Title: An Officer and a Gentleman (1/?)
Author: UnholyChurch
Disclaimer: Spike and Dru belong to Joss, ME and the whole band at UPN. The other characters however are of my own creation.
Summary: 1943 Central Europe. A story about Spike and Dru in war torn France.
Pairings: Spike/Dru, there will be some proxy Buffy/Xander later
Rating: R
Note: This is intended to be the first in a series of fics that are designed to build a history behind the Vampire known as William the Bloody.
Who was Spike before he came to Sunnydale? What did he do?
Historical Note: for those of you who know history better than I please disregard any inaccuracies that I have overlooked. It tried to research a little but didn't have time to be completely thorough. And for any of you air force enthusiasts especially I'm probably inaccurate in the procedure and terminology used to describe this air battle. Forgive me. This is fiction. And hey come on vampires don't exist either.
The engine of the aircraft whined as it struggled through a strong upcurrent, then the plane righted itself and the low rhythmic hum returned to the cockpit. Major Alex Harrelson checked his gauges, adjusted his pitch, and scanned the horizon. The sun had just cracked over the blue water of the English Channel and the glaring red and orange rays were just becoming bright enough that he needed to look away to maintain clear vision. Turning to look to his rear he mentally checked the spacing and formation of the bombers and their escorts. The French shoreline was only minutes away and he could feel the tension build as his bomber group approached the shoreline of occupied France airspace.
This was by no means his first mission over the guns of German coastal defense into the grasp of the ever-lethal Luftwaffe or German air force. But no matter how many times he flew in and out of the lion's mouth it never became less unnerving, especially the last moments before the guns would open fire. Those last seconds of silence were always the worst. His mind would dwell over things left undone and thoughts best left unfinished. What if he didn't make it back this time? What if this was his last mission? What of the men under his command? Who wouldn't be coming home this time? As the men often joked, who was flying this mission with "paper wings"?
Shaking his mind free of these worrisome questions, he forced his attention to the task at hand and not the possible outcomes. Going over the mission checklist in his head, he once again scrutinized the formation of his pilots. Eight B17s made up the bombers in his command each was assigned two P51 Mustangs as escort. Major Harrelson was in his own Mustang flying alongside the lead bomber. Up ahead he could make out the black cliffs that made up the fast approaching shoreline. Tightening his grip on the controls, he prepared for hell to break loose.
Just as the white beach and rocky cliffs passed below, the bomber group finally entered the range of the flak towers that made up the coastal defense. Instantly the calm sky was ripped apart by screaming metal. All around little explosions dotted the sky leaving behind black puffs of smoke. The first volley was not very accurate. But as the gunners on the ground quickly zeroed in the range, the fire got closer and closer. There was little Alex could do but say a prayer and ride it out. With each shell that exploded near his plane a shockwave would rattle through the aircraft and nearly jar his teeth from his mouth. He continually checked behind him to see if any of his planes had been hit. So far they had been lucky.
It looked like the number three bomber had been clipped on the tail but the pilot had communicated that they were still in good shape. Then his headset crackled and the pilot of the number six bomber reported the loss of an engine. It had taken a direct hit and a good portion of the wing with it. Craning his neck, he saw the troubled bomber, black smoke billowing from the left wing, propeller dead in the air. He watched as it pitched downward and began to spin violently. Swearing to himself, he shouted into the microphone for them to jump. He saw three parachutes open but no more. Turning back forward he clenched his eyes shut for a second in anger and frustration. Each bomber had a crew of ten men. And the way they had just spun in, there was little chance for the others to survive. Cursing the guns below, his fists tightened around the controls, he took a deep breath, and forced himself not to think about them. He had a mission to complete; he would mourn his fallen friends later.
The fire slackened a bit as the group of planes moved out of range of the heavily concentrated anti-aircraft guns. For about twenty minutes they cruised along with little harassment from the enemy. But the break was short lived. On the southern horizon, Alex spotted a tight formation of FW- 190s. They were trying to get in behind his bombers. Checking the other directions for additional enemy aircraft he barked orders into the radio. "Bravo Group, bogeys at four o'clock. Break and engage. Hendersen and Varner both with Bravo. Alpha group stay with mother bird. Watch for the box breakers!" The escorts on the left wing of each bomber broke away to engage the enemy fighters, while the others stayed home to watch for more bogeys. The two fighters he had singled out were the pilots that had been with bomber number six.
He watched as the Bravo group rolled away and circled around back to the 190s. The FW190 was a fair match for the American P51. The German fighters carried a heavier weapons load but the Mustang with its Merlin engine was much faster and a bit more graceful so Alex wasn't too concerned with his pilots. He knew they could handle a dogfight. What did bother him was having only half his squadron to guard the flying fortresses. It was a common tactic for the Luftwaffe to send in two groups of fighters, the first would draw off the escorts and the second, the "box breakers", would then move in and slaughter the larger, slower less maneuverable bombers. The Major hoped that by splitting his fighters into two groups he was protecting against both dangers.
Then, there they were, a second group of 190s. Alex had expected them but he wasn't pleased to see them. From this distance, it appeared there were nine of them. "Damn," he swore under his breath. He thumbed his radio, "We got more of them. One o'clock Alpha, break and form on me. Big birds you're on your own for the moment. Watch your six." With that he rolled to the right, away from the lead bomber, and banked towards the oncoming enemy. The other Mustangs moved into position at his wings, as he assumed an intercept course. The Germans in turn corrected their course and headed directly for the Major and his planes. They flew directly towards one another, tracers filling the air, screaming passed Alex's plane. Once they had passed them he gave the order to break and engage.
One of the enemy fighters had apparently been heavily hit in the first pass because smoke was already trailing from its engine. He was turning away from the fight. One down, eight to go. Circling back around, Harrelson saw four of the 190s breaking for the bombers. He communicated this into the radio, "Johnson with me." They turned off and chased after the rogue fighters. The Germans had a good lead on them but they were making up ground quickly, unfortunately it wasn't going to be quick enough. He watched helplessly as they strafed the slow moving bombers. The B17s weren't defenseless, and as the fighters made their first pass the tail and ball gunners opened up with their own barrage. But it wasn't as easy to hit a small, fast-moving plane, as it was the lumbering bombers.
Over the radio came the call for assistance. The pilot in the fourth bomber had taken a round through his chest and the controls were damaged; the copilot was struggling to keep her in the air. The enemy was circling around for a second pass when Harrelson and Johnson came within weapons range. Alex's first stream of bullets tore a line across the fuselage of the nearest enemy fighter. Immediately the plane began to lose altitude as the engine lost power. The remaining three 190s split apart. Harrelson moved to follow the two that had broken to the left. Johnson stayed with the solo fighter.
The pair of fighters were still working around to make another run on the bombers, Alex stayed in as close as he could behind them. His cannons blazed as tried to bring them down before they could do any more damage to the bombers. Finally another stream of bullets scored a solid hit in the tail of the German plane on the left. The damaged fighter began to weave and spinout of control, and Alex watched as it veered directly into the other enemy plane. A ball of flame and flying debris was the all that remained after the collision apparently ignited one of the plane's fuel tanks. Alex had not been expecting the sudden destruction of both fighters and had still been following in close. Before he had a chance to react, a fragment of wreckage broke through the bubble of the cockpit, shattering the glass, and then striking the tail. The pain of steel and glass embedding itself into his chest and shoulder was searing. Alex tried to keep his hands at the controls but everything was fading, the plane was spinning wildly. He struggled for control. Falling. Spinning. Everything was going black.
"Nooooooooooo!!!!!!!!" Alex shot up from his pillow. He was still screaming, ; beads of sweat were running down his face. He tried to raise his hands but pain in his chest and shoulder slammed him back to reality. He wasn't falling. He wasn't in his plane. He was in bed, but it was still dark. No. Something was over his eyes. Then a pair of firm hands gripped his good arm and shoulder and pulled him back to the bed. And a voice …, he could heard a voice. It was soft and feminine, and very near him. "Shhhhhh, it's okay. You're all right Major. Just lay back and calm down. It was only a dream."
TBC
Author: UnholyChurch
Disclaimer: Spike and Dru belong to Joss, ME and the whole band at UPN. The other characters however are of my own creation.
Summary: 1943 Central Europe. A story about Spike and Dru in war torn France.
Pairings: Spike/Dru, there will be some proxy Buffy/Xander later
Rating: R
Note: This is intended to be the first in a series of fics that are designed to build a history behind the Vampire known as William the Bloody.
Who was Spike before he came to Sunnydale? What did he do?
Historical Note: for those of you who know history better than I please disregard any inaccuracies that I have overlooked. It tried to research a little but didn't have time to be completely thorough. And for any of you air force enthusiasts especially I'm probably inaccurate in the procedure and terminology used to describe this air battle. Forgive me. This is fiction. And hey come on vampires don't exist either.
The engine of the aircraft whined as it struggled through a strong upcurrent, then the plane righted itself and the low rhythmic hum returned to the cockpit. Major Alex Harrelson checked his gauges, adjusted his pitch, and scanned the horizon. The sun had just cracked over the blue water of the English Channel and the glaring red and orange rays were just becoming bright enough that he needed to look away to maintain clear vision. Turning to look to his rear he mentally checked the spacing and formation of the bombers and their escorts. The French shoreline was only minutes away and he could feel the tension build as his bomber group approached the shoreline of occupied France airspace.
This was by no means his first mission over the guns of German coastal defense into the grasp of the ever-lethal Luftwaffe or German air force. But no matter how many times he flew in and out of the lion's mouth it never became less unnerving, especially the last moments before the guns would open fire. Those last seconds of silence were always the worst. His mind would dwell over things left undone and thoughts best left unfinished. What if he didn't make it back this time? What if this was his last mission? What of the men under his command? Who wouldn't be coming home this time? As the men often joked, who was flying this mission with "paper wings"?
Shaking his mind free of these worrisome questions, he forced his attention to the task at hand and not the possible outcomes. Going over the mission checklist in his head, he once again scrutinized the formation of his pilots. Eight B17s made up the bombers in his command each was assigned two P51 Mustangs as escort. Major Harrelson was in his own Mustang flying alongside the lead bomber. Up ahead he could make out the black cliffs that made up the fast approaching shoreline. Tightening his grip on the controls, he prepared for hell to break loose.
Just as the white beach and rocky cliffs passed below, the bomber group finally entered the range of the flak towers that made up the coastal defense. Instantly the calm sky was ripped apart by screaming metal. All around little explosions dotted the sky leaving behind black puffs of smoke. The first volley was not very accurate. But as the gunners on the ground quickly zeroed in the range, the fire got closer and closer. There was little Alex could do but say a prayer and ride it out. With each shell that exploded near his plane a shockwave would rattle through the aircraft and nearly jar his teeth from his mouth. He continually checked behind him to see if any of his planes had been hit. So far they had been lucky.
It looked like the number three bomber had been clipped on the tail but the pilot had communicated that they were still in good shape. Then his headset crackled and the pilot of the number six bomber reported the loss of an engine. It had taken a direct hit and a good portion of the wing with it. Craning his neck, he saw the troubled bomber, black smoke billowing from the left wing, propeller dead in the air. He watched as it pitched downward and began to spin violently. Swearing to himself, he shouted into the microphone for them to jump. He saw three parachutes open but no more. Turning back forward he clenched his eyes shut for a second in anger and frustration. Each bomber had a crew of ten men. And the way they had just spun in, there was little chance for the others to survive. Cursing the guns below, his fists tightened around the controls, he took a deep breath, and forced himself not to think about them. He had a mission to complete; he would mourn his fallen friends later.
The fire slackened a bit as the group of planes moved out of range of the heavily concentrated anti-aircraft guns. For about twenty minutes they cruised along with little harassment from the enemy. But the break was short lived. On the southern horizon, Alex spotted a tight formation of FW- 190s. They were trying to get in behind his bombers. Checking the other directions for additional enemy aircraft he barked orders into the radio. "Bravo Group, bogeys at four o'clock. Break and engage. Hendersen and Varner both with Bravo. Alpha group stay with mother bird. Watch for the box breakers!" The escorts on the left wing of each bomber broke away to engage the enemy fighters, while the others stayed home to watch for more bogeys. The two fighters he had singled out were the pilots that had been with bomber number six.
He watched as the Bravo group rolled away and circled around back to the 190s. The FW190 was a fair match for the American P51. The German fighters carried a heavier weapons load but the Mustang with its Merlin engine was much faster and a bit more graceful so Alex wasn't too concerned with his pilots. He knew they could handle a dogfight. What did bother him was having only half his squadron to guard the flying fortresses. It was a common tactic for the Luftwaffe to send in two groups of fighters, the first would draw off the escorts and the second, the "box breakers", would then move in and slaughter the larger, slower less maneuverable bombers. The Major hoped that by splitting his fighters into two groups he was protecting against both dangers.
Then, there they were, a second group of 190s. Alex had expected them but he wasn't pleased to see them. From this distance, it appeared there were nine of them. "Damn," he swore under his breath. He thumbed his radio, "We got more of them. One o'clock Alpha, break and form on me. Big birds you're on your own for the moment. Watch your six." With that he rolled to the right, away from the lead bomber, and banked towards the oncoming enemy. The other Mustangs moved into position at his wings, as he assumed an intercept course. The Germans in turn corrected their course and headed directly for the Major and his planes. They flew directly towards one another, tracers filling the air, screaming passed Alex's plane. Once they had passed them he gave the order to break and engage.
One of the enemy fighters had apparently been heavily hit in the first pass because smoke was already trailing from its engine. He was turning away from the fight. One down, eight to go. Circling back around, Harrelson saw four of the 190s breaking for the bombers. He communicated this into the radio, "Johnson with me." They turned off and chased after the rogue fighters. The Germans had a good lead on them but they were making up ground quickly, unfortunately it wasn't going to be quick enough. He watched helplessly as they strafed the slow moving bombers. The B17s weren't defenseless, and as the fighters made their first pass the tail and ball gunners opened up with their own barrage. But it wasn't as easy to hit a small, fast-moving plane, as it was the lumbering bombers.
Over the radio came the call for assistance. The pilot in the fourth bomber had taken a round through his chest and the controls were damaged; the copilot was struggling to keep her in the air. The enemy was circling around for a second pass when Harrelson and Johnson came within weapons range. Alex's first stream of bullets tore a line across the fuselage of the nearest enemy fighter. Immediately the plane began to lose altitude as the engine lost power. The remaining three 190s split apart. Harrelson moved to follow the two that had broken to the left. Johnson stayed with the solo fighter.
The pair of fighters were still working around to make another run on the bombers, Alex stayed in as close as he could behind them. His cannons blazed as tried to bring them down before they could do any more damage to the bombers. Finally another stream of bullets scored a solid hit in the tail of the German plane on the left. The damaged fighter began to weave and spinout of control, and Alex watched as it veered directly into the other enemy plane. A ball of flame and flying debris was the all that remained after the collision apparently ignited one of the plane's fuel tanks. Alex had not been expecting the sudden destruction of both fighters and had still been following in close. Before he had a chance to react, a fragment of wreckage broke through the bubble of the cockpit, shattering the glass, and then striking the tail. The pain of steel and glass embedding itself into his chest and shoulder was searing. Alex tried to keep his hands at the controls but everything was fading, the plane was spinning wildly. He struggled for control. Falling. Spinning. Everything was going black.
"Nooooooooooo!!!!!!!!" Alex shot up from his pillow. He was still screaming, ; beads of sweat were running down his face. He tried to raise his hands but pain in his chest and shoulder slammed him back to reality. He wasn't falling. He wasn't in his plane. He was in bed, but it was still dark. No. Something was over his eyes. Then a pair of firm hands gripped his good arm and shoulder and pulled him back to the bed. And a voice …, he could heard a voice. It was soft and feminine, and very near him. "Shhhhhh, it's okay. You're all right Major. Just lay back and calm down. It was only a dream."
TBC