South of Bikini Just a routine mission
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The Final Mission free porn video
The airdrome was quiet this day. The fog that had crept in like a thief in the night still lay heavy on the land. The airplanes stood like silent statues as the mist soften their shapes. They lined the green grass landing strip which faded to gray in the fog. Mechanics and guards drifted in and out, shapes with no form. They called to each other in weird, muffled, and distorted voices.
The men who flew these lighter than air craft moved like shadows towards the stone farmhouse that served as their home and command post. Opening the door, the fire in the fireplace sent out welcoming warmth. Ducking under the low doorway they entered a low wide room dominated by the wide fireplace. A table ran most of the length of the space with chairs scattered here and there. Smoke from the fire as well as cigars and pipes mingled along the beams of the ceiling. Alone in the corner sat a battered piano. At times one or another of the pilots would play a few tunes that were popular. Most times it sat silent.
A wood burning stove kept the always hot tea kettle boiling. The cook laid out platters of cold ham, butter, jams and bread for the pilots to eat. Even at this early hour the pilots would be drinking the heavy dark beer to keep the dampness at bay. Of course there was no possibility of flying a mission today war or no war. Mostly their missions were flying over the German lines. They would look for troop build up or movements and of course the possibility of meeting German aircraft for combat.
A few of the pilots were already lounging in the chairs closest to the hearth. Johnny Bannister, Willy O’Connor and Basil Throckmorton murmured greetings to the others as the entered.
‘Fog still thick out there mates?’
‘Thick as fleas on this old dog.’ Replied Monty Walsh, one of the new comers, as he bent down to scratch the petulant ,as well as lazy, dog that lounged by the fire.
‘No flight time today chaps.’ Opined Richey Burton the oldest of the pilots stationed there, and their commanding officer. ‘So relax and enjoy the respite, while you can.’ As he filled a pint glass of ‘New Castle Porter’ and settled in a comfortable chair.
‘Richey, what do you hear of how our chaps and the Frenchies are making out at the front?’ Asked Rodger Briggs, one of the younger men stationed there.
‘Nothing good Rodg-O, seems the Huns are being regular bloody buggers in the trenches.’
‘Cour’ really…can’t figure them out, sometime they seem almost human, the next…..’ Briggs let the statement hang.
‘Oh well mates…let us just enjoy a pipe in peace for the day, shall we?’ Chimed in Monty, helping himself to a second pint and some ham.
‘Hear hear’ echoed the men gathered about the warmth of the open fire.
Through out the morning as the fog settled deeper on the land, the pilots relaxed in the farmhouse. Occasionally the mechanics would wander in to report on such mundane items as oil changes and control cable maintence to the airplanes. Commander Burton also detailed the men to ready the smudge pots, large barrels that were filled with petrol soaked wood and hay, and lined the landing strip to serve as crude landing lights. Just in case the fog lifted enough to mount a mission.
Of course the pilots would pay obligatory visits to their respective planes. Running their hands over the fabric covered wings, or the spruce struts. Chatting with the men that mothered their planes they would pass out cigarettes as well as compliments. They always made sure that they knew a little of each man’s background, if he was married or where home was. Other than that, they spent the time talking football, playing darts, drinking and planning the next mission they would fly.
It was around 11 o’clock in the morning, or as near to that time as the sky allowed, when an airplane engine noise was heard. Softly at first, it then became ever louder. The sound circled the field, mournfully seeking a home. The men out on the landing field were the first to notice it and looked up in a vain attempt to pierce the fog. The sound circled and circled, drifting in and out of hearing as the fog played tricks on the ears. Soon one of the men went to the farmhouse to inform the pilots there of what they were hearing.
Commander Burton immediately ordered them to light the smudge pots on the landing strip, and the pilots tumbled out of their relaxation to hear for themselves. The motor sounds still circled the field, but now it became clear that the machine was having engine problems, or most likely running out of petrol. They could almost see the pilot banking left and right sloshing the remaining petrol in to his engine. Burton then ordered all the available trucks and autos out along the field with their head lights on.
‘Poor bastard.’ Said Willy, voicing what the pilots all felt.
The motor noise cut in and out but it seemed to be getting lower and lower towards the field.
‘Come on…come on old man…bring her in.’ coached Burton.
All the pilots were now gathered on the side of the strip, like spectators lining the pitch at a football match. A final pass across the field reviled brief flashes of red, the underbelly of an aircraft seeking the sanctuary of earth. It climbed once again to circle around for a final attempted landing and safety, or just as possible, a horrible crash. Just as it made the turn at the furthest end of the field the motor cut out, coughed once and then quit for good.
The eyes of the gathered men strained to see the far end of the landing strip through the fog. They sensed rather then heard the bump as the plane touched down. A dark shadow rolled towards them, gradually getting more distinct.
The fog parted and the craft rolled to a stop. It was a German Folker Dr 1, Bright red with a broad white stripe on the top and bottom of its three wings and mid section, adorned with the black Iron cross of Germanica.
‘Cor…Blimey it’s a Hun.’ Yelled one of the men as three other rushed out, their Lee Enfield 303 rifles at the ready.
‘Hold men, don’t shoot!’ Yelled Burton. ‘Just cover the pilot and watch for tricks.’
The men surrounded the aircraft with weapons aimed at the cockpit.
‘Gentlemen, please I’m unarmed.’ The pilot spoke with a thick German accent. ‘Allow me to exit this craft without …ah…mistake…being made, ya.’
Burton as well as the other pilots ran up to a respectful distance.
‘I’m the commanding officer here, state your intentions.’ Shouted Burton towards the plane.
‘Herr Commandant, my respects, and excuses for intruding but I seem to be misplaced in my navigation ya?’ The pilot shouted back and threw his flying helmet and goggles into the cockpit. He climbed out of his plane, as well as the swirling mist.
Stepping down off the foot well on the rear of the middle wing, the guards moved in to circle the pilot. Commander Burton again cautioned his over eager men to stand fast.
‘Allow me the pleasure of the introduction, I am Rittmeister Manfred Von Richthofen, commanding officer of Jagdgeschwader 1.’ With that he removed his flying gauntlets and presented a salute to Burton.
The assembled pilots voiced a collective gasp and looked at each other with mouths agape, as the realization of just who this pilot was. Everyone knew the ‘Red Baron’ and his ‘Flying circus’ his list of kills now stood at 80. In fact he had 60 little silver cups, his victory cups. Each of them engraved by his jeweler in Berlin with the type of aircraft and nationality he had shot down. But since silver was now in shortage because of the war, he had stopped at 60 because he refused to honor his opponents with cups made of a lesser metal. He was a legend, a myth, but most of all feared by all the allied pilots.
‘Commander Burton, Royal Air Force, Commanding officer RAF Airdrome 11.’ Burton stated as he returned the salute. ‘I have to inform you, Herr Captain that as of now you are a
prisoner of war in the custody of his Majesty’s Air Force, and as such you are protected from harm, I would ask you to divest yourself of any weapons you may have on you.’
‘Herr Commander, I have no weapons on me and I understand I am your prisoner, better a prisoner then dieing in a useless crash…Ja?’
‘Baron…since the weather is so bad, I would ask you to accompany me and my offices to our headquarters until arrangements can be made for you transfer to a more secure location’
‘Of course Commander, but I hope you have some of your English tea? Or tobacco?’
‘I give you my word as an officer, anything you may require for you comfort will be provided, and you will also understand that I must interrogate you as a prisoner of war, now I must insist that one of my men check your person for weapons.’
‘I understand Herr Commander, I am at your service.’
Burton beckoned to the sergeant of the guard to personally check his prisoner for weapons. Having found none, the sergeant relaxed his men and Richthofen went to Burton with a hand extended.
‘Herr Burton, you fly the Camel with a… ah…how do you say it a ‘green leaf?’ on it?’
‘It is a shamrock Baron, a green shamrock.’ Burton replied as he took the Germans handshake.
‘Ach…a Shamrock…yes I know you, and your plane.’
‘And I know you Baron, over Vaux-sur-Somme, two weeks ago, you stitched my bus full of holes, I barely got home.’
‘I’m happy to see that you did, you fought well.’
‘Now Baron if you will come with me.’ Burton turned and led his prisoner toward the farmhouse followed by the collected pilots. They kept a respectful distance, but the chatter between them was unmistakable. Burton led the way into the welcoming warmth of the farmhouse and invited his prisoner to sit by the fire. Richthofen chose a soft chair and settled in as only a man weary in both mind and body could.
‘Baron may I offer you some refreshments, some ham perhaps or tea?’
‘That would be nice Herr Commander, but please introduce me to your fellow pilots and let us relax since we so seldom have the chance to do so.’
Burton grouped his men around the German ace and made the introductions, each man shook hands with him as he looked at the each in turn.
‘So tell me, young men what do you expect from this war? Glory, fame? Will you really have ether if you are in a shallow grave in France, or burned alive in a crashed, wrecked air bus?’
This caught the assembled men by surprise, here was the foremost German ace, a man worshiped by his country as the prefect warrior espousing the horrors that they lived with but never vocalized.
‘Think of this gentlemen, why do we fight… I ask you, do we have a stake in this national disagreement? No, we do not… we simply fight and die.’
‘Baron…surely you don’t believe we should not answer our country’s call…do you?’ Stated Burton to the murmured agreement of his gathered pilots.
‘Nein…or should I say…no, I am sorry, my English is not too good I’m afraid. No we should answer our nations call but only when it is clear that we fight to protect ourselves and our way of life.’
‘Aren’t we doing that now in this conflict?’ Flying officer Briggs asked the Baron. Briggs, whose brother was wounded at the front during the last British offensive, was more aggressive in his words then most of the younger pilots.
‘Herr Briggs this is a war that is a fantasy…a game of one man.’
‘The Kaiser?’ Replied Briggs with not a little trepidation
‘Ya, Das Kaiser…a man beset by dreams of being as great as his English cousins…and so…he drags us to war.’ The Baron fell silent.
Presently the cook brought out a platter of cold ham, pickles and fresh baked bread for the assembled pilots. In deference to their guest they allowed the Red Baron to select his portion before they fell upon it themselves. The British pilots noticed that the Baron still remained quite pale despite the warmth of the fire, and he seemed to want food but did not eat, or drink.
‘Herr Richthofen, is the food not to your liking?’ The cook ventured from the side of the room. (He was always quite sensitive about his cooking.)
‘Ach, no my good cook…I’m just… how you say…tired?’
‘Of course Baron, I’m sure it was a hazardous flight today with the fog.’ Willy O’Connor opined between forkfuls of ham.
‘Actually Herr O’Connor, the weather was clear and fine most of the morning, in fact just north of here, over the lines, the sun was shining.’
‘Is that where your mission brought you?’ asked Commander Burton
‘Ja, Commander I was over the Australians sector, being harassed by more then a few of your machines.’ Richthofen grew quiet and seemed to be in pain. He reached up and fingered a torn hole in his flying suit that the other men there hadn’t noticed until then. His eyes seemed glazed and far away as he stared into the fire. The other pilots remained in a respectful silence, each lost in their own thoughts. After a few minutes the German slowly lifted his gaze to the other men there and spoke slowly, nodding his head to emphasize his words.
‘I look at all of you, no different then my own men back at the Jasta…And I see nothing but sorrow and death in your eyes.’ The men glanced at each other in doubt and remained silent, wondering where the Baron was going with his narration.
‘Ya…Gentlemen I see it in your eyes as I have seen it in others, the look of men dead but still living, half in the shadow world and you get closer to that world every time you fly your machines. Every combat you fight brings you closer to the final conclusion… that you will join all of those that have died in flames or riddled by random bullets.’ Suddenly Richthofen head snapped up, startling the men.
‘You… Herr O’Connor, You will never see the green fields of your homeland again, Oh no you have a date with a muddy furrow in the earth just 10 miles from here, and you Mr. Walsh…don’t worry about working in the deep coal mines of Newcastle when the war is over, you will perish in a ever tightening downward spiral, being chased by the flames you can’t put out.’
‘Baron, Stop this…this…nonsense.’ Said Burton as he saw these two men that the German had picked out react in shock and horror.
‘No I will not.’ the Baron said raising his voice just a little. ‘You all need to hear this because it is true and just that I should tell it to all of you. I have the weight of the 80 men that I have sent to that shadow world that beg me to speak so. And what of you Bannister?’ Johnny’s head snapped up, his eyes locked on the eyes of the German pilot, waiting for his future to be reviled and not sure if he wanted to hear it.
‘Don’t worry you’ll make it back home to your wife.’ Bannister sighed and started to smile, just a little bit and just as quickly it faded as the Baron continued.
‘Of course it will take her a while to adjust to the new face you will bring home from the hospital, a face of rubbery scars, mottled pink skin and a whittled new nose since your old face was left in a crashed plane in France. Lieutenant Throckmorton, so eager to return to teaching in your schoolroom and your family? Don’t be, a Zeppelin bombing raid on London will erased them both.’
‘Stop… Barron, you abuse our good graces!’ Exclaimed Burton, disturbed by the effect of the Germans words on his men.
‘Ah…Commander Burton…You most of all I wish to speak to’ Continued the German. ‘You Commander, leader of these men, you will come home, whole and in one piece in body… if not mind. These days and your decisions will keep you company in the long nights if your life. These fine young men will come and visit you those nights looking just as they do tonight, even as you grow old.’
Richthofen fell silent and his eyes closed. The English pilots sat in stunned silence not believing what they had just heard. The onl
y sound was the fire that had burned low, casting weird moving shadows that played along the beams.
It was the German himself that broke the silence.
‘Commander, I am very tried as I’m sure you all are with my ramblings, is there somewhere I can sleep?’
‘Of course Baron, you will sleep here, the chairs are as comfortable as any of our beds. Of course I will remind you that I have posted armed guards outside with orders to stop you if you try to escape.’
With that Burton and the pilots arose and with minimal salutations left the German to what remained of the fire. As they filed out the door, each lost in their own thoughts, Burton had a quite conversation with the guards that were posted outside the door. Night quickly swallowed up the men as they walked slowly back to the respective quarters leaving the airdrome wrapped in fog, both of night as well as war.
Commander Burton was jolted awake in the pre dawn hours by a pounding at his door. ‘Commander…wake up, the German, Richthofen is gone!’ Burton bounced out of his bed and flung open the door. The Captain of the guards stood in disheveled dismay in front of him. How could this happen? He thought. ‘Bloody hell, find him right now!’ ‘Yes Sir! But there is more I’m afraid, Commander.’ Burton quickly wondered what else could be as bad as letting the most sought after German flying ace of the war escape. ‘Well what is it?’ ‘His machine is gone as well, Sir.’ ‘Impossible…simply impossible, an airplane just does not fly away with out being seen, are you all mad? Send for the rest of the men to meet me in the HQ straight away.’ ‘Yes Sir’ The captain of the guard replied and quickly about faced to carry out his orders.
Burton crossed the field, which was still wrapped in fog, to the HQ building. The guards were still posted by the door but were of little use now, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Burton. The room was just as he left it a few hours ago, the blankets left out for Richthofen’s use remained folded neatly on the table. His uneaten plate of food and untouched drink still sat in the same place as last night. Nothing at all had changed.
The other pilots tumbled in to the room in various stages of getting their uniforms on. They all wore look of shock as well as distress on their faces. Burton stood drumming his fingers on the table, deep in thought of what they should do now, as well as how he was going to explain this to his superiors. He was just formulating a plan of action when the wireless officer rushed in with a telegram in his hand.
‘Commander Burton Sir, the radio set is working again and we just received this message.’
‘Not now Williams, that can wait a while, whatever it is.’
‘No sir, I think you better read this straight away.’
‘Oh very well then hand it over.’ Williams handed the message blank to Burton and moved back to stand with the other assembled men. The Commander unfolded the paper and began to read it, suddenly his hand shot out to grasp the edge of the table. He slowly sagged down to rest on the arm of the chair that the Baron had occupied last night, his hand went to smooth his hair as he stared at the message. All of those gathered remained silent no knowing what had caused this reaction to their commanding officer. Burton slowly looked up to address them, all the color had drained from his face and he seemed exhausted.
‘Gentlemen, I will read you this message from Command Center London, as I have just read it… ‘
‘To Commanding Officer RAF 11,
Greetings, Command Center London sends this communiqué to inform you that at about 1100 hours yesterday… 21 April 1918 units of the RAF shot down and killed our greatest adversary, Rittmeister Manfred Von Richthofen also knows as the Red Baron in an aerial combat over Morlancourt ridge in France. We take pleasure in saluting Captain Brown as well as the Australian ground troops for this victory.
The silence in the room stretched out to where the minutes seemed like hours. Finally someone spoke.
‘So he was a…bloody Ghost?’ Voiced O’Connor, speaking out loud what they all felt.
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