!!0ZviLFh59My 03/01/12(Thu)23:49 No.18169690|
File: 1330663797.jpg-(78 KB, 1000x633, 00f54c15b1c7b00b879976c6d8b9e2(...).jpg)
RAF Hornchurch, A.K.A. Sutton Farm, is a fucking mess. As you roll up to the ramp, a flight of Blenheims are lifting off ahead of you, struggling into the air with four 500-pound bombs apiece. Circling Hurricanes wait patiently for their overloaded charges to lumber airborne and head for the nearby front.
"I wouldn't want to be those poor bastards," Ian remarks, and you grunt agreement. The Blenhiem is well past her useful prime in this war, but it has wings, so they keep flying them.
The tower gives you clearance for take-off roll, and you floor the throttle, accelerating your A-20G (or P-70, if you care,) down the runway. Even with full flaps the A-20 takes more room to get aloft, especially with the Fuel-Air Bombs riding the hardpoints and the AP rocket rails under the outer wings, but you've got cavernous fuel tanks and barely twenty miles to go so you let the Wright-Cyclone powerplants run extra-rich, 110% power. You form up with your Witches, Bader settling on your left wing. Chuck socks in on your right, and you note he's brought two 500-pound bombs to party with. So far, so good.
"A-20 on point," Minna instructs, and Sean applies himself to the radar set, guiding you down the Martian's own beam. The radio is alive with the cries of fighting and dying pilots scarce forty miles distant, and you bite back your frustration at flying over unmolested territory while England's Darkest Hour is coming alive all around you.
You'd better not be wrong about all this.