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Schatten

Nervous?

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One of the things I like about OFF's camapign system is that you can go on flights and see no sign of enemy aircraft whatsoever. Oh they're out there, but they aren't very shiny, they're pretty damn small, and they tend to fly either so low that they're hard to pick out against the ground, or else they fly so high that sometimes even when you see something up there there's no chance in hell that you're going to intercept them. So all in all you can fly several missions without any enemy aircraft contact. This is a cool thing if you ask me.

Often you see planes tooling around near the front lines, get that little fluttery feeling in the pit of your stomach as you and your wingmen turn to investigate and then...you see that they're just some Frenchies out for a morning sightseeing jaunt on an essential missions to make maps of all of the brothel locations within 20 miles of the front line. Other times it's a fellow Brit out trying to catch the faster French planes...to find out where all the of the brothels are hiding.

And yet then there are those missions where you're tooling along in your Nieuport, and there's this little locust swarmy thingmie on the horizon. You turn over to investigate where the newest brothel in Flanders is and when the planes get close enough to ID you realise it's Jasta 5, and they're all cranky because Ball flew over and flung a pair of short pants out of his Camel over their airfield with a forged note from Bolke's mom telling him that his kitten died. Oh yeah, they're really pissed off.

Nothing says,"This is the last time I volunteer to go to Europe to save the locals from some annoying Huns in leather shorts" like seeing 3 or 4 Albatros Vs diving at you all annoyed because you've shot down a few of their finest, and blondest, friends. And of course they always seem to want to engage you right over their front lines where all of those mustachioed machinegunners are just itching to try out their new Maxims with the specially designed Kill The Tommy Flyboy sight that their whole kindergarten alumni class back in Mannerheim pitched in to buy them for a very special birthday present. Isn't life grand?

To make a long story short, I know, too late...it's really starting to wear on me a bit. I mean I've been flying for the Royal Navy Air Service for a month now, the calender just flipped over to Feb 1, 1917 and I really don't think Mrs. Blackadder's boy is going to make it until the end of the war. I mean I've done fairly well, there have been some missions where I didn't see anything aside from some rather dodgy looking farmhouses which are probably brothels, but there has been a bit of fighting along the way. Alright more than a bit, for some reason Jasta 11 has decided they are our squadron's personal nemesises (which is probably not a word) and has done no less than 4 attacks on our airfield. I mean just because we're a hop, skip and jump from a decent enough beach is no reason to be coming over on average once a week just to try to shoot us up while we're playing cricket out back of the HQ.

In my month's worth of flying I've completed 18 missions, some more exciting than others, and have had my Nieuport so riddled with holes that I had to do an emergency landing in a field right behind the trenches, near a farmhouse, which unfortunately was not a brothel. That little adventure sent me to the hospital for almost 2 weeks, so technically I've only been flying for 2 weeks worth of the month. And I'm convinced that the wounds I suffered before landing came from one of our own trenchy types who was just annoyed that I'm not spending the war standing in rather chilly puddles of mud while waiting to be shelled, bayonetted and/or gassed by rejects from a Bavarian Polka band.

All in all things haven't gone too badly, and that's something of the problem. The Home Office has sent me two telegrams in my time here. One at the hospital and one at the aerodrome telling me that my myopic wingman did indeed see those Hun planes I said I shot down, go down. I would have prefered a transfer to the Women's Auxillary Balloon Corps but that just wasn't in the cards. Oh well at least they aren't making me watch Charlie Chaplain movies...

Along with the telegrams telling me that I wasn't hallucinating when I told my squadron CO that yes I shot down a few of those naughty German types, I also received with each one a little bit of tin attached to a scrap of ribbon. So now I'm the holder of two Distinguished Flying Crosses. Fat lot of good they'll do me because I really do have this sinking feeling that 3 sorties a day for the duration could wind up causing me a slight case of the deads. Right now my score stands at 20 confirmed sausage eaters, not too bad considering that most of them came to me during those airfield attacks.

We got our own back though by doing 2 airfield attacks against them as well. As for airfield attacks the trick there is closing to within about half a mile, firing off your French made bottle rockets in the general direction of the airbase, turning tail and running like Oscar Wilde from the Newcastle Naughty Sufferagettes until you can get back to base and tell the Old Man that your ears went "pop" so you couldn't continue the mission.

Things are going to go badly, I can feel it. So anyone else a little nervous about how well they're doing in the air? I mean until now the most missions I've gotten through was 10 and I'm almost double that, the most confirmed kills I've had is 3 and I'm well beyond that, and all of the claims I've filed "for review" have come back as confirmed except for the last few accumulated since the last confirmation note. Running 100% on claims reviews has to be a Bad Sign that the bottom is going to fall out soon. The medals seal it. I am so very, very dead.

:popcornsmilie:

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Schatten to his sqaudron C.O. "Define interesting?"

Squadron C.O. "Oh God Oh God, We're all gonna die."

:edit: Nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof Bro. I figured my last attempt at surviving the war was going to well. I decided then that if I die, I would start the war journal with my next pilot. Through my first 13 missions I had two claims. Then on my last mission, I splashed two DIIIs and two Fokker Tri's. I was saving this line for my journal but what the hell, the way my luck has been I'll die again before I get to use it, But damn if that Fokker aint a good airplane. I got a lucky snap shot on one and it was the "magic golden BB" cause I hit once and it must have been a pilot kill. The second, I was lucky enough to in the right place at the precise right time during one of his climb to stall routines and I centered the cockpit and riddled the bastard. Then I ran into the "Albatros Flight From Hell" and them purple-planed people eaters riddled me before I knew they there. I downed two, the leader took off and I limped to base. Unfortunately, I guess one of those rounds found me as I "died from my injuries".

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Can you say "immersion"?

Boy, this OFF has it in spades.

I just finished reading War Birds, the diary of an Arkansas boy named John Grider who flew SE5as with the RFC's 85 Squadron during May and June of 1918. Originally published as "the diary of an unknown aviator," War Birds was edited by Grider's squadronmate and close friend Elliot White Springs, a 16-victory ace who wrote several novels about WWI aviation during the prewar years.

Grider didn't last long. Springs extended the diary through August, adding his own experiences, but Grider was actually shot down on 19 June 1918, within a month of reaching the front. By the end of the diary, Springs sounds just like you do, Schatt -- convinced that he's not going to survive.

This is one hardcore campaign. Just the way I like it. I only wish Critter and Her Maternal Self would give me more time in the air. Even with time acceleration enabled, an OFF mission is a lengthy undertaking. Again, just the way I like it. The suspense really builds after a few missions.

Maybe that's the key to immersion -- emphasizing uncertainty ...

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Schatty,

You are in rare form today, mein freund!

Brothels, sausage eaters, dead kittens. :rofl::rofl:

And yes, Joker, I was thinking the same thing about immersion as you pointed out. This game does, from what I've read, seem to have immersion in spades.

Who'd of thunkit? You guys going on and on about a CFS3 mod. As I live and breathe I can hardly believe it.

Now, I just had a thought after reading all these stories and journal entries. Does this OFF mod give you a place to keep a personal, written pilot log / journal in the game itself? If so, cool! If not, then why doesn't it and why, for that matter, didn't every air combat game released to date have one?

I mean, how cool would it be to go back into your old EAW install and read over your first, excited, impressions of the battle that just was. I mean, really, why the heck didn't we and the developers think of this feature a loooooooong time ago?

Online forums come and go, but if you could save a personal, exportable mission log in these games it sure would add to the immersion of the the single missions and especially the campaigns.

Just my two centablos. :)

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It gives you a one line entry telling you flew this type mission for X amount of time and any claims you may have had.

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It gives you a one line entry telling you flew this type mission for X amount of time and any claims you may have had.

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

You can edit that file in the OFF campaign folder, too, using Notepad. You can also edit your bio from the same file. So it's quite possible to maintain a personal log.

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I'm pretty sure you can edit single mission journals in game.

And yeah, I am getting nervous as well. Have already lost a couple of low hour/shoot-downs

pilots while putxing around. Have not been as "lucky" as Shatt-man, as have only gotten

6 confirmed with a few in review in my 20 missions as "Jacques Neugui" of Esc 3.

Couple of close calls and hospital visits, but he is bound to end up Deadski...

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I don't know how lucky I am Spec, it's getting more and more violent out there like the Huns are looking for me all special like now or something. Not a cheery though to put yourself to sleep with.

I am still...miraculously...alive though. Which brings me both great pleasure since the dead know only one thing, that's it's better to be alive; but also a looming sense of dread. I've kicked up a few missions since that last post and I just know that the Germans are out for me now.

The first mission I flew after the last post started out nice enough, a nice little patrol just over the rear of our trenchlines. So I was guessing that this time all the ground fire would be on my side if some Jerries showed up. Well they did, and in a big way. I was out there tooling around with my lone wingman doing figure eights at about 4,000 feet when I see a locust swarm on the horizon. I kept my position more or less and when they got closer I could see that they were diving in more or less a straight line that would bring them down close enough to attack the trenchy types. Now since there were no other friendly planes in the area I figured it was my duty to go down and give them the what for so I circled back of our lines a bit and went into a gentle dive so I could pick up speed, match altitude with them and hopefully not tear my wings off.

We get down there and I squint to see if I can make out what type they are, and they look like Albatros birds of some sort or another. No problem, so I keep going to intercept. Then as I get close enough to get a count I see a slight "hiccup" in my plans...there are 8, yes Eight, bloody Huns coming down out of the sun. 4-1 odds are a bit on the daunting side, and given the quality of the replacement pilots they keep saddling me with it's really more like 8 to 1. This is where I'm going to buy it I figure but I keep going in anyhow.

Things go from bad to worse when I realise that some of the Jerries are staying a bit higher, and now they're close enough to see that those 4 that are up high, yet still in formation with the strafers, have 3 wings. Oh joy and rapture! They sent me some Triplanes to play with. Since those are generally the more dangerous foes I went after one of them first, clamping onto his tail and following him through some rather violent maneuvering since we were both trying to dodge the machinegun fire from the British trenches below. Finally I got a good line of fire on his cowling and let rip with my machineguns, all of the good stuff that reacts best to bullets is up front you see and I was trying to save ammo for the other 7 Hun gits. Meanwhile my wingman seemed to be doing nothing more than scribbling an account of the action furiously in his notebook for his inevitable "I Knew Him When" tellall book to be released shortly after my impending funeral. The Triplane smoked up but good and did the "I think I'll go left for a while and then crash" maneuver.

I turned back to the fight and didn't see any more Triplanes in the air, either my moronic wingman had cleared them out, highly unlikely, or the trenchy sorts had shot them down or chased them off, so out of gratitude for the infantry I went in after the Albs again and starting shooting them as they bore. Since there were still 4 of them up I figured that eventually they'd get bored of shooting up infantry and would all concentrate on me so I was trying to either scare them off or do enough damage to as many as I could to make a clean run for it later. One of them went down cleanly, I must have hit his fuel tank as there was a nice little explosion followed by smoke and a crater. Another managed to get on me and ripped into me but good before I reversed on him and riddled him. As he started a death spiral I noted that there were no more enemy aircraft in the area. Huzzah! But then I noticed...my gas guage was dropping at an alarming rate. So in a last ditch effort to cheat death I started off Westward to find a nice field to land in since I knew I'd never make it back to my, or in fact any, friendly airbase.

As I'm settling myself down to land in a nice field of turnips, I hear a plane coming up behind me right when I'm in that dodgy less than 100 feet for the final touchdown attitude situation. Ahh so my gittish wingman didn't buy it after all, good on him. Then I hear the worst sound in the world...takkatakkatakka went the Maxim and "Clucking Bell" went I. It was a Triplane that had sneakilly disengaged from combat and come back around to get me while I was landing. And I was damn close to landing too. Rip rip rip went the bullets and there wasn't much I could do since if I did try to throttle up and fight I'd wind up higher and then completely out of gas in less than a minute if my fuel situation estimate was correct. So all I could do was pray and try to land the damn thing and get away from it before he came back and strafed me into the next world.

I couldn't even turn my head to look or I'd snuff it by turning the landing into a crash. So I grit my teeth and prepared to settle down. Suddenly, he comes rolling in front of me! He'd been so close on his gun run he had to roll left and then was appearently cutting back right to go around for another pass but by happenstance this brought him right through the line of fire for my Vickers. I knew I couldn't have much ammo left so as soon as he was about to cross in front of me at all of 25 yards I squeezed the trigger and let it hammer away until it ran dry. He was rolled up on his side so the bullets must have impacted the top of his engine, back over the top wing, into the cockpit and the belt ran out somewhere around his aft fuselage. Take that Jerry! But no time to gloat because the ground was coming up rather faster than I'd like since I went slightly nose down to fire.

The wheels touched, the left wing came up a bit and I was on one wheel for the first 30 or so feet of the landing, swearing a blue streak because I didn't want to die this way when I was so close to making it down, and then slowly the wing dropped and I was in a good three point roll. Right as I was about to cut the engine to stop my roll the fuel gave out and the engine did it all by itself. Now all I had to worry about was being strafed...

...when suddenly off to my right there was a crash and kabloom! The Fokker went in, narrowly missing a farmhouse that looked rather familiar. That's right I'd landed at the same farm as the last time I'd had to come down due to damage. How ironic. After checking to make sure all my bits and pieces were attached, to me not my plane, I got out and walked over to see if the farmhouse had become a brothel since the last time I'd dropped in. Unfortunately it had not, and the farmer started yelling at me for dropping a Hun on his outhouse. Oh the fortunes of war.

It is only now I know why we're given swagger sticks. After beating the Frenchie soundly with mine and stealing his bicycle I made it back to base to find that my wingman had in fact, survived. After asking to be issued a new swagger stick and promising to visit my erstwhile wingman in the hospital later I went to the mess for a stiff drink. Waiting for me was a telegram from the Home Office confirming 5 more of my claims and denying 3 others. Oh well, what do you expect from the Home Office? And why are the Home Office issuing these telegrams instead of the Admiralty? None can say...

Also there was a note from the King telling me how splendid I was along with a parcel. Inside was a Postal Order for 12 Shillings and a Victoria Cross. Wonderful, a damn VC. Now I know I'm going to die...and I almost did on the very next mission, but that's a whole other story...

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Well that smells better than Balderick by a long shot...

Now I was sure my fate was sealed. A V.C. attracts Huns like an Inquisition attracts Spaniards. My next mission was a simple one, or so they said, go out to the little salient near where the trenches meet the Channel and make sure that Field Marshall Haig's duckpond is free of Jerry. Simple. A bit too simple...

My flight plan was to fly out over the Channel and then cut back to the coast and back inland right where the furthest extent of the trenches started. I took off with my wingman whom shall henceforth be known as Hank Keller and went out on my simple mission. Seeing as how we fly for the Naval Air Service I some would say that flying over the Channel would be a good sign, back to the old briney eh wot? Bollocks to that, I saw it as an omen of my impending doom. Naval officers are commonly burried at sea and I figured that flying over it in a somewhat unreliable plane made by Frenchmen who were all cranky that the French Air Army wasn't showing them their maps of the brothel locations was just asking for trouble. And boy was I right.

Things went well enough until we were about 5 miles or so out into the strangely calm Channel. The Channel being strangely calm in the dead of Winter was another omen of doom to my mind. Then it happened. Huns flying down the coastline, obviously scouting for Haig's duckpond and looking to skeet shoot with a Spandau.

As they came in closer I noticed that once again they were those damn Triplanes. Oh well nothing to be done for it I imagined and turned into them along with Keller whom looked rather optomistic I fancied. Of course he looked optomistic, that barking dog we heard just before takeoff was his seeing eye hound and he knew that if he made it back in one piece Fido would be waiting for him along with a freshy caught rabbit. Oh well Keller didn't even know what hit him. I knew what hit him, a pair of Triplanes that the git couldn't get out of the way of, or more specifically their machineguns. Down went Keller to a burial at sea.

I would have helped him, I wanted to in fact but the Huns had split into pairs and I was too busy acting as a bullet sponge for their guns. I was hit repeatedly and was having trouble steering, and couldn't turn well enough to reverse on the bastards. Then a miracle happened!

From the west, flying proud and straight came some shapes along the coastline. Now the pessimist in me thought that they could be more Huns while the doggedly pigheaded part of me decided that they were probably more British planes sent to make sure that I didn't decide to see if my Nieuport had enough range to make it back to a landing in Blighty, whereupon I would assume the identity of a rather sheepish Vicar and take rooms over the pub closest to the nearest Salvation Army nurses training depot. Now while this was indeed a cunning plan, I was willing to forgo spending the rest of the war in humble anonymity just so long as they were, in fact, British planes.

I'm not ashamed to say that I cried out in sheer joy when I saw that they were not only British planes, but planes from my very own squadron, even better they were being lead by none other than my old mate Bob Little. Ace of the Squadron, good Old Bob, a real man's man and a fellow who's favorite passtime was turning Huns into rather dead Huns. Horay! I was saved! I waved frantically to get Little's attention, practically hopping up and down in my cockpit. His planes rolled towards me a bit, and I swear I could see Bob give me a jaunty wave and cheery grin as he...

...sodding flew right on past me and continued along the coast.

See this is what I get for trusting an Australian to save me. He probably talked a brothel map out of some trusting French squadron's mascot mime and was on his way there right now to drink copious volumes of lager and tell stories about growing up as a convict. Poxy Aussie git!

As I sat there cursing by turns everything Prussian as well as everything Australian, trying to figure out a way to get out of this increasingly boring situation I remembered that while the Triplane can turn faster than a Frenchman that just missed the turn down the lane to a brothel, it also goes about as fast as our lines have been advancing for the past 2 and a half years. With this crucial information in mind, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and valor was for the terminally stupid so pushed my nose down with the throttle more open than a very wide open thing.

I was getting pelted by machinegun fire the whole while but the range was increasing and it looked like my desperate readjustment of the tactical situation would work. Finally Fritz put enough rounds into my radial that it stopped with a rather disconcerting farty sound. I was unfortunately at this time, still out over the water. Watery grave here I come. Nothing for it but to keep a stiff upper lip and try not to scream like a schoolgirl who just came home to find her hamster Flossy being used as a dustmop by the ingenius use of a dowel rod.

Finally I saw the beach underneath me and managed to coast to a relatively gentle stop. The Germans, appearently appeased, did not in fact strafe me. I strode over to the duckpond, told the Major in charge of guarding this vital military installation that I needed a ride and was returned to base shortly thereafter. Once again I'd cheated the reaper. But I know it can't last, the Germans seems to be sending more planes up all the time, and my squadronmates are all either cum laude graduates of the St. Ruprecht School for the Deaf, Dumb and Blind or are total assheads who would rather drink champaigne, consort with painted hussies and talk "football" rather than save a chum in need.

Another day, another shilling, but I know that sooner or later the wheel will turn...and I'll be right on the rim to be crushed like a rabbit caught in a tractor's nuts. To make matters worse I'm reliably informed that the movie for tonight is a Chaplin film...

Oh well, I didn't die from the film. Although it was a near thing, nor on my next mission in which I killed someone vaugely famous. More on that later.

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:popcornsmilie:

Keep to it, M8! Much better stories than my current British homeland defense missions.

Not much to relate in the popping of a few Zeppelins, but a pint at the local, instead of hunting up local trollops, always

works a treat... B)

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Well ive only just installed everything but i see the bar has been raised to a very high level already , well off to make a name for myself or die trying Tally Ho chaps

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Schatten,

There's so many funny lines in your last two journal entries, my sides hurt. :D

You and the Skip sure know how to write an immersive AAR. I'm almost afraid to get this game for fear it won't measure up to my expectations after reading these posts.

Please tell me that you and The Skip are saving these entries on your hard drives. I'd hate for these to be lost due to a forum hardware failure.

:thumbsup:

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Should have it tomorrow, then I'll mount my 73 Squadron skinned Camel, fly CAS, and show you how the British can be cut to ribbons by Spandaus!

GET INSIDE HER FIVE TIMES A DAY, AND TAKE HER TO HEAVEN AND BACK!

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Get in her FIVE times a day and she'll take you straight to hell.

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LOL!

I think you'll like it Staggers. But yeah the very idea of 5 times a day makes me break out in a cold sweat.

Wish I could get more flying time but with the packing and all it's getting rather problematic. <_<

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Ordered Friday, Despatch was confirmed Saturday but still not here, though could arrive later today.

Sad reflection on our postal service that some kit I ordered from Hong Kong at the same time DID arrive Tuesday morning.

I'll just wait, then.

:popcornsmilie:

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