August 16, 1939
41st Reconnaissance Squadron
Unknown Sea

A dark green plane soared through a sky entirely devoid of clouds. Its wings displayed asymmetrical white-and-red checkerboards, a similar marking was also present on the tail fin. On the fuselage, between the observer-bombardier's position and the rear gunner, was the squadron emblem: a griffin, the symbol of Pomerania, depicted in red on a white pentagonal shield with a red border.

The aircraft in question was a PZL.23 Karaś, a Polish line aircraft—meaning a reconnaissance-bomber. Although the plane itself wasn't bad—on the contrary, it was quite good, and for the Polish aviation industry, it was a significant step toward modernity—the concept behind its design was, unfortunately, morally outdated. To fully realize this, the world had to go through World War II. Line aircraft quickly transitioned into other roles as they suffered heavy losses during the war. Except for the Polish ones, of course, since it's hard to reassign aircraft that have already been shot down, right?

Unfortunately, that wasn't surprising, given that aviation design could be obsolete even a year after being introduced, let alone after four years! It wasn't like today, where one type of aircraft can serve for forty years or more. Back then, aviation technology was akin to what space technology or various forms of electronics and software are today.

Any country with its own aviation industry, and Poland had one, could count itself among a select group of elite nations leading technological development.

The Karaś plane flying toward the land spotted fifteen or more minutes earlier was piloted by Officer Cadet Władysław Radwański. His commander and observer was Lieutenant Stefan Hałłas, and the last crew member was Corporal Marek Majewski, serving as the rear gunner.

The crew on this particular flight could count themselves lucky as they were equipped with wz. 38 aviation helmets. What were those? It can be said, without exaggeration, that they were the precursor to all modern aviation helmets. Like today's helmets, they had built-in headphones for radio or telephone communication, as well as a laryngophone, a special microphone designed to work in noisy environments. The helmet, for obvious reasons, was leather, not plastic like modern ones.

Thanks to this invention, the crews of aircraft equipped with radios could communicate directly, which in the case of Karaś aircraft eliminated a significant flaw: the lack of direct communication between crew members. Due to the plane's design, all three airmen were isolated from each other. So, how did they communicate, specifically how did the observer-commanders relay orders to the pilot?

They used notes placed in an envelope or bag, which then traveled along the fuselage on a string. Funny, right?

As you might imagine, this was highly impractical, so Karaś crews eagerly welcomed the new helmets that solved this pressing issue. In fact, they valued these helmets more for their communication capabilities than for their protective functions, which they did have.

Incidentally, tank crews equipped with radios also received modern helmets based on these aviation helmets, known as "helmofons." Unfortunately, these were limited to command vehicles only. The reason was simple: cost. The Polish Army's needs far exceeded the financial capabilities of the Polish state. Ironically, Poland's arms industry had much greater production capacity than was utilized, precisely because of this reason.

It's no wonder that no 21st-century country still uses a resource-backed currency and instead relies on fiat money. What's the point of having currency tied to value when you never have enough to acquire what you really need?

Poland would have been better off with a few hundred more PZL.11c fighters or something as basic as radio sets, which were in short supply compared to the military's standard requirements, rather than banknotes exchangeable for gold.

Of course, this doesn't mean that the effort the Second Polish Republic put into modernizing its army was small or modest. On the contrary, despite the challenges, it created an army that could crush any nation in Europe except for France, Germany, or the Soviets.

And now, a modest symbol of that strength was approaching foreign land. As they neared the coast and could see the land ahead, Radwański and Hałłas began scanning the area, searching for any signs of civilization.

At first, they saw nothing. Everywhere they looked was forest, with the occasional clearing. Only after a few minutes did Radwański notice a thin but noticeable straight line between the trees. Majewski joined in the search only after they had crossed the shoreline.

"I see some kind of path!" he reported immediately.

"Good. Where does it lead?" Hałłas asked, pleased that they had found something so soon after arriving.

"Directly north... I mean south," the pilot responded before adding, "Strange."

"What's strange?"

"For a moment, I thought I saw something flash in the distance," he replied.

"Interesting. Follow the path and report if the flashing happens again," Hałłas instructed.

Radwański obeyed his commander's orders, flying along the path. It wasn't entirely straight, occasionally winding as if avoiding terrain obstacles, and it seemed to veer about 70 degrees to the left relative to their flight path.

It led toward the source of those occasional flashes. Only about three minutes later did Radwański realize that the flashes were reflections from the roofs of buildings in a distant city. He hadn't noticed this earlier because, at Hałłas' request, he had lowered the altitude to get a better view of what might be hiding in the forest below.

"Lieutenant, I see a city in the distance. That's where the flashes came from. May I increase altitude?" he relayed to his commander.

"Permission granted," Hałłas replied, adding, "Climb to one thousand meters, then, when we reach the city, circle at an altitude of six hundred meters. Understood?"

"Understood," the pilot replied.

Radwański pulled the control stick back, gradually lifting the "Karaś" into the sky. To be honest, he would have preferred to gain altitude earlier and avoid descending unless absolutely necessary. The plane he was flying demanded precise piloting and finesse.

Any mistake in handling the aircraft required correction, which inevitably led to a loss of altitude. If you didn't have enough height to correct for those mistakes, or none at all, the result was obvious—a crash, something that had happened more than once. The victims of such crashes were usually older pilots who transitioned to these so-called modern machines from the French-designed biplanes like the Breguet and Potez models. Both aircraft were developed in 1924, so by the time pilots were switching to the "Karaś," they were already more than a decade old.

Radwański knew this from personal experience since he had graduated from the Polish Air Force Academy in Dęblin. As part of his training, he had flown these planes, which were being phased out into aviation schools due to modernization efforts. More Potez aircraft than Breguet ones, since the Potez were in much better condition than the Breguets.

Luckily, he had been trained from the ground up with the experience gained from operating the "Karaś." Still, one could never be too cautious.

The plane climbed slowly. The "Karaś" was never a fast aircraft. The only time it could exceed 319 km/h was during a dive, but due to aerodynamic flaws and arbitrary decisions made by the production plants during mass production, diving was prohibited. Simply put, the aircraft suffered from noticeable tail buffeting, which threatened to break the plane apart mid-air.

This problem was only resolved in modified versions of the "Karaś" for Bulgaria, known as the PZL.43 "Czajka," which means "Seagull" in Bulgarian. It's quite amusing, as "Czajka" in Polish refers to a different bird species altogether.

And, of course, the issue was fixed in the "Karaś" successor, the PZL.46 "Sum," which had just entered production. Radwański eagerly awaited the moment when he could switch to flying the "Sum."

When the altimeter read exactly one thousand meters, he leveled the aircraft and made a slight course adjustment to fly directly toward the now clearly visible city. The new heading steered the "Karaś" away from the path that seemingly led to the city.

As they drew closer to their destination, Radwański began to notice more details. The source of the flashes was a massive lighthouse standing near the shore on an isolated islet close to the entrance to the port, as well as a large castle and what looked like a temple perched on a hill.

As the observer, Hałłas also noticed that the body of water to their left, which they had assumed was empty, was actually filled with small ships with masts. Most of them kept a distance from the peninsula over which they were flying. The closer they got to the city, the more ships there were.

Wanting to get a better look, Hałłas ordered Radwański to alter their course so the "Karaś" would pass alongside the port and, as it turned out, a sizable naval fort located across from the main entrance to the harbor. Here, Hałłas began to marvel, as the fort was enormous, yet there was nothing to suggest it had been built on land. There were visible rock formations nearby, and a path carved through them leading to the port, but the fort itself seemed to rise from the seabed.

Inside the fortress, it was bustling with activity. The garrison was evidently large, as they appeared like a mass of navy-blue uniforms standing shoulder to shoulder on the parade grounds. Hałłas counted not just one, but three separate squares: one enormous and two smaller, though still sizable.

On the fortress walls, cannons were in abundance. Hałłas counted over twenty-eight cannons just on the outer wall. It took him a moment to realize there were twice as many more embedded within the structure itself—spread across three floors.

"Eighty-four cannons! My God, why do they need so many?" Hałłas exclaimed aloud, unable to hide his astonishment.

"That's nothing," Radwański replied. "Take a look at the city walls and the citadel in the center." By now, the "Karaś" had approached close enough for them to take in the sight of the sprawling city.

Starting from the harbor, it stretched over more than a kilometer and a half of coastline, with channels cutting into the land. The harbor was teeming with ships, their sails forming a forest as they were moored at the docks and along the shore. Around these vessels, smaller boats bustled, either guiding incoming ships to dock or heading out to sea. They also spotted a military harbor, separated by a low but thick wall, guarded by soldiers wearing blue-and-white uniforms. This harbor was located at the easternmost part of the coast, ending where the second line of the city's walls began.

There were only two land entrances to the military harbor, both heavily guarded by a strong garrison.

The commercial harbor took up the remaining two-thirds of the space. It was divided into smaller sections, with only a few clearly identifiable purposes. One section was filled with small boats surrounded by people who appeared to be fishermen. This assumption was supported by the large fish market nearby, where fish were being sold to the locals.

Another part of the harbor seemed to be a cargo port. Hałłas could clearly identify two types of goods being unloaded: stacks of timber and planks in one area, and grain being unloaded in another from three separate ships.

The last section of the harbor was significantly smaller but still of notable size. It seemed to be a passenger port. Hałłas concluded this based on the fact that none of the ships appeared to be cargo vessels, and there were no visible warehouses nearby.

The next thing that caught his attention were the city fortifications. The city was divided into four distinct zones. The first was dominated by a massive citadel, which contained a small but evidently important district that Hałłas assumed was the government center.

This assumption was reinforced by the formidable garrison guarding the three main entrances, each fortified with over thirty cannons spread across three levels. Additionally, the people milling about the citadel appeared to be a mixture of officials and palace servants. The citadel itself consisted of seven layers of defensive walls, with only one gate leading through them. Between these layers stood various buildings that Hałłas speculated might be administrative offices.

That's what he thought, though some buildings appeared a bit strange, as if hiding their true purpose from him.

At the top of the fortress, towering above the city, stood an old castle with golden domes that constantly reflected the sunlight. Beside it, there was something resembling a temple, though it wasn't the largest in the city. The grandest temple lay beyond the second line of walls in the third zone, but this one was certainly the most striking.

The second zone, the smallest of them all, was protected by the tallest and oldest walls, guarding the city's most ancient district. Hałłas counted six gates in these walls and noticed the fewest cannons here—only four per gate and two in each tower. What distinguished this second zone from the third, fourth, and the citadel was the absence of any internal walls dividing it into smaller districts.

The third zone was by far the largest, though irregularly shaped. Using his compass for reference, he could tell the most extensive part was in the northwest, forming a bulge in the oval created by the line of walls. In some areas, the second line of walls came close to the third, and at one point they even merged into a newly constructed fortress, which was quite large and functioned as a separate defensive outpost. The third zone was also the most opulent, crisscrossed by grand avenues that doubled as plazas and marketplaces. The buildings here were the tallest and most ostentatious, flaunting their wealth. Hałłas had a gut feeling that this was where the city's most pompous, arrogant, and nouveau riche residents lived.

The walls here were definitely lower and thicker than those of the first line. They were also better fortified, with bastions replacing the medieval towers. Each bastion housed eight cannons per floor, with two floors in total. Smaller cannons were placed densely along the walls, though only on the outermost ones. The gates were defended by imposing forts, each equipped with twenty-four cannons spread across four floors. The forts were well-manned, with enough space in each for a solid battalion of soldiers. Hałłas couldn't estimate the exact number, but he felt sure there were at least two hundred troops in each.

The final, fourth zone was marked by a newly constructed wall. It was slightly taller than the previous one, judging by the completed sections, though it didn't match the height of the first line. It was, however, considerably thicker. Hałłas estimated that the "Karaś" bomber, at nearly ten meters long, wouldn't be much shorter than the width of the wall.

The defense of this zone seemed to be the most formidable. Hałłas counted twelve bastions, each the size of a fort from the second zone. Though there were fewer forts overall, they were much stronger than the earlier ones. One particularly massive fort stood out, its construction site twice the size of the others. Even the internal walls were significantly larger, and each district had its own central bastion. In some areas, these bastions were already completed, while in others they were still under construction, with buildings being demolished to make space.

The architecture in this zone was the most dilapidated. Apart from the grand avenues leading to the more splendid third zone, the rest of the area looked dreadful. Hałłas was reminded of the old part of Warsaw before the great renewal efforts led by the visionary mayor Stefan Starzyński.

He had to admit, the scale of the defenses was impressive. Even the Polish Army might struggle to capture this city—unless, of course, there was no concern for the state of the city afterward. In that case, a heavy artillery barrage and a few bombing raids would likely be enough to reduce both the defenses and the city itself to rubble.

When it came to the residents and, as a result, their weaponry, they appeared... historical. That's probably the best way to describe them. The civilians' clothing was distinctly old-fashioned, something Hałłas vaguely recalled from school textbooks. Their outfits seemed to date back to the 16th or 17th century. A wide span of time, to be sure, since he wasn't exactly confident about his knowledge of something that had only ever appeared as a curiosity in a book.

What truly caught his attention was the weaponry, which was old. The best example of this was in the cannons. They all seemed to be from the era of King Jan II Kazimierz—so, the 17th century. Though significantly larger and strangely reinforced at the back, their overall barrel shape and the carriages on which they rested reminded him of those he had seen in books or museums.

As for the infantry, the most striking thing about them was their uniforms. As mentioned earlier, the colors were navy blue and white—navy blue jackets and trousers, with a white shirt underneath. And the hat, of course—black, with a golden feather, reminiscent of a musketeer's hat.

Not all of the soldiers carried weapons, primarily those on the walls keeping watch. Their firearms resembled muskets, though the stock had a more box-like shape. Due to the distance, Hałłas couldn't tell why. Aside from that, he only saw a variety of melee weapons, none of which seemed particularly noteworthy—at least, that's what he thought.

His observation of the city was interrupted by the voice of the rear gunner. Just as he was about to examine something strange—something resembling a walking werewolf—Corporal Marek Majewski asked with growing concern:

"Lieutenant, am I imagining things, or is there a squadron approaching from the east?"

Hałłas paused, turning away from the city and scanning the skies in the direction Majewski had indicated.

"Could you repeat that?"

Majewski collected himself and, in a more military tone, reported, "Lieutenant, I report that I see, to the east... sorry, to our right, beyond that citadel, under the sun—more than twelve unidentified flying objects."

Following the corporal's instructions, Hałłas searched for what Majewski was referring to. After a moment, he spotted them. It was difficult, as the sun and the reflection from the golden rooftops blinded anyone looking in that direction.

He saw them in a narrow gap between the sunlight and the glare from the roof. Indeed, there were twelve of them. The problem lay in what, or rather who, was flying them.

"What the absolute fuck?!" Hałłas swore, unable to believe his own eyes. "How the hell is this even possible?" He added after a moment, "No, this is some serious bullshit. This is just... fuck, it's impossible."

He felt like he was hallucinating, seeing visions. After all, creatures like that only existed in fairy tales, folklore, and myths. And yet, reality seemed deaf to Hałłas' emphatic refusal to accept what he was seeing and being forced to acknowledge.

To make matters worse for Hałłas' already fragile sense of reality, Radwański chimed in.

"I hate to interrupt you, Stefek, but we've got more company. I see another twelve heading toward us from the south, plus two more groups coming from the southwest and west."

Hałłas froze. This was completely unexpected. He glanced at his watch. It was nearing noon, and they'd only been circling over the city for about fifteen minutes. In that short time, he'd already gathered that the locals were far behind them in terms of technology. He had initially assumed they posed no real threat. At worst, they might try to shoot at them with muskets, but even a volley wouldn't do much. Karaś was resistant to such primitive attempts at bringing it down.

Only now did he realize that the locals had the ability to fly. Of course, not with machines like the Poles. But that didn't matter—they had something else.

Dragons.

Or at least what looked like dragons. They resembled large lizards. With this shocking revelation, Hałłas quickly began scanning the city below, searching for anything else he might have missed earlier—things that felt familiar.

He found it.

There were strange, unfamiliar creatures, some of which looked like land-dwelling counterparts to the flying ones. Others were the same, and to his horror, he could see them being saddled and prepared for flight. This was happening at a single isolated fort within the citadel.

Looking at the civilians, who were now beginning to gather in the streets and squares to gaze up at the sky, he began to notice features that ruled out the possibility of them being fully human. While the majority of the population did appear human, there were others who were clearly not. And Hałłas had a growing suspicion that even those who looked human might not be entirely so—he just wasn't sure what he should be looking for.

Next, he scanned the skies. He spotted the newly reported squadrons, as well as another one, this time coming from the direction they had originally flown in from.

They were flying higher, which was why he hadn't seen them right away. He spotted them just as Majewski began to report their presence.

"I see them," Hałłas cut him off.

The corporal fell silent, caught off guard.

"What do we do?" Radwański asked calmly.

"Maybe we should try to make contact, Lieutenant?" Majewski suggested.

Hałłas glanced at the radio for a moment before dismissing the idea.

"Unfortunately, no, Corporal. Judging by the locals, I doubt they have radios. And even if they do, do you know what language they speak? Besides, landing is out of the question for safety reasons," Hałłas replied.

"Fair point," Majewski acknowledged. Then he added, "We're in deep shi—" Before he could finish, something exploded in the air, dangerously close to Karaś.

"What the hell?" Corporal Majewski exclaimed in confusion. Almost as if on cue, another series of explosions erupted around Karaś, followed by yet another, all at a steady intensity. Radwański instinctively began evasive maneuvers to make it harder for their attackers to hit them.

Hałłas, still bewildered, scanned his surroundings and noticed the clouds of black smoke. Then, as realization dawned on him, he gave the order: "Radwański!"

"Yes?" the pilot responded, sounding completely unfazed despite the explosions threatening to bring them down.

"Roll the plane... no, turn it upside down!"

"Understood," the pilot responded in his calm, matter-of-fact tone, and Karaś began to rotate along its axis while continuously weaving side to side.

"Majewski! Look for whatever is shooting at us!" Hałłas commanded the rear gunner, needing an extra pair of eyes. But to his surprise, Majewski responded:

"No one's shooting at us, Lieutenant. They're more like throwing things and somehow making them explode," the corporal said, his voice steady but tinged with disbelief.

Hałłas was taken aback by Majewski's sharp observation, though he decided to save any questions for later.

"How and from where?" Hałłas asked while scanning the city below himself.

"I'm not sure how, but they're directly beneath us, standing on the rooftops," Majewski replied.

Hałłas, still doubtful, peered straight down and finally saw them. A fairly large group of people in navy-blue robes and uniforms were standing on the rooftops, just as the corporal had said. Using his binoculars, Hałłas could see a pile of large, grenade-like objects lying next to them. Majewski had been wrong—they weren't all being thrown.

Most of them were being mounted on large arrows and fired from strange but recognizable crossbows. The ones in the navy-blue uniforms were the ones shooting them. The rest of the explosives were being thrown by those in robes. Hałłas could see peculiar lights as the robed figures hurled the explosives high into the air—right toward the altitude at which Karaś was flying.

Not everyone in robes was throwing explosives, though. Many stood beside the crossbowmen, touching the grenades before they were launched. After a moment, the grenades would start to glow in various colors. Once the projectiles were fired, Hałłas believed that when they reached the appropriate altitude, the robed figures would do something with their hands, causing the explosives to detonate.

Hałłas didn't know what to make of it. It was bizarre. The only explanation that came to mind was some form of magic, though he knew magic didn't exist—or at least, not until today. Regardless, one thing was clear: the people below were trying to bring them down by force.

They had summoned airborne forces and set up anti-air defenses. Some were flying on dragons—something Hałłas still couldn't fully wrap his mind around—while others used strange crossbows. But the principle was the same as with "normal" items like planes or anti-aircraft machine gun units.

Hałłas didn't hesitate for a moment longer. Orders flowed naturally from him, as concerns, doubts, and astonishment gave way to the automated procedures drilled into him for so long.

"Cadet, return to normal position and then head straight back to base with full power. Don't slow down until we're certain we've lost the chase."

"Roger that," the pilot responded, and Karaś began to level out while the engine roared louder as it increased its revolutions. The aircraft noticeably sped up, though it was hindered by the defensive maneuvers Radwański was performing to avoid being hit.

Those below seemed to sense this and began attacking more aggressively. Or perhaps they were simply flying over a larger group. The pilot decided to shorten the route and fly directly over the center of the city, passing over the locals' defensive positions.

"Corporal, unlock the weapon. If anything gets close, shoot it down. Just be careful, these aren't planes. They're more like… air cavalry. The enemy flies on dragons, so taking out a pilot might not help much," Hałłas said, pausing briefly as he searched for the right term.

Majewski was a bit surprised but took it in stride. "Lieutenant, you can count on me. Dragon or plane, it doesn't matter. They both fall to the ground just the same."

"That's the spirit, Corporal!" Hałłas praised.

The rear gunner accepted the praise without a word. Instead, he focused on checking his new light machine gun, the wz.37, often referred to as the "Puppy."

He hadn't had many chances to shoot it, but he had heard mostly positive reviews from colleagues who had. The weapon was definitely superior to the old Vickers F, particularly because it jammed less frequently. It was also lighter and used standard Polish Army ammunition, which made logistics easier.

The "Puppy" was not a completely new Polish design but a heavily modified version of the famous B.A.R., specifically its Polish, unlicensed copy, the Browning wz.28. It retained all the advantages of the excellent original but was adapted for use as an aircraft machine gun, with some modifications intended for further modernization for Polish needs. The ground version of the Browning had already been improved over the original.

Majewski had seven drum magazines at hand. One was loaded into the gun, and six were stored in a compartment in the tail where the gun was kept when not in use. Each magazine held 91 rounds, giving him a total of 637 rounds, which was less than the full rate of fire of the weapon, which was 1,100 rounds per minute. A classic B.A.R. magazine could fire off a round per second. Therefore, Majewski had to be careful not to exhaust his ammunition too quickly.

After ensuring everything was in order, he confidently unlocked the weapon and waited for the first fool who dared to attack.

As it turned out, he didn't have to wait long.

Although Karaś made a sharp and sudden turn north and accelerated rapidly, it was too late to completely avoid interception, especially since he had to expend some of his energy on evasive maneuvers. The method the locals used to try and shoot them down, though extremely primitive, was quite effective despite appearances. Personally, Hałłas doubted that Karaś would succumb to such a method.

Old Franks? Sure, but modern Poles? Not likely.

Perhaps if it had been a formation of machines attacking in tight formation, then, based on probability and limited maneuver space, they might have managed to hit something.

But that didn't mean they couldn't damage Karaś; the aircraft wasn't armored, so when it took a hit from an explosion, the crew could only hope that the metal and frame would withstand the impact.

Fortunately, once the plane exceeded the magic speed of 300 kilometers per hour, the intensity of the attack significantly decreased. Apparently, the anti-aircraft gunners couldn't keep up with such a "fast" object. It amused Hałłas somewhat; it was no secret to him that, for modern anti-aircraft defenses, Karaś was a slow and therefore easy target.

Unfortunately, that didn't mean the trouble was over. On the contrary, it was about to get worse.

The Dragon Riders took advantage of the fact that Karaś had to maneuver and closed in on their position. Then, on the final straight, they suddenly shot forward as if they had been fired from an aerial cannon, diving straight at them.

Lieutenant Hałłas had a grim expression when he saw this. Another strange phenomenon, like a deus ex machina, decided to greet him and make things even harder. Or at least, that's how he saw it.

The only ones who really surprised him were those coming from behind the Citadel. They took advantage of the fact that the anti-aircraft gunners had pushed the Poles in their direction, or at least that's how it appeared from the pilots' perspective. If Hałłas had known more about the locals, he wouldn't have been grumbling about his luck; he would have been impressed by their ingenuity.

Regardless, the Dragon Riders finally attacked the lone Polish aircraft, doing so in a formation of four fingers. They divided into three smaller formations of four riders each and attacked in waves. Hałłas immediately recognized the formation; every Polish pilot was taught everything about expected opponents, and this was a style of combat used by the Luftwaffe.

This allowed him to immediately understand that he was dealing with an experienced force knowledgeable about aerial combat.

The most significant effect came from the initial attack, mainly due to the element of surprise created by the sudden advance. This allowed them to close the distance in just a few seconds, preventing the surprised Karaś crew from maneuvering effectively to escape their claws.

Hałłas flinched when he heard a loud bang from a nearby enemy. By chance, this saved his life, as it caused him to shift his head position just enough for a bullet fired by the enemy to pass just beneath his chin, barely grazing him.

With considerable astonishment, Hałłas realized that the enemy projectile had penetrated Karaś clean through. A quick glance at the hole in the cockpit window allowed him to assess that whatever the enemy was shooting with must have been of such a caliber that it could easily have blown his head off.

He had been incredibly lucky.

"Report damage!" he ordered immediately after assessing the damage in his compartment. He found another hole behind him, but like the one next to him, it only pierced the aircraft's metal without causing significant damage.

The first to respond was Majewski, who, as Hałłas heard, had just stopped firing at the enemies.

"I report urgently that I see a big hole in the fuselage behind me. Nothing crucial has been damaged."

Hałłas accepted this with relief.

"Understood. And you, Radwański?"

But the pilot did not respond. Fearing the worst, Hałłas began to retrieve the spare controls to take over the flight (as every Karaś has dual controls, though the observer's controls are removable). However, a sharp turn to the right and then an abrupt climb quickly dispelled those fears. This maneuver caused the second wave of attackers, who were trying to repeat the success of their predecessors, to strike at emptiness.

"Everything's fine, Lieutenant," the pilot finally replied. "I had to focus for a moment; those bastards pulled a nasty trick."

Hałłas could almost see Radwański's characteristic mischievous grin in his mind as he heard the pilot's voice dripping with venom.

"And now we'll give them what for!" Majewski chimed in, equally eager to retaliate. It was fortunate that their microphones were throat microphones; otherwise, Hałłas would never have heard the rear gunner through the barrage of fire the corporal was pouring on the caught Dragon Riders.

Hałłas smiled wryly. Indeed, it was their turn to give back. They wanted a fight? They would get it, and a beating to boot! However, the lieutenant had to keep his cool, despite the strong temptation to descend to the belly turret and take over the rear gunner's position.

Indeed, Karaś had two rear gunner positions. One was the primary and the other was an auxiliary for the observer. This auxiliary position was in a fixed cradle, which originally was meant to retract and hide under the observer's weight. However, the relocated engine below had cast it into the aerodynamic shadow, so it didn't matter whether it retracted or not. This cradle served as the place where the observer would switch to a bomber role, guiding the pilot to the target and then dropping bombs on the enemy.

Of course, it was not the most comfortable place in the world. The cradle was cramped, and worse, to use it, one had to lie prone. So, if the enemy had gotten him with upward-mounted machine guns, there was little chance he could crawl out of it on his own.

Unfortunately, they hadn't brought any bombs on this flight to avoid unnecessary weight. In hindsight, it would have been better if they had, as they could have caused a commotion below and diverted some of the attention away from themselves for a while.

Hałłas wasn't about to cry over spilled milk. Instead, he considered it a stroke of luck and decided not to tempt fate further. He focused on maintaining situational awareness, acknowledging that they had been fortunate today and didn't want to push their luck.

He let Radwański chart their course and Majewski deal with the pursuing enemy fighters. However, he couldn't help but ask the pilot one crucial question: why were they heading straight into the remaining four enemy riders?

"Władek, what the hell are you doing? You were supposed to head back to base as quickly as possible, not engage in dogfights!" he ordered, his voice laced with frustration.

The pilot remained silent for a moment, which only heightened Hałłas's concern. The Karaś was a light bomber with minimal offensive armament, designed more for intimidation than real combat.

"What's he doing…?" Hałłas began, but didn't finish his sentence as they suddenly plunged into the enemy formation. The surprise attack caused the enemy to scatter, not wanting to risk colliding with the green machine. Moreover, one of them, adorned with a large blue feather, was targeted by Radwański with the onboard machine gun.

Radwański wasn't sure if the shot was fatal or not, as the enemy disappeared beneath them. Regardless of the outcome, the Karaś now had a clear path to climb and shake off the pursuers. The enemy gave up the chase as the plane climbed higher.

The aircraft reached an altitude of over 2,500 meters, more than a third of its maximum ceiling. Once they had gained enough height, Radwański turned the plane north toward Poland, pushing the engine and fuel to their limits. Hałłas, who had been watching from the rear, breathed a sigh of relief as the enemy faded into the distance. They had escaped.

"It was lively, wasn't it, Lieutenant?" Majewski commented.

But Hałłas remained silent.

"Yeah, it was," Radwański agreed on behalf of the Lieutenant. "The question is, what's it going to lead to?"

That question seemed to bring an uncomfortable silence to the Karaś. The roar of the engine, once a steady presence, suddenly seemed quieter.

It took a moment before the observer finally spoke up.

"To trouble, isn't it obvious?" Hałłas replied cynically.

For the rest of the flight, no one spoke further.