The Belkan War was filled with intense, deadly, and chaotic air battles that claimed the lives of many pilots, aces or otherwise. If one wanted to survive this hellish air war they had to be one of two things: extremely lucky or extremely skilled. Only the luckiest and/or the most talented pilots survived. Belkan ace Johannes Dietrich was one of those pilots. He was respected by few and hated by many. His antics in the air earned him the nicknamed draufgänger, or daredevil. He lived for the high-flying His stories are true, although hard to believe. A true maverick, he struck fear into his enemies. His feats include scoring thirty-three air-to-air victories and numerous ground targets destroyed before May 30, 1995. He was only twenty-two.

Introduction

It was 1995. It was sometime in the late spring and the Belkan War had reached a new pitch. Our attempt to retake the lands we once had before had ground to a halt. The world seemed to take complete offense to this, even though many of the so-called war crimes were committed were actually fabricated by Osean hubris. They simply could not believe what had happened. It was the only thing that managed to shake them out of their lazy, television dominated lives and jolt them into action. I knew this would not work really. But I fought anyway. Why? Why did we keep fighting? It was simple; I only lived for battle. I was not a warmongering psychopath. We are stereotyped even today, though a fortunate few can overlook this. I was always caught up in the thrill of battle. I wanted the medals, the titles, and everything that came with the thrill of battle. It was in battle that I knew where I belonged. But nothing last forever.

It was in battle that I was forged. I only cared about four things. I focused on my love, my family, my friends, and my kill record. That was all I cared for. So it was on this day where I realized that what I was really doing. I was destroying life behind metal and carbon fiber. But there was a war on after all. It was battle; it was total hell. I killed like a monster would his prey. I had to...or I would be dead; I would have been merely be another statistic. The loves of my life would have been left lonely and teary-eyed. I could not let that happen. I would not let that happen.

I was a part of one of the most illustrious squadrons in Western Belka, the 15th Tactical Fighter Squadron's 23rd Fighter Division; we called ourselves Fauna Squadron...the Beast Squadron. Back then I was 1st Lieutenant Johannes Dietrich. I had been selected to lead this squadron due to my performance in wars in other far-flung lands. We ran wild in the skies over Osea. We were the 17th Fighter Division, and we were the young ones. Our average age was twenty-one. The first days of the war were amongst the most exhilarating. This is because we actually thought we could end this in short order. We also lived for battle...one of the many things that gave a jolt to our monotonous lives. There was no one that could challenge us. We caused so much damage. We were literally bleeding the life out of the Osean Air Force.

However, there was little we could do. I hunted, along with my wingmen, Sienna Blutarch, Santiago Elezeir, Max Sachsenberg, Sayla Hartmann, Freya Lanne, Rafe Rudel, and Alton Galland. We flew in a neat formation in our Mig-29s, and Galland and Rudel in their Tornado GR4 for electronic jamming and air to ground strikes and the inseparable pair of Hartmann and Lanne in their own Mig-29s. I led the group over contested territory we were fighting to hold. We were hunting for the enemy.

For the last several weeks, dozens of planes had been turning in the skies above Hierlark, Wesson, and other major cities in the Great Lakes regions. We would fly out to meet them and engage them. We would not leave until we had destroyed every last enemy. We never left a job unfinished. I split the flight and Lanne moved east taking the other planes with her.

We were at treetop level and hiding below the radar. The environment was that of hills, forests, and rolling plains. I look over at Sienna's plane and see the fifteen kill markings on her plane. I look to Max's plane and see his seventeen. There was also gutsy little Santiago with his eighteen. Then I remember my own, magic number twenty-four. Sienna was the youngest at twenty and Max was older than me at twenty-three. Santiago was the oldest at twenty five. Sienna's eyes and ears were sharp with great attention to detail. She was always the first one to notice the action.

"Bandits, three o' clock." she said.

I looked over to my right and saw the contrails of the enemy. They were very small, but one could still see them.

"Ah, it was just as I expected. Now, time to do what we always do. We wait and we strike hard and fast." I said.

"Let's see how many sheep the wolves can kill. Let's hunt them down!" Max said.

The term "wolf" could apply to any fighter pilot. A fighter pilot is a fundamental hunter. He is, was and always will be a hunter. However, something was wrong. I was getting far more radar intercepts than I expected. Suddenly, I realize what had happened. We had been duped. We the hunters became the hunted. There were no less than sixteen enemy planes against our three. Luckily for us, our fellow aces, the dreaded Geist(ghost) unit were in the area. Lanne's contingent was also in the area and they were about fifty miles from us. But they too had fallen into a trap.

"They tricked us! Well, no sense running now. If it's a fight they want, then at least we should give them our best." I say.

So we jumped upwards to the fight. The enemy had played its hand well. They had several F-15s and several F-16s in their group. Strict discipline kept us together in the fight we dived into the enemy. We were much more skilled than our enemies. But only one thing stood out. That Osean ace was back for a third deadly dance in the sky. The one I faced off against so many times when we as a squadron encountered him. He led the ambush. I heard his voice. I knew it. The others couldn't understand him so well. I knew of what he spoke. That ace was a wily veteran, though he didn't seem older than maybe thirty-three or so. He spoke with a lisp of sorts. Our allies had joined us and the fight was now joined. But he chased me and I chased him. We were so obsessed with killing each other. We both kept getting away from the other. But now, it was 'do or die' time. We fought to a stalemate. His craft was trailing smoke, and mine was as well. To continue would have possibly meant both our deaths. But I had grown to respect the man in such a short amount of time. But all I did for him was to make him angrier and angrier. I felt a sort of sympathy for him. I had finally had what I wanted: a real challenge. I did the unthinkable. I close the open channel on the radio. No one but us can hear.

"Listen, whoever you are. I have a proposal. We both go our separate ways and we fight another day. We're both a bit damaged here." I said.

"You bastard! How dare you have the audacity to ask that!"

"I'm serious. It seems we are at a bit of an impasse."

"Why do you care what happens to me?" he says in a harsh tone.

"Because you are like me. You live for this. We might even survive this. I am just an instrument...just like you."

"Go to hell Belkan. You take down many of my squad mates, guys who had families, and you dare change your mind. Are you insane?" he said.

"Is it any different on the other side? I fight for respect, my own people, the people I care about. But I also live to remove the enemy from the skies...the same as you! We both could have stayed at home..but we both chose to be here regardless...So what is your answer?" I asked tentatively.

"Here's my answer!" he yelled with poison dripping from his very voice.

A group of several AMRAAMs fire towards me. The world slowed...and I dodged them. The interesting weakness of Osean long-range missiles became apparent. They are easy to jam with proper ECM devices. They fired where I was and they miss. I fired my own Archer...and I did not miss. The man was in his death throes. I cursed at him for being stupid. I was a proud warrior, but even I knew when to withdraw. I gave him his chance and he threw it in my face. No, he did more...he spat in my face. Was I all that summed up the perception they had of us? I'll never forget those last words though...that is, before he crashed.

"Kei, Reiko. I'm sorry. I failed you."

I was silent for some time. Who were they? For fifteen years I wondered who they were. I wanted to know who he was. Who was the wife? Who was the daughter? Some part of my mind continues to ask questions even though my attitude changes. My mind had closed suddenly. He was only number nineteen. That man only became a number. I remembered that somewhere a fellow pilot was saying the same thing. If he had killed me, I would be a number to him. What difference would it make? I turn back to the others and I receive a sort of adulation from them.

Sienna came and waged her wings close to my own plane. It was a mechanical affection only we understand. As we turned away from the fight, I was suddenly reminded that we were all alive again. We would return to hunt again.

That was us.

There were many that I knew outside of the small intimate company of our squadron. We are now simply your ordinary people. We are the people you see everyday, every work week, maybe even at your job. We are everything, pilots, computer programmers, sports writers, insurance salespeople, mailmen, public servants and much, much more. Over a hundred pilots fell to our missiles and guns, and yet we all still live. Perhaps our lives are not fair. I still confront those who are still angry at me. We were devils in the air, but on land we were different. We are still prideful of our abilities, but not our accomplishments in particular. So now I will tell you the full story the others told me only I can tell just as well, if not better, than anyone else. But what I say is the truth, as in what I know. What I have told you now is only a tiny fraction of the story. Make of it what you wish.

We lost, but we all survived. Many did not. We celebrate our lives because living is a blessing and back then...everyday above six feet under was a good day. There was camaraderie like no other.

Draufgänger, they used to call me. Daredevil. I was a true maverick in the air. I did things no one would believe. For example, I actually made three allied bombers crash...without firing a shot. I merely jinked into one and the pilot (an inexperienced one I deduced) crashed into the others. Few believed I was capable of that. This is the truth, like so many others I will tell. But I am only a piece of the whole. Our great moments were when we functioned as a team...even though from time to time I would disrupt that unity with my insane flying.

My journey would take from a small town in Belka to the proving grounds of the Air Academy in the midst of a political upheaval. I would train and ship out to a distant war for "on the job" training. We would fight for several long months in a mismanaged war, barely surviving to tell the world about it. We were chosen to form a special air unit and we would wreak havoc on the enemy. We flew, trained, ate, drank, sometimes fall in love together, fight together, and sometimes fight each other...together. Then again, we like any other fighting unit anywhere else had do the most obvious thing...we had to kill together. But even with this, nothing lasts forever...

Next Chapter: Trial by Fire