We were at 30,000 feet altitude. Engine #3 was shot out and refused to feather. Unfeathered, the prop was windmilling wildly, shaking the hell out of the bomber and producing incredible drag. Our escort had long since flown home and my copilot was unconscious, possibly dead after a 20-millimeter shell from an enemy fighter burst within the cockpit. The still-hot fragment of a shrapnel splinter from it still burned in the back of my neck. Ahead lay our target, a shroud of skull-like black puffs covering it, flak! The shroud of flak grew closer and closer as we flew towards the target, ultimately encircling us. The Fortress was soon buffeted around by shock waves as the 88-millimeter flak shells burst closer and closer, the near misses marked by a violent [crump!] sound. Small pieces of shrapnel pinged off the metal skin of our B-17 with a sound reminiscent of hail on a tin roof. An occasional piece would stick in your jacket, burning a small hole.
A sudden, extra-loud crump marked a near hit, tearing the tip off the left wing! I fought to keep our plane in formation against the ever-increasing drag. I strained against the yoke as adverse roll threatened to send the Fortress into a death spiral. I was really missing the extra arm-strength of the copilot now! The plane dropped slowly out of the protection of the bomber formation. My spirits dropped as well, as the formation flew on, leaving us behind to fend for ourselves, the completion of the mission taking precedence over the lives of a single crew.
Suddenly a loud explosion very close behind me tossed the B-17 forward violently. Only a near or direct hit could have shaken us that badly! The aircraft nosed sharply down and the cloud-filled sky was soon replaced in the forward windscreen by the green and brown checkerboard of the farmland below. G-forces pressed me into the seat as I desperately pulled back on the control yoke, to no avail. The ground moved quickly below me before being replaced itself by the cloudy sky above, and the severed tail section of a B-17, our B-17!
Jonsie screamed behind me from the top turret, "Direct hit! Bomb bay on fire! Repeat…bomb bay on fi…!"
A loud explosion from behind cut him immediately off. I turned to look as the door to the bomb bay blew off its hinges and a large ball of yellow-red fire burst through, engulfing me in unnaturally slow fashion. The searing-hot flames tore at my skin sending sharp spikes of pain through me. I screamed in burning pain…and jumped up in my bed, drenched in sweat.
The yellow-red flames faded away to be replaced, once again, by blue sky and fluffy white clouds. No…fake sky and clouds; the painted ceiling of my bedroom. The false sky above me still spun, however, and the bursting flak had subsided to pulses of throbbing pain in my temples.
"You ok?" asked a familiar feminine voice beside me, Valerie Mancini's.
"Yea," I grunted, flopping back onto the mattress with my hands on my face, "Just a bad dream."
"Oh God, my head!" she screamed, mirroring my thoughts, "What in the hell did Joe put in that stuff? I'd feel better after ten shots of jet fuel!"
"Might have been jet fuel," I responded, straining to sit up on the edge of the bed as the room spun around me. I reached over to the silver cigarette case and lighter on the nightstand.
"Thought you quit," Val groaned.
"Rehab's for quitters," I rebutted, lighting up a cancer and taking a long drag.
"I guess anyone can quit," she said, poking my ribs, "You've done it five times now. Got one for me?"
"After a week, cold turkey?"
"I think the morning after Joe's jet fuel counts as 'extenuating circumstances'." I lit up one for her and finished my own, the slight head-rush doing little to quiet the bursting flak in my head. Yesterday's mission had been a milk run, flying recon over the Xiticix hives and checking their growth, not worth wasting the good stuff. Instead Joe Jacobsen, my crew chief, had supplied some home made stuff.
I finished the last drag and stubbed out the butt of my cancer before forcing myself up and towards the bathroom as Val buried herself back under the covers. I popped a couple aspirin and took a hangover shower: first scalding hot (like the searing flames of my dream) them so cold you swear you would change gender right then and there. The spinning and pounding in my head subsided slightly as I got dressed and stumbled towards the Flight Deck.
The Flight Deck, our esteemed pilot's bar, was empty when I arrived except for Udo Udet, one of Hermann the bartender's brain-dead young assistants, who was in the process of mopping the floor. I flopped heavily into one of the barstools with a loud sigh as Udo hurried behind the bar to wait on me.
"Can I get you some kaffee, Herr Andrews?" he asked.
"Coffee, no," I replied, "I'm thinking more along the lines of 'hair of the dog', Udo." Udo poured a tall pint of Hermann's Best as I lit up another cancer. I had just taken my first sip when a loud, coughing roar sounded from the hangers; a radial aircraft engine was starting up. A high, buzzing tenor from an inline engine soon joined it.
"Who in the bloody hell is flying at this ungodly hour?" someone screamed from the back of the Flight Deck. I turned around in time to see Wanker emerge from a booth seat in the corner, his uniform badly wrinkled from having slept in it. Despite his disheveled appearance Wanker stood up, slowly, and straightened his tie and put on his cap (nearly sideways) before weaving up to a barstool beside mine. "Dog me," he said to Udo, who quickly set about pouring him a pint of Hermann's. Wanker pulled an ancient briarwood pipe and a tobacco pouch from his jacket, and soon the sweet smell of Cherry Cavendish filled the air in thick, oily clouds of smoke.
By this time the two engines had run up to idle and their respective aircraft soon became identifiable: Fleigerwulf and Baerenjaeger ('Flying Wolf', and 'Bear Hunter'); Colonel Jaeger's FW-190 and a Ju-87 Stuka, respectively. "Why in God's name is Chuckles going joy riding at this ungodly hour?" demanded Wanker. "Doesn't he realize some of us have bleedin' hangovers? What in the hell did Joe put in that blasted stuff anyway?"
"Jet fuel is the common consensus," I replied.
"Herr Colonel Jaeger is taking his son Hans up for his first combat mission," interjected Udo, "They plan to strafe the Coalition supply convoys."
"Great," Wanker sighed, "Old 'Jabo' (pronounced Yah-bo) Jaeger flying combat! I guess Chuckles is going to try and make that muscle-head a Mad Dog now!"
"Maybe he hopes this'll get Jabo out of his plan to become a Juicer," I added.
"Hope so, mate, for Chuckles' sake. Losing Wolfgang jr. to the gargoyles was hard enough on him without losing Jabo to Juicerdom.
We were halfway through our beers when a smaller third engine grew noticeable. The whoop-whoop of large vertical rotor blades became obvious. "What in the hell is that now?" winced Wanker.
"Oh!" cried Udo, "that must be Fraulein Osaka and her little helicopter! She planned to test fly it today!"
"It's a gyroplane, actually," I interjected.
"What is a…hyroplane?" asked Udo.
"A gyroplane; it's like a helicopter, but with a pusher-type propeller and a rear rudder. The top helicopter-style rotors act like wings in a regular airplane, providing lift, but not enough to hover or takeoff vertically. It takes off from a runway like a regular airplane, though using a lot less runway to do so.."
"Interesting," Udo said, pretending to understand, "I bet it will be very helpful to the Mad Dogs."
"Are you kidding?" laughed Wanker, "They fly way too low and slow to dogfight and hers is way too small to carry more that two people or even any weapons! Hell, the damn thing couldn't be used for more that a nice Sunday morning joyride!"
"Fraulein Osaka believes she will become a Mad Dog when her Heli…Gyroplane is finished," defended Udo, who we all knew harbored a slight crush on her. I tried hard to suppress a chuckle.
"Old 'Mitsie' Osaka is sadly mistaken if she thinks that little toy of hers is enough to make her a Mad Dog!" chucked Wanker, "Hell, that girl's as stubborn as Sake! You'd think she was his little sister, or something!"
Udo looked indignant, responding "She is his little sister!"
"I know that, you twit!" rebutted Wanker, "It's called 'sarcasm'. Bloody Jerries, no sense of humor! Not a one of 'em!"
"Come on, Wank," I laughed, "there are plenty of Germans with a sense of humor."
"Really? Name one."
"How about Hermann?" I answered, "He's got a great sense of humor."
"He's drunk half the time."
"Look who's talking, Wank," I laughed, "What about ol' 'Gooney' Gunterson? He's a riot!"
"Gooney!" Wanker laughed, "Gooney's a loony! That's called insanity, mate, not humor!
"You may be right on that one, Wank," I chuckled. After a few minutes of deafening noise from Chuckles and son the roar of their engines abated some as they taxied out of the hanger, leaving only the sound of the whoop-whoop of Mitsuko "Mitsie" Osaka's gyroplane. The small engine of the gyroplane revved up and down as Mitsie tested out the engine. Two minutes later blessed silence returned as Mitsie shut down the engine.
"Care to go check out Mitsie's new toy, Lance?" asked Wanker as he set down his empty pint.
"Might as well," I replied, finishing the last of my 'dog', "nothing better to do on a Wednesday morning in a war zone."
"That's the spirit, mate!" he replied. We slowly made our way to the hanger. Traveling through the halls of our underground lair while hung over was slightly easier than flying through a canyon in fog. Eventually our stumbling and mumbling was rewarded by our first glimpse of the completed gyroplane. It was incredibly small when compared to the warplanes around it, barely room for two adult humans. The whole thing was barely twenty feet long and eight feet high with an egg-shaped crew compartment with open sides and a Plexiglas windscreen. A small automobile-sized engine powered the pusher prop and the top lifting rotors. The flight controls were simple and the rear steering rudder was large to the point of absurdity. As if that all wasn't enough, the contraption was painted the ridiculous color of bright lavender. Mitsie herself looked equally ludicrous in shorts, a tank top, combat boots, and a silk scarf and pilot's helmet as she performed a post-run check. Assisting her was Sgt. Joe Jacobsen, my crew chief and creator of the foul liquid from the night before, which still plagued those of us stupid enough to have drunk it.
"Mornin' sir," Joe slurred through his omnipresent wad of snuff, "looks like li'l Miss Mitsie's got herself a runnin' aircraft." Mitsie turned an embarrassed red with the compliment.
"Cute little bugger, isn't it?" answered Wanker, "but can it fly?"
Mitsie crossed her arms and gleamed, saying, "Not only can she fly, she will fly…this afternoon!"
"Not bad, Mits," I said, "not bad at all. It's a damned fine start for sure. Given a couple of years I'm sure you'll be able to design and build a full-fledged aircraft."
"It is a full-fledged aircraft!" she protested.
"A full-fledged target, maybe, love," laughed Wanker, "Don't worry, dear, you'll be one hell of a Techno-Wizard one day; However, if you think you will last three seconds on the battlefield in that little toy of yours you are sadly mistaken."
"Toy! Why you little son-of-a…" she began.
"Morning, guys," interrupted Mack as he walked up. By the looks of him he was as bad off as Wanker and me. He wore his flight jacket over a white undershirt and his uniform trousers. He was unshaven and carried a cup of steaming black coffee."
"Morning it is, I'm afraid," said Wanker, continuing, "We were just discussing Mitsie's new gyroplane, which she plans to fly for the first time this afternoon."
"Cute," replied Mack as he looked over the gyroplane, adding after a while, "Where does the wind-up key go?" Despite our raging hangovers we all cracked up laughing; all that is except Mitsie, who stormed off in anger. After a good laugh Mack leaned over holding his head. "Oh, Lord, Joe!" he exclaimed, "What in the hell was that crap you served us last night, diesel fuel?"
"Jus' some good ol' corn squeezin's, sir!" beamed Joe, "Made it myself!"
"Corn squeezin's?" Mack asked.
"Yea!" Joe answered, "You know, moonshine, white lightnin'! Puts hair on yer chest, don't it!"
"White lighting is about right, mate," interjected Wanker, "I can feel the bloody 'thunder' bursting in my head as we speak! Are you sure you didn't make up for lost volume with leftover kerosene?"
"Honest, Major!" Joe replied, "Nuthin' but good ol' sour mash from a copper still! Well, gentlemen," he continued, "I'd best be getting' back to work. Planes ain't gonna fix themselves! I still gotta do a full overhaul on the Goat's #3 engine and do a lube job on the new Zero iffin' I'm gonna have any time to do post flights on the Fw-190 an' Stuka."
"Have you ever considered delegating some of the work to the rest of the crew, Joe?" I asked.
"Nah!" he dismissed the question, " 'if ya' want the job done right ya' do it yerself', I always say, sir!" He smiled and turned around towards where the Goat was parked.
"Hey Joe!" called Mack before the little, round crew chief could leave, "Who's flying the 190 and the Stuka anyway?"
"That would be one Colonel Wolfgang "Chuckles" Jaeger in the 190 and his son Lieutenant Johann 'Jabo' Jaeger in the Ju-87."
"And who would be flying in the back seat of the Ju-87 as the Observer/Gunner?" asked Wanker.
"Some new gunnery school graduate, sir," Joe replied, "Sergeant…ah… Heinrich Gunterson."
"Gooney!" I exclaimed.
"Oh bloody hell!" Wanker sighed.
* * *
Exerts from personal log of Col. Wolfgang Jaeger, ground attack mission, 21 April, 106…"Gunterson! Be serious, this is a real mission, not a sim," I screamed at my son Jabo's chosen Gunner. Why he chose that fool is beyond me! The First combat mission for both of them and he's doing cartwheels during the walk-around. Though his marksmanship is excellent, his ludicrous attitude will likely get him and Jabo killed.
"Come on, vati," Jabo interrupted, "Gooney's just letting off some stress. Let him do his own…"
"That's Colonel, Lieutenant," I rebutted, "When on missions we act in a military fashion despite any personal attachments, do I make myself clear?"
"Yes…sir," Jabo replied.
"Javohl, mein Colonel!" snapped Gunterson in a mockery of the stupid Stalag guard from that ridiculous pre-rifts war farce. Jabo suppressed a chuckle. A stern glare from me sent them quickly back to the task at hand. Even Jacobsen the Crew Chief winced. Keeping my face stolid I couldn't help but grin inside my head; it was nice to know I still had the power of 'the stare'. After that the walk-around, startup, and preflight checks went like clockwork and taxi and takeoff occurred right on schedule. Despite his size Jabo seemed to fit quite well into the cockpit of the deceptively large Stuka. For skinny Gunterson it looked monstrous. For all of their personality shortcomings and lack of discipline the two functioned remarkably well as a team, for now. I flew top cover letting them prove their ability at navigation and formation flight. They did quite well for first timers.
Unbeknownst to them I had secretly set up a monitoring loop in their audio system that transmitted via a low-power laser to my headset. How they interacted in combat was of utmost importance in our decision on whether to let them into the squadron or not. As soon as we had cleared the tower's command and were on course to our waypoint the conversation shifted:
"Damn, Jabo," began Gunterson, "What's up with your dad? Did something crawl up his…"
"Stuff it, Gooney," Jabo cut in, "That's my vati you're talking about. He's just worried about me and all. I think you can remember how he was when the gargoyles got Wolfie during the escape."
"Yea, I remember. Poor bastard. Hey, we're out on our first combat mission, you excited as me?"
"Are you kidding, Gooney? We were born for this!"
"I though we were born to become Juicers! We still gonna get juiced?" So that was why this seeming odd couple associated with each other. Juicers! When would Jabo get that fool idea out of his head! I was tempted to butt in, but kept quiet.
"We'll see, Goon," Jabo replied, "For now let's worry about this mission.
"Javohl!"
"Cut that crap out!" Jabo laughed, "You nearly got us kicked off the mission with that crap!"
"Zat's Kehr-nahl, Lutenant!" Gooney mocked me, "Vat ist wrong mit you?"
Jabo laughed, "Cut that out, you dumkopf! Good thing vati can't hear you right now!"
Despite myself I laughed. It has always been the prerogative of junior officers to mock their superiors. Besides if Gunterson knew I had heard him he'd have a heart attack! I always have appreciated a good irony. I guess that's why I battle Emperor Prosek in the very aircraft his Nazi "heroes" used, sans swastika, of course. Besides, what better irony is there than for a half-Jew like Gunterson to be fighting modern day Nazis while using their own aircraft!
The mood got more tense as we approached the front lines. We all began scanning the skies for enemy aircraft. Gunterson, gun at the ready, looked around anxiously calling "Here piggy, piggy!" attempting without success to disguise the fear in his voice.
"Eagle, this is Falcon, approaching waypoint," Jabo called to me on the radio. Even Mr. Macho himself let his voice crack in fear.
"Roger, Falcon," I replied, "Keep an eye out for that convoy."
"There," cried out Gunterson, "ten-o-clock, on the side road!"
"I see them," I replied. Sure enough a steady stream of supply trucks with an escort of two old-style SAMAS. "Falcon," I continued, "proceed with primary run. Remember, this is a hit and run, don't try to wrestle with those SAMAS."
"Copy, Eagle, going in." Without hesitation Jabo dropped into a steep dive.
"Yeeeeehaaawww!" screamed Gunterson on the way down. At the last possible moment he released his payload, dropping a large 250-pound bomb right onto a large supply truck. It exploded into a huge ball of fire, taking out several others near it. The Stuka climbed away and recloaked untouched in the initial confusion. "Booyah, major secondaries!" continued Gunterson. The SAMAS, awakened by the attack turned to look for the Stuka. I bore down on the left-hand one and put a long burst into his exposed engines, which blew spectacularly, forcing him to the ground. The second put a good burst into my shields with his rail gun as I dropped my payload onto the convoy. A huge explosion marked a direct hit on an ammo truck, giving me the opportunity to recloak.
"I'm going in for a strafing run," called Jabo as he turned for another pass.
"You do that," I replied, "I will do another run on the escorts." Another couple of trucks went up as Jabo's tracers streamed down the line. The undamaged SAMAS flew in to intercept, but a direct hit to the face by Gunterson's guns did well to drive him off. The second got in some good shots before I bore down and finished him off. Below us armed soldiers piled out of the vehicles and took up positions along the side of the road. Meanwhile, the second SAMAS turned for another shot and did a great deal of damage to Jabo's Stuka before he managed to cloak.
"I'm going in for number three!" cried Jabo, flush with adrenaline, "There's still a few trucks left!"
"Don't," I replied, "Your shields are weak and we've lost surprise. Form up for home."
"Home!" he cried, "But we have the bastards where we want them!"
"Screw it!" cried Gunterson, "Let's go anyway!" They turned for another dive.
"Jabo!" I screamed, but it was too late. My heart skipped a beat as he tore into the remaining convoy, which now was half hidden under a blanket of dense black smoke. The soldiers and the SAMAS, however, were ready, and tore into him! His shields gave out and he took several hits! I dove and strafed the line to give him cover fire and took several hits myself as we cloaked. "Enough!" I screamed, "Return to base immediately, that's an order!"
"Yes, sir," he grumbled. As we formed up I noticed several holes in his aircraft, but it would make it back. Despite his insubordination I was proud and quite impressed with how he and Gunterson performed in combat. The flight home was silent and uneventful.
End of log entry* * *
Mack, Wanker, and I were eating a light brunch in the Flight Deck when Sake arrived. "Good morning, gentlemen!" he beamed, plopping himself into the seat beside Mack.
"Get stuffed," grunted Mack through a mouthful of eggs.
"Why the hell are you so bleedin' cheery this morning, Sake?" asked Wanker, "The rest of us have boom guns going off in our skulls."
"That's what you idiots get for drinking that crap Joe gave you," Sake laughed, "Should've stuck to beer like me. So," he continued, "you guys ready for our newest Mad Dog?"
"Yea, I guess," I replied, "Old 'Jabo' Jaeger is out on his first combat mission as we speak. Assuming the idiot doesn't get himself killed we should be swearing him and 'Gooney' Gunterson in this evening."
"Jabo and Gooney?" Sake exclaimed, "Oh Lord! No, I'm talking about our Russian friend Dr. Romaneski. He should be arriving this afternoon; remember the last letter?"
"Oh crap, that's today?" I asked.
"April 21st. ETA 1400 hours local time!"
"Hellfire and damnation!" screamed Mack, "I guess this means we have to put on our friggin' ties! I hope the 'good doctor' is damn well worth it!"
"Are you kidding, Mack?" replied Sake, "Dr. Romaneski is a Techno-wizard genius to rival Chuckles! We'll be lucky to have him!"
"At least we'll finally know what the bludger looks like!" added Wanker, "Secretive little bastard, isn't he?"
"You would be too if you were being actively hunted by the local warlord!" rebutted Sake.
"I am being hunted by the local warlord; or does the name Prosek not ring a bell?"
"I'm betting he's ugly as hell," added Mack, "hence the lack of visuals."
Our communications with Dr. Romaneski had been limited to a few written correspondences via ley-line transmitted 'magitronic mail'. He had first contacted us after reading about our organization in the Techno-wizardry Guild's monthly magitronic periodical, the TK Flyer. Apparently the doctor was in as bad shape at his local base in the Ural Mountains as we were here in Tolkeen, but without our numbers or resources. It seemed the local authorities were closing in on him, hence the sudden desire to fly over in his latest TW Aircraft and join the Mad Dogs. We looked forward to having him on the team. In addition to his excellent ideas on telekinetics his new engine supercharger designs promised to give a 10% boost in performance. No one knew what he looked like, sounded like, what his full name was, or even if he was human!
"Hell, guys, he may not even be a he!" interjected Sake.
"Dr. Romaneski a broad?" laughed Mack, "I doubt it! Hell, if Mitsie's stupid little Gyroplane is any indication of feminine aviation capability…"
"Leave my little sister out of it, Mackenzie!" admonished Sake, "Besides, she's done quite well for a sixteen-year-old, not that I think that Gyroplane is gonna help us much!"
"Like that fragile little Zero of yours is much better, Osaka," sneered Mack, "If it weren't for Val.'s ejection/teleportation system you'd be pushing up daisies as we speak."
"Up yours, Mack; I could take that twin-tailed atrocity of yours any day!"
"Two bullets." Mack held up two fingers. "Two little bullets is all I'd need to light up that little Zeke like a candle."
"Like you'd have a chance to fire them with me waxing your tail the whole time," continued Sake.
"Now now, children," I interrupted, "Play nice or I'll send you to your rooms."
"Sixteen years old, did you say?" continued Mack, an evil look crossing his face, "just about old enough…" he let his voice trail off.
Sake turned beat red. "If you so much as look the wrong way at my sister I'll…"
"You'll what?" Tension grew noticeably.
"Alright, guys," I broke in, "drop the juvenile bull crap right now or I'll ground the both of you. Sake, chill out, he's just trying to get your goat and seems to be succeeding quite well. Mack, quit harassing Sake. You bastards need to fly together and I need you two thinking about the mission, not some stupid squabble.
"Sorry, Lance, Sake" replied Mack, "It's this damn headache. It's making me mean."
"It's alright, Mack," replied Sake, "Just don't go saying those kind of things about my sister."
"Sure thing, Sak, No more sister jokes." Mack continued, "Besides, with your lousy piloting and rank odor I have plenty to taunt you with anyway!"
"Stick it, grease-ball!"
"Oh bloody hell," screamed Wanker, "do shut up already. Bunch a' bloody children."
"Amen," I added. "Alright meatheads, finish your brunch and let's get out to the flight line. Chuckles and Jabo should be back soon assuming Jabo doesn't kill himself doing something stupid. People like him tend to auger in doing victory rolls when the mission's over."
It was twenty minutes before Chuckles, Jabo, and Gooney called in for final approach. Both squawked minor battle damage. Bear had managed to gather the Mad Dogs, most of whom were dug into their beds like a grunt dug into the ground during heavy shelling. The way they held their heads you'd think the shelling was still going on. Small tears in the Stuka's wing from the ground fire were visible. The 190 had fared better, but not much.
"Hell fire," said Bear, "Looks like they had a rough time of it."
"Understatement of the century," replied Sake.
As they taxied up and cut the engines Jabo opened the hatch with a yell and he and Gooney did a 'high-five'. The assembled aircrew cheered and laughed. Joe was less amused. "Oh hell," he cried, "My planes! What did yew bastards do to ma' planes!"
I walked over to Chuckles. "How'd they do, Chuck?" I asked.
"Not too bad," he replied in his humorless way, "Though they need a real lesson in following orders. He did a third attack run against orders."
"Sounds kind of like a Mad Dog, huh?"
"Certainly, but don't let him know. We can look over the recordings and do the debriefings later, but I can't see him and that idiot Gunterson not getting the go-ahead. We can indoctrinate them tomorrow along with Herr Doktor Romaneski."
Jabo and Gooney had just finished their debriefing/chew-out session from Joe. Jabo may have been a foot taller and a hundred pounds more muscular than Joe (not to mention an officer while Joe was a Sergeant) but you never saw someone shy away from a berating more obviously in your life! Joe was just finishing his "It's my plane, yer only borrowin' her!" speech when we arrived. Jabo was puffed out like a rooster at attention standing a half-head above us. His clean-shaven face and high-and-tight haircut contrasted sharply with skinny Gooney and his thin 'Clark Gable' mustache that made him look more silly than dashing. I faked a look of sheer disappointment (had to make 'em sweat!) as Chuckles started to speak.
"First," Chuckles began, "you came in too low and waited too long to release your payload; a good way to crash or get damaged by your own bomb. Second you overstressed the airframe pulling too many G's. Third you disobeyed the direct order of a commanding officer in combat and performed a third attack that badly damaged and almost resulted in the destruction of two highly expensive aircraft. If you are to have any chance at joining the squadron you must assist Sergeant Jacobsen in repairing the damage you caused to both aircraft, including painting. Verstanden?"
"Yes, sir," Jabo replied meekly.
"Sucks to be you, Mein Herr," laughed Gooney.
"As for you, Sergeant Gunterson," Chuckles growled, "The only way you will be initiated with your disrespectful attitude is as Lt. Jaeger's Gunner, so I'd make sure he finishes, if you get my drift." The temperature dropped about 30 degrees from the ice in his voice.
"Yes, sir," Gooney replied.
"Sucks to be you, Mein Herr," interjected Sake to a now quivering Gooney.
"Sergeant Jacobsen, they are under your command," Chuckles added.
"Thank you, Colonel," Joe said. As we turned and walked away we heard Joe say to them, "Alright there twiggy, muscles, let's get to patchin'."
"So," asked Sugar after they'd gone, "looks like we're getting' ourselves three new Mad Dogs."
"Make that four!" interrupted Val Mancini, who was helping Mitsie push out her gyroplane on to the tarmac., "Mitsie's about to take her maiden flight in a Techno-wizard aircraft she designed and built herself. If that doesn't make her a Mad Dog, what does?" Mitsie blushed lightly from the praise, but soon turned bright red from rage as the Mad Dogs broke into laughter. Even Chuckles suppressed a grin.
"Sis," laughed Sake, "Do you honestly think that oversized dragonfly of yours is enough to make you a Mad Dog?"
"Ignore 'em, Mits," replied Val, "They're a bunch of jerks. You'll show 'em." They pushed the 'dragonfly' further out on the tarmac and began a preflight. Slowly the laughter died down.
"Man," cried Bear, "I needed a laugh."
"Speaking of which, who wants to watch my sister kill herself?" added Sake.
"As fun as that sounds we need to start getting cleaned up for the good Doctor's arrival," I said.
"You heard him, mates, let's go," added Wanker, "Don't forget your ties you bloody heathens."
"Don't worry, guys," said Sake, "I'll tell you all about it. Hell, why'd she have to paint the damned thing purple anyway?"
It was 1345 hours by the time the Mad Dogs were dressed and assembled. Some looked about as happy to be in ties as a cat would be happy to be in a tub of water. The tower had called me on the walkie-talkie announcing that Dr. Romaneski had made radio contact and was due shortly. By then our hangovers were mostly subsided and all were in good spirits. We were happy that Dr. Romaneski's flight had gone well, considering the perilous journey that had to be made. In the distance Mitsie's gyroplane circled the field.
"So where is this guy, Lance?" asked Sake, "I'm tired of watching Li'l Sis do laps.
"Probably got lost and refuses to ask for directions, assuming he's anything like you guys," sneered Val.
"Should be coming in on final soon," I replied, trying to loosen the necktie that threatened to strangle me. Finally, ten minutes later, a speck appeared on the horizon. Slowly the speck grew to be a single engine aircraft that soon made a textbook landing before taxiing up to us.
"What the hell kind of fighter is that?" asked Jazz.
"A white an' gray one with a big red star!" added Brick intelligently.
"No, man, what model?"
"Some sort of Yakolev," added Mack.
"Yak-9," corrected Wanker. "You can tell by the oil cooler location."
"Why would a TW aircraft need an oil cooler?" asked Val.
"Decoration?" answered Sake. "Or maybe it has to do with his new supercharger design."
By now the Yak had pulled up following Joe's hand signals and parked, chocks being put on the wheels by another Crew Chief. As Brick had so observantly noticed it was painted in a gray-white camouflage pattern with a bright red star and zigzagging red arrow on the side fuselage. The nose art was a stylized white flower with the name "Lilya" below it. Six kill markings of various targets were painted below it. Dr. Romaneski killed the engine and opened the hatch, talking briefly with Joe before exiting the plane. Chuckles and I stepped forward.
"Good afternoon, Herr Doktor," Chuckles said with a bow.
The Doctor removed the flight helmet and long blond hair fell out, cascading around a very pretty, very female face. "Good afternoon to yourself, Herr Doktor," she said icily.
"Damn," whispered Sake behind me, "That's definitely not a Herr, but a Fraulein!"
"And a damned fine looking one at that!" added Sugar.
"You must be Colonel Andrews," she said, turning to me.
"That is correct, my lovely Doctor," I replied, taking her hand and bowing to kiss it.
She pulled her hand away. "We can dispense with the chivalric nonsense, Colonel," she said.
"Damn," whispered Sugar.
"Glad I wore my Jacket," answered Sake, "It's getting cold out here!"
"So these are the expert Techno-wizards you call the Mad Dogs, Colonel?" she continued, ignoring the comments. "How…colloquial."
"Fraulein Doktor," interrupted Chuckles, "I feel you will find our facilities here at Mad Dog, Inc. most suitable to your research and find our aircraft exceedingly well designed."
"Like that purple toy I saw flying circles around your facility?" she jeered.
"It's going to be a long evening," sighed Sake.
To be continued…