To Guest - I hope you are enjoying the story.


14 December 1994

Holding his granddaughter on his lap, Janos let her hold his case of commendations. These were his more recent gifts from his service. As little Irena studied the oldest, the King's Commendation for Bravery in the Air, Emil looked at the many medals. But he turned to the frame with only one medal. The one hanging above the models of planes he had flown. "Grand papa, why is this one hiding over here?" Emil asked. The old man chuckled.

"That was the highest medal I ever earned in the RAF. The Victoria Cross. Now that was a tell of greatness."

o 0 o

11 July 1940

Blackhawk's new Spitfire roared to life as his squadron launched off the runway. They didn't have much training, but Britain stands alone in this war. Young men of the 326 from across Europe. They were considered to be the worst, but in the short amount of time, he was confident in their skills. Flying over the channel, the Spitfires saw ten German silhouettes below them. Quickly identifying them as He 111s, he looked back to his pilots. "Zinoviev, Unen, Roebert, Meurs. Dive on them." Blackhawk ordered. Four Spitfires banked left. "Baker, Hald, Lech, Bolek. Provide support." Four more fighters banked left, following Zinoviev's flight. The remaining squadron continued its patrol. As they flew, the Squadron continued splitting up, seeing German bomber flights. Up until all that remained was Blackhawk, Andre Blanc-Dumont, Hans Hendrickson, and Theodore Gaynor. Flying together, they kept an eye out for Germans.

As they flew, the Pole thought of the men with him. Andre was part of Free France, seeking vengeance. Hans and his brother Ritter were the only Dutch in the Squadron. Then there's Theodore. The pretentious American. Not here for duty. Just for the fame. Nonetheless, Blackhawk trusted his men. But soon much will change with a few words. "Contact. Two o'clock low." Hans said. Before the Pole could even look, Theodore leapt into action. Banking right into a dive. "Dammit Gaynor." Hans followed his wingman, trying to protect the American volunteer. The two were diving to eight Ju 88s. But something wasn't right. As the American opened fire on a bomber's engines, the Pole spotted the danger. Four escorting bf 109s hanging up high. Now descending onto the low Spitfires.

"Gaynor, Hans. Get out of there!" Blackhawk yelled as the American pulled up for another run. But it was too late. The 109s sprayed bullets on the American's fuselage. Smoke trailing behind them. The Pole and French bank left in a dive. Two fighters tailed each of the low fighters. Giving hand signals to Andre, they both peeled away, going to aid both low pilots. As Blackhawk got behind Theodore's tailing 109s, he took a breath, finger over the trigger, he focused on the 109s firing, following their every move, getting closer. At the right moment's he fired a burst, getting the fighter to break off. A second burst sent the 109 spiraling down. The second 109 broke off and the Pole pursued. Getting them in his crosshairs, he fired three bursts. The 109's wing was torn off, ending this sortie. Looking over to Andre to find the Frenchman finishing up the last 109. But the 88s escaped, heading straight for Britain. "Gaynor, what the hell was that?"

"Sir, it was just us left. We had them in our sights." The American answered.

"Yet the bombers escaped, wounded, but alive." Blackhawk said, flying next to the smoking Spitfire. "And your fighter is damaged."

"They wouldn't have escaped had you and Andre followed us."

"Then we'll all be dead, you idiot." Blackhawk said, looking straight at the pilot.

o 0 o

17 July 1940

Being woken up in the night, the squadron scrambled to their fighters. Blackhawk started up the engine as the crew pulled their equipment away. Leading the fighters over to the runway, they didn't have to speed off. Only seven pilots made it off before Stuka's dropped bombs onto the runway. Looking back, the Pole saw a dozen Spitfires in flames. Vowing vengeance, he led the only air fighters to chase the Stukas. Flying in the night was difficult. But searchlights gave the fighters the Stuka's location. Pushing the throttle, the Spitfires dodged the spotlights, not giving away their own location. Getting to the German tails, Blackhawk opened fire. The Stuka spiraled out of control as the squadron took out more fighters. The German gunners randomly fired as the pilots maneuvered to lose the Spitfires. But the muzzle flashes of the rear guns kept them in Blackhawk's sight. Going in from below, he tore apart a second Stuka. The Stukas even scored some kills for the RAF.

Chuckling at the thought as he got a third dive bomber in his sight. Coming from the side, the Stuka was engulfed in flames. As it spiraled to the ground, the air was calm. The German squadron was wiped out. Another victory for the 326. One of many that he hoped for the squadron.

o 0 o

5 September 1940

This battle was long and hard. The 362 has lost Aces, but when rookies came in, they soon became Aces. Today the squadron had scrambled as the air raid sirens echo London. Looking down the sights, Blackhawk spotted twenty-two Do 215s. Eighteen Bf 109s escorting behind them. Giving out commands, Andre lead seven Spitfires to intercept the 109s. Blackhawk lead the rest into a dive. The sun was behind them, the height was in their favor, the surprise was in their hand, the Germans weren't going to survive. A 215 cockpit was in his sight. Pressing the trigger, a wave of bullets tore through the bomber. Sending it into a spiral. Pulling up, he got a second 215 engines in his sights, pressing the trigger, the engine burst into flames. Turning, he saw a large portion of the bombers falling or limping forward. Speeding to a third 215's tail, he pressed the trigger, ripping the tail off. Getting one last bomber in the sights, he unleashed a burst, tearing the wing off. More victories for the squadron.

o 0 o

9 September 1940

Gathering in the mess tent, RAF pilots pour whiskey in tin cups. Mourning the deaths of three pilots today. The 326 was only a few men now. Hans was looking at his fallen brother's photo as the cups were filled. Blackhawk stood on a bench. Facing the eight exiled men. "Tonight we mourn the dead. Tomorrow we get revenge." the Pole said. The pilots agreed before they all took a drink of the alcohol. As the Pole put the empty cup on the table, he spotted Theodore Gaynor at the entrance. Walking over, the Squadron Leader was upset to see the discharged idiot. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I want back in the Squadron." Theodore said.

"When your wingman needed you, you left them. You aren't a pilot. Now get off my base." Blackhawk ordered. As the American try to say something, the Pole stopped him. "Off my base." he repeated. The American walked away. As he did, a car rolled up to the tent. Inside was a woman and an Asian. Walking over, the two got out of the car. He was thinking of how lax the security was on this base. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Zinda Blake and this is Wu Cheng." the woman said.

"Nice to meet you. Now, why are you here?" Blackhawk asked.

The two explained their situation. A woman pilot who been denied to serve, an Asian who is denied anywhere near a plane because of being himself. The Pole sympathized with them. They faced the same difficulty as he did back when he joined the RAF. Thinking it over, he knew what comes next would be hell to pay.

15 September 1940

An act of desperation. That's what it is. Flying above the clouds, Blackhawk spotted the Luftwaffe with it's many bombers and fighters. The cards were played. The 362 heed the call to action despite being outnumbered. But unlike many of the surrounding squadrons, every member were Aces. Looking down his sights, the cloud of Germans sped closer. Taking a breath, his finger hoovered the trigger, lining up for a Bf 110, if he was second late he would be dead, carefully watching the distance close, he had one chance for a direct hit. Pressing the trigger, bullets hit the Spitfire, glass cracking, but stopped as the 110 fell. Switching targets, he aimed for He 111. Unleashing a wave of bullets, he teared the bomber's tail. Flying through the fire, he saw hundreds of parachutes gliding down. His friends could be among those gliding down, at risk of facing vengeful Germans. Putting that thought out of his mind, he banked left, diving onto a Do 17.

Pressing the trigger, their engine burst into flames. Seeing a Spitfire being chased by a Fw 190, Blackhawk turned, unleashing a burst of bullets. Tearing them apart. Pulling up, a limping Ju 88 was caught in his sight. Pressing the trigger, he took out their last engine. As he turned, he strafed another 88. A Bf 109 was banking right after they killed a Hurricane pilot. Chasing the German, Blackhawk lined up his sights. Pressing the trigger, he added another kill to his name. Seeing a 17 enter the sights, the Pole sprayed bullets at the front. Turning around, he unleashed the last of his ammo. Killing the bomber. Without ammo, a sane pilot would return home. But this was the tipping point.

Pushing the throttle, he descended onto an 88. The gunners opened fire, pings of bullets echoed the cockpit, glass shattering towards him, pieces scratching his skin, pulling the nose at the last moment, the propeller sliced the antenna wire as the fuselage slammed into the tail. The Spitfire shook at the impact. Pulling back, the metal screeched. Seeing the bomber become the perfect prey was enough for that attack. Looking around, he saw a 110 chasing Blake. Diving, he aimed for the German's fuselage. Distance closed, speed increasing, taking a breath, Blackhawk rammed into the fighter, tearing it apart. Leaving his nose damaged. Pulling up, he began to glide down, watching as the RAF takes out the Luftwaffe.