BOB User Stories: Accompanied by Eagles

These stories are all user-created stories, developed years ago when the Battle of Britain sim was just an infant. We are re-posting them out of respect to the individuals that dedicated time and effort to make BoB as successful as it is now.

I was exhausted, bleeding, and a quick look at the holes in my torn left wing told me that I was up to my eyes in serious fertilizer. As I desperately pulled my Spitfire into a tight climbing turn a shower of gleaming, hot tracers reminded me that my opponent knew every trick in the fighter pilot’s handbook including most of my own bright ideas. Nothing I did seemed to shake this deadly, talented guy off my six.

It had been like that for the past five minutes. And even a minute is a long time for a dogfight. First, I had the advantage as I had attacked this vulnerable straggler over the choppy Channel. The 109E was on his merry way back to France and just coasting along alone when I looked down and spotted his shadow against the lower cloud base.

Doubtless, he was separated from his comrades in battle and was returning home now after completing bomber escort duty. There had been several raids today. Smiling, I dropped upon his unsuspecting tail with all of my .303s blazing. My score would now tally two for the day.

He was surprised enough to find me on his tail and seconds later when I found him on mine it occurred to me that I had probably picked on the wrong fellow to aggravate today. Even though I had scored some solid hits he showed no sign of faltering. Instead, he showed every sign of handing me my head for my gross impertinence.

Stomping first left and then right rudder, rolling left then right, climbing, diving, twisting, turning, I could not seem to get away from this determined foe. My goose was plucked, cleaned and well-roasted if I didn’t come up with something pretty fast.
Another cannon hit on my already sieved rear end sent powerful tremors through my tattered craft. It was now or never. I rolled over and split “S”ed for a low-lying cloud. As I suspected, this did not fool my adversary in the slightest for the sound of “pebbles” hitting the fuselage told me he was right back on my tail in the dive. As the cloud closed about me I hauled back hard on throttle and stick, kicked rudder and pulled the stick over so hard with both hands I nearly blacked out in the extreme bank.

Now I was in the densest part of the cloud and relying completely on instruments to fly straight and level. On I flew for what seemed like minutes. A growing brightness in the cloud ahead signaled that I was coming out the other side. Concerned about what might be waiting out there, I instantly reversed course and passed on a reciprocal course right back through the cloud again and out at last breaking into bright sunshine. I seemed to be alone. I flew a complete 360 before I felt safe enough to decide that I could relax my vigil just a tad. Wrong decision.

As I was checking my instrument panel to see if it was likely that I was going to ride all the way home or have to walk part of the way, all hell jumped right up and took a large bite out of my little Spitfire. Cannon shells cracked round my little pink ears and machinegun shells peppered my wing and fuselage. As my windscreen cracked into a hundred spider veins, one ugly thought leaped instantly to mind. That beastly 109 was back and with a vengeance.

One last shell cracked into my tail section and rattled around to finally snap a nice hole through the firewall near my shaky left foot. By now I was totally unable to defend myself. My controls were responding poorly and the holes in my left wing created so much pressure on the yoke that I had to compensate radically by holding the stick way over to the right. I began resignedly ticking off the bailout procedures in my turbulent mind. I well knew that the Coup De Gras was already on the way….Or was it?

Certain that I was doomed, I flew on straight and level into the beautiful setting sun. That was all my shattered controls would allow me to do. Why had the shooting stopped? It had stopped. There was no doubt of that. I relaxed my death-like grip on the hood release. Turning my head as far around as I possibly could, I glimpsed the victorious 109 rising from below my tattered tailplane to finally form up on my shattered wing. Looking across I saw the pilot clearly. He was quite dark complexioned with a black mustache. Did I see a narrow cigar clenched in his teeth? The pilot of the 109 motioned to me that he was out of ammo, smiled and shrugged his broad shoulders.
Flying unsteadily along with the 109 just meters away I regarded the paint scheme. A mottled gray, the markings are those of a Gruppe leader. There was the “S” shield of the infamous JG 26 “Schlageter” and the personal insignia under the cockpit appeared to be that of a mouse holding a hatchet and a pistol. On the rudder there were just too many hash marks even to count. This was quite enough to assure me that I was lucky to be alive.
Into the setting sun we flew. Suddenly, something big moves in to my left and I turn somewhat fearfully to see what it might be. To my surprise it is another Spitfire. The stripe tells me it is that of a squadron commander. The personal letters are DB. Just beyond this crate I see another ghostly Spitfire rise. This one has the letters JEJ emblazoned beside the British Roundels. On we fly together toward the shifting clouds lined with gold round the setting sun, friend and foe alike in perfect formation. I am above my darkening base now and ready to descend for my landing approach.

As I receive landing clearance and instructions over the R/T I watch as my ghostly escort waggle their wings in salute and speed ahead to form up again. Looking on in awe I see the two Spitfires and the single 109 begin to disappear into the wisps of a gorgeous cloud the color of cloth of gold. One last look and I see the ghostly trio easily perform a slow victory roll round the orb of the setting sun and then they are gone.

On the ground after a dead stick, wheels up landing, RADAR cannot confirm that any aircraft besides my own were ever over the Airdrome for the past thirty minutes.

Yet I know that there were. I had seen them myself.

And now, as I reflect upon what happened, I suddenly realize who they were…. Yes, I was fortunate to have survived , and fortunate otherwise.

For a few brief moments playing BOB I was in the company of Eagles.