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I shook my head to clear it. This flight had been the most uneventful flight ever. Since the 23rd of July 1945, known as "Liberator Day" due to the 55 Liberators and their crews that never saw their roosts again, the skies over France had been eerily quiet. Only a few FW-190s and a couple of ME-262s had been sighted at a distance, and most of the time they had turned tail and ran. The ground was, as always, pretty from up here, a patchwork of hills, forests, rivers, and plains. Crops were rare to see due to the burning hulks of hundreds of airplanes burning most of them away, leaving ugly scares. Since it was now the 27th, I expected some action. I wanted blood on my Mustang's fangs. I shifted in the narrow cockpit, as my leg had fallen asleep. It was a little cold in the cockpit but I had learned to grow my fur out long to keep myself warm. The aforementioned Mustang was purring away healthily, prop turning in a hypnotic circle. I had named her Audrey, after my childhood sweetheart. A few calls rang out on the radio, but they were far away. Obviously, a few Thunderbolts had gotten into one helluva tussle. I wished I could help but I was too far away, plus I was only Number 3. Number 1 checked on us every now and then but we all just wanted this boring patrol over with. Then a startling radio call. A British flight somewhere, presumably a flock of Spitfires, were calling out that they were fighting a strange jet fighter.

"All flights all flights, we have spotted one-engined jets with cannons and... BLOODY HELL MY WING..." the loud sound of metal tearing ended the transmission. My brows creased... what the hell was going on? Number 1 was obviously startled as well, "Red Flight, stay aware, do some maneuvers if it helps you to stay awake." Number 2 began bobbing up and down as her pilot tried to shake off sleep. I was now regretting my earlier lusts for battle, as whatever was attacking them sounded really bad. I put my head on a swivel, looking all around out the bubble canopy of the fighter. I was thinking about arming Audrey's six fifties but I decided against it. We were close to the border with Germany, so anything that didn't look like a friend was an enemy. I swear I felt Audrey's vibrating airframe give an excited shudder, but it was probably just well-timed turbulence. The airwaves were becoming crowded as reports rang out of odd jets, some reports claiming they saw a jet engine with wings and a T-tail, others reporting jets with engines on top. This chatter was worse than the Christmas Slaughter, where over 45 P-47s and 33 P-51s, and about 49 Spitfires, were brought from the sky by German FW-190s and Bf-109s, followed by mockery from Dictator Fleischer, whom had taken over in the wake of Hitler's death in late 1941.

November 29th, 1941

Somewhere Over Europe

Nazi German Zeppelin GS-2

The Captain of Zeppelin GS-2 felt the massive weight of his responsibilities on his shoulders, even with only four passengers. They were the most important, however. Hitler, Himmler, and a couple of underlings sat with their superiors, discussing war plans. Then the Navigator saw something out the window of the control car. An odd mountain range... oh god. He realized his horrible mistake. "Turn around, now!" The Captain looked at him oddly. "What's going on, Axel?" Axel looked at his charts. He was amazed that they weren't dead by now. "We're crossing the border with Russia!" The Captain shouted orders at the Helmsman, who cranked the wheel hard. The small Zeppelin, about 80 feet long, wheeled hard. The defensive gunners manned their stations on the top, tail, nose, and belly as everyone looked out for fighters. They saw them. A swarm of Yak-1s and I-16s came barreling right at them, the Yaks from a high altitude and the Polikarpovs from a lower altitude. The gunners on the belly opened fire, knocking two of the stubby I-16s from the sky. One Yak broke off, her engine emitting a thin white smoke. The fighters were coming in at a poor angle, making for one hell of a show. No crew were watching the opposite side. Then the radioman saw a horrifying sight out of the window on the left side. Six Il-2s, fresh off the production lines, dove in with rockets. The other fighters had been a distraction. Even though a couple guns opened up, the bullets just pinged off of the armored beasts. The Zeppelin resisted the first few rockets that struck, but the next one pierced several gas cells and destroyed some of her ribs. The ship creaked as her bones were damaged. The ship started losing altitude despite the frantic efforts of the crew. Both of the engine pods were shot off, leaving her as a floating target. At only 400 feet, a rocket pierced a fuel tank and ignited it. The Russians flew off, triumphant, the grey and red zeppelin burning like a torch from the tail forward. Two crewmen managed to bail, later being captured. Hitler, Himmler, and everyone else aboard were either burned to death by the inferno or killed when she crashed in a heap on the Russian soil.

Number 4, a lion that we called Glasseyes because of his gifted eyesight, called out a contact. "This is Red 4, I've got two bogeys off my nose, closing fast. They don't have props, but they aren't 262's, no engine pods." Number 2 decided to give his insight. "Maybe they are P-80s..." Number 1 cut him off, "No, P-80s cannot fly this far. Arm weapons, permission to break formation." My pulse quickened. I flipped the two switches, arming the six deadly machine guns. I gripped the stick in one hand and the throttle in another, my breathing speeding up. The merge hit faster than I ever expected, and what happened next will be burned into my brain forever. The four jets, most definitely Germans, came screaming at us, and then the third one in the formation spat flames as her cannons exploded into life. Gigantic tracers the size of golf balls screamed at us like comets. The volley was short, just a few rounds, but the effect it had on Number 2's Mustang was horrific. The Mustang was mutilated by the massive rounds impacting the engine, causing it to burst into flames, followed by the wing getting hit several times and folding down under the Mustang's petite fuselage. The canopy popped off and Number 2 leaped from his bird. I did what came naturally, which is breaking away. I threw the Merlin to the firewall and tilted the stick forward, causing the pointed nose of the plane to lift above the horizon. She screamed with raw power as the altimeter spun 'round, and I saw a couple of tracers whiz by. There was a flash as Number 1's Mustang went up in a fireball, but I didn't have time for shock. I needed to haul my ass out of there. Audrey was using all of her muscle to climb but I knew that she was struggling.

2,000 horsepower only got you so far. I looked over my shoulder and got a good look of what had downed two of my buddies. She was an odd sight indeed, a slim fuselage, a twin tail like a B-24s, and two shoulder wings. Oddest of all was the single jet engine that was mounted to her back, just behind the bulbous cockpit. I immediately wondered what the pilot did in an emergency, but I had no time as this odd looking plane was breathing fire and the tracers very nearly took off Audrey's tail. I put her on her wing and pulled hard, trying to shake the bastard off of my tail. I knew that jets couldn't turn well... at least I thought. She struggled but kept up easily. I knew that these were extraordinary jets, and I needed to think up new tactics on the fly... she had a strange tail, so perhaps in a dive aerodynamics would screw her... I dove hard, Audrey screeching like a phoenix as the speedometer clicked against the block. The jet dove after me, but she was far faster than Audrey. This is how I killed my first jet. He zoomed past my nose, unable to slow enough to stay behind my prop-driven beast. I kicked the rudder and lined up the fifties, and I fired. The tracers spewed from Audrey's wings as the guns barked to life. The rounds tore apart the vulnerable engine, pieces breaking away from the inside and being propelled out the back. The pilot shot out of the cockpit, propelled by a rocket. I would have laughed at the sight had some tracers not nearly brained me. I actually hunched from the proximity of the rounds and snapped the stick forward, shooting her nose up. I nearly blacked out but I got my claws into consciousness and stayed awake. The second jet tried to follow my sudden change, but then something amazing happened. Her wings snapped off, clean at the roots. The pilot again shot out on a rocket chair. I looked around at the late morning skies, but they were empty. I sighed and looked at my hands. They were shaking badly, and my knees were clattering against the side of the cockpit. Damn, that was scary, but I needed to get my flight in check. "Red Flight, check in, Number 3." No response. I waited a minute, checking the fuel gauge. No one responded. "Red flight, check in, Number 3." Still nothing.

I wondered if my radio was working, it was receiving as the winding down chatter was still coming in, but that didn't mean it was sending. "Radio check, please respond, Red 3." A British pilot called back, "Roger Red 3, radio is sending." I knew that was not the problem. I sighed. My whole flight could be dead. I set her on a course for home in Britain, knowing she had enough fuel to get there.

45 MINUTES LATER

I climbed out of the fighter, her engine spluttering to silence. I walked inside to the base commander's office due to his request. I took a seat to his gesture. The eagle looked me right in the face. "SO, what did these mysterious planes look like?" I sighed and began. "They had small wings with two down-facing fins at the tips and a dual tail like a B-24, with a small jet engine on the top just behind the cockpit. They use some sort of rocket chair to escape, I shot one down." The commander nodded, and finished typing on his typewriter. He paused. "How fast were they?" I didn't ever get a good angle, but I knew that they had to be faster than even 262s. "Damn fast, sir. I couldn't guess a speed in numbers but they were certainly faster than 262s." he nodded, again typing frantically on his typewriter. "We knew about these, a spy told us, but we were told that they weren't even flying because of structural flaws." I remembered the second jet's demise. "Sir, I think they still are flawed. I snapped out of a dive into a hard climb, and one tried to follow me. Her wings snapped clean off at the roots." He look surprised. "Usually the Germans build better planes than that." I shrugged. "I couldn't believe my eyes, sir." He finished typing and then stared out the window. I waited for a few seconds as he thought, watching a P-47 touch her wheels to the runway. He looked back to me. "How good did they maneuver?" I remembered the first one. "Damn good sir, Audrey couldn't out turn 'em no matter what I did." He nodded. "Any questions?" I still didn't know of my flight. "What happened to my wingman, sir?" He looked at me in an odd way. "What about 1 and 2?" I shuddered as I remembered 1's Mustang popping like a balloon. "One is dead, his Mustang exploded. Two is either dead or captured, his 'Stang was shot down and he bailed successfully." Commander Mason clicked his beak a couple times. "We have a Mustang MIA. I think it's your wingman... was he a lion?" I nodded. "He was captured. A spy reported seeing him being led into Gross-Rosen. You are dismissed, George Strongarm." I nodded and stood up, feeling tired. I walked off to my bunks, exhausted by this new foe.

November 20th, 1973

George Strongarm

USAAF (ret.)

I sighed and sat back from my typewriter. I had figured that it was time to put my stories into ink, and this was the start of that. I stood up, my bones creaking, and hobbled out the door to get my mail as the truck drove off down the street. Bills, a couple of uninteresting letters... wait... I took the stack inside and set it down on my dinner table. I pulled out an envelope with a return address from somewhere in Virginia... oh my god, it was Glasseyes.

Dear George,

I've rented this hotel as a place to stay until I earn enough for my own house. I escaped from Auschwitz a couple weeks back and will be forever grateful to the Russians from now on. Anyways, I just got your address and wondered if we could talk face-to-face, wherever you want, mayhaps you could bring me up-to-date on this "cold war" with Germany? I could also tell you how I escaped from the Germans, mad bastards!

Matthew O' Dell (AKA Glasseyes)

I smiled. Only he would end a letter like that. I got up slowly and went off to write a reply.