victim. This is not an attack, its a turkey shoot.

By now we are within reach of the ships anti-aircraft artillery. Before me there is a wall of shrapnel, which I avoid by steeply climbing upwards.

While circling safe outside the flak zone, I notice that the drama for the German bombers does not stop.

A bomber tries to whiz by one of the escort ships, heading straight for the carrier, but our gun crews are bloodthirsty.

There is a huge flash...

and the bomber disappears in a giant ball of fire as the gunners placed a direct hit.

The poor escort ship is showered with debris as the bomber disintegrates.

But I can't let our ship gunners have all the fun. With disregard for the danger, I dive straight through our own flak barrage towards another bomber skimming the waves.

I pull the trigger, but only my machine guns fire. I am out of canon shells. I spray the bomber with bullets, flashing underneath it. I doubt the effectiveness of bullets against these heavily armored aircraft but they are far from home and maybe one of my wing mates can finish him off.

I scream past our carrier. Before the war, people said the bomber would always get through. But we have proved that theory wrong. There is no single scratch on the carrier. All bombers were shot down or chased away.

As I turn towards the carrier, ready to land, I notice the red blinking light that I failed to see during the battle. Suddenly I remember the mechanics words: fuel tank and half empty.

I lower the gear and hook, praying that I have enough time to make at least one approach.

Without a warning, my engine freezes. Out of fuel, in plain sight of the carrier. The fighter over, diving straight to the sea.

I pull as hard as I can on the stick. If I go nose first it will be the end of me. For a second I hope to make a glide approach but I am too far out.

Sirens sound on the carrier as my aircraft smashes into the sea.

I manage to struggle out of my cockpit, but the carrier won't stop, out of fear of U-boats. But one of the escorts lowers a lifeboat to pick me up.

That evening I am back on board the carrier, when one of the spitfire pilots approaches me asking what's the use of a tail hook if we naval pilots swim aboard.

The End

Tainted Cigar: 95th FIS

The Cuban crisis has gone bad. The soviets under leadership of Nikita Krushchev did not back down, despite the US naval blockade. When all diplomacy fails, President Kennedy is left but one option: Destroy the soviet missiles on Cuba. Ousting the Cuban leader Fidel Castro will be a nice side-effect.



Squadron: 95th FIS operating F-106A Delta Darts from MacDill AFB

The F-106A would be the last dedicated interceptor in the US inventory and today we are going to prove it could meet its job requirements. As our fellow pilots have attacked the Cubans all day, it is time for the Cuban to try a counter-attack.



We are on hold, ready to launch in a moment's notice, when word comes down. A flight of soviet bombers is heading for Florida. Now the gloves are really off, if the Soviets attack us in plain sight.



Our jets spool up and in mere seconds we are climbing straight up into the sky. With its internal weapons-bay the F-106 remains a sleek killing machine without all the weapon racks that hang beneath the other fighters.



The Soviet bombers are almost at their target, one of the many airfields from which we attack Cuba. The bomber crews might think they are almost home but they are in for a surprise.



With full afterburner, our flight has reached the enemy formation just in time. I hear the Falcon missile groan, indicating it has locked on the hot exhaust of the Soviet jets. I let the missile loose with much satisfaction.



In the bombers, the Soviet gunners watch in horror as one of them is shot out of the sky by my missile. Did they think they could come here without a fight?



I scream past the bombers, calling out to my wingman to attack the bombers on his turn.



The bombers are about to release their bombs. We are too late to stop them but at least we will make sure they don't return to Cuba.



My wingman has locked on to his target and fires a missile. We will make this a costly retreat for the Soviets.



Another bomber plummets to the ground, trailing smoke and fire behind it.



I managed to turn my fighter around and begin pursuing the bombers again. Its a race against time, because my wingman is tearing them apart. One more bomber breaks apart in a fiery explosion.



I fire another missile, killing of the last bomber. The Soviets might have bombed the airfield, but none of them returned homewards.



Below us, smoke billows from the base. Luckily for use the only thing the Soviets managed to hit were some empty bunkers. The runway remained untouched.



Returning home, I wiggle my wings to the ground crews. Hopefully somebody has a can of red paint, so that I can paint two red stars underneath my cockpit.

The end.

Crash – Floating at the beach

Crash are 3 stories I wrote after several crashes I made in the Fortress Malta Campaign from vpmedia.

Here I am, floating in front of the coast of Malta. Hopefully a fishing boat will pick me up soon. But while I am here, with the explosions of Italian bombs in the distance, I can contemplate on how I got here.

As usual we were patroling over Malta. This little island, within flying range Sicily, had endured several attacks by the Italian air force. The Italians were bend on sinking this little island into the sea, since it helped us control the sea lanes between the Italian main land and the Italian troops in Libya.

Suddenly the radio crackled. A fishing boat had spotted dark shadows in the sky and had warned our base.

The Italians were there, bombers and fighters heading for our little island, hell bend on sinking it into the Mediterranean.

Our little formation of 3 Gladatiors immediately turned to face these attackers.

Within minutes, small dots appeared on the horizon. Small bursts of flak exploded between them as ships below trained their anti aircraft fire on the Italian raiders.

Now it was our turn, I dove straight towards bombers.

Tracer fire went up and back between the bombers and my fighter. But I had gained too much speed with my reckless dive and now overshot most of the bombers.

A quick pull on the stick and this old biplane went up into a loop. Glancing over my shoulder I tried to single out my victim.

But the Gladiator is too old for these kind of fights. The bombers easily outrun me and disappear in the clouds.

Suddenly tracer fire flashes over my wings. I yank the stick sideways, slipping out of the line of fire. An Italian fighter flashes by. Just like my Gladiator its an old bi-plane. Somehow I feel like I am back over the trenches in France, just like my father during the Great War.

That Italian spaghetti eater won't escape me. I start to chase him through the sky.

But again tracer fire reminds me that each wing leader has a wing man.

Now I am hastily dogding his fire, somehow the situation turned very bad quickly.

This guy remains on my tail, if I don't have a break soon, I will be history.

In the distance one of my squadron mates has more luck sending an Italian fighter down the drain.

I bet that Italian pilot is now wondering how on earth he will get back to Italy, perhaps swimming?

But there are still plenty of other Italians around to fight with. After having shaken of my pursuer, I roll after another Italian, trying to get a shot at him.

But ironicaly he hits the sea before I even fire a single shot at him. I hope I claim him otherwise this will be a very empty dogfight.

Again tracer fire around. It looks like the entire Italian air force is after me.

A monoplane fighter flashes by. It's not fair! Why do these Italians have monoplane fighters and do we have to fight with these old obsolete wooden crates?

Like a mosquito, an Italian bi-plane follows the monoplane, taking potshots at me.

The only thing I can do is try to evade their attacks as much as possible. But suddenly my engine starts to cough. Some stray bullets must have hit a line or oil reservoir, because I am slowly loosing power.

Luckily for me, the Italians ran out of fuel and headed back for home, leaving me with a crippled bird over sea. I am too low to bail out and have not enough power to make it to land. The only option remains ditching

I can't remember the actual ditch because I knocked my head on the dashboard. The last thing I remember is the sea water rushing into the cockpit. Somehow I managed to get out of the cockpit and inflate my dinghy. Now I floating here, waiting for a boat to pick me up.

The End