With the Force of a Typhoon
Normandy, D-Day.
A squadron of British Typhoons had taken off to cover the operation of D-Day. "Hey lads! Everyone there?"
"Aye. We're all here. Intel says we should be expecting heavy resistance, including Fw 190s, Ta 154s, and Bf 109s." The entire squadron was nervous. Even the squadron leader's voice was shaky from fear.
They were nearing the beaches where a hail of flak and machine gun fire dawned upon them. "Enemy fighters! Dead ahead! Break formation, break formation!" The fighters mowed a few Typhoons down while the Brits shot back. The dogfighting continued for ten minutes, and most of the Typhoons were down. One lone pilot was up against five enemy planes. Their machine guns boomed. Their loud voices causing terror on the lone pilot. A bullet hit the precious black gold known as gasoline. It ignited. His wing tore off. He slammed into the ocean. All he could see, was black.
With the Force of a Typhoon
The pilot had woken up. He crawled out of his plane and to his amazement, it didn't have a scratch on it. He took a look at his surroundings. He was at the edge of a rather large forest. 'The Ardennes?' he thought. 'Cant be.". He was extremely confused. If he wasn't in The Ardennes, and he wasn't at Normandy, where was he?. His plane in full working order, the pilot was unscathed, as if 20mm cannon shells didn't rip his body apart. He began walking around, not straying away from the perimeter of the plane. Since his plane had landed on one big flat land strip, he decided taking off would be a good idea. He turned on his plane, ignited the engine, and took off. From up where he was, he could see a large part of the landscape.
There was a rather small town full of colors. It intrigued him. 'A French town?', he thought. He swooped down to take a look. Normally, his squadron leader would've given him hell for pulling off something like that. But his squadron leader wasn't there. He was alone. All of his friends were gone. He was all alone. A tear fell from his eye as he remembered his fallen comrades. He would never forget his squadron leader, Godfrey. A noble man who kept his word at all times. He would miss that man dearly. He would miss the British airfield he called home. He sped onward. He saw what looked like... horses... down in the town. He rubbed his eyes as he thought he was seeing blasphemy. He finished rubbing his eyes and saw, once again, the horses in the town. 'I must be going insane with grief.', he thought.
He began climbing with his plane. Once his altimeter said 4,500m, he righted the plane. He caught a glimpse of a two engine aircraft. He got out his binoculars. "A cabbage crate? No way.", he said. He turned the plane to face the 'cabbage crate'. He began firing his 20mm Hispano cannons at the other plane. Sure enough, it was German. After a one second burst, the enemy's wing came off and burned. He chased it down to 1,000 meters altitude to see the burning, smoldering wreck of German engineering. "Bloody Jerries." The pilot looked at his gas meter. He had about 3 quarters of a full tank. He didn't have any airfield near him so he looked for a flat price of ground.
He saw some, and it was next to a large orchard. He couldn't believe his luck! He felt rather hungry as pilot rations weren't that filling. He started the landing process and after about ten minutes, he landed. He got out, patted his plane for good luck, and began walking toward the orchard. He could see big, red, succulent apples just begging to be eaten. He climbed up a tree to get one, and came back down with his prize. He took a bite. It was delicious! The sweet juices created a cascade of flavor. He hurriedly grabbed more before rushing back to his plane. You never now who might jump you.
He heard a voice shout at him. Expecting hostility, he drew his Webley Revolver and turned around. It was an American voice. "WHY YOU VARMINT!PUT DOWN THOSE APPLES NOW!OR IM GOING TO CHASE YOU OFF!." The pilot was extremely intimidated, but he stood his ground. He watched a pony start charging him. He took a few shots with his Webley before running my back to his plane, where he hurriedly started to take off. Before the pony could strike the plane, it was already accelerating to flight speed. It took off and the pilot enjoyed the sweet fruits he had captured.
He knew he couldn't stay up in the air forever, although he wished he could've. He always loved the sky. So quiet and peaceful, and in dogfights, so exhilarating and exciting.
He was going to spend many hours up in the cockpit of his plane. He never wanted to leave. All of the sudden, he saw something blue flash inside the angle of his cockpit view. 'Are these the jets everyone was talking about?' He thought to himself. It was impossible to go that fast without tearing off the most vital part of a plane, the wings. He saw the flash again and again, getting confused. He performed a dive to gain speed. He was slightly fazed by the amount of negative G's, but he handled it nonetheless. He read his speedometer, which was reaching the VNE( Velocity do Not Exceed). He pulled up before it hit that mark and many G's forced the pilot into his seat. The blue flash followed him and he began firing his Hispano cannons. A small burst at a time scared the blue flash and it zipped away.
The pilot looked at the time. 6:37 P.M. He didn't want to go night fighting as his plane wasn't meant for it. He landed the plane on a slightly bumpy patch of ground. After his successful landing, he had a few apples for dinner before going to sleep. He wasn't disturbed at all during the night, but the same nightmare he had always had since he made the pact of never abandoning his plane. Three small fillies walked toward the plane. The time was 2:49 A.M. The pilot, being asleep, was jostled by hoofsteps on he plane. He woke up and slid his cockpit back, his Webley drawn. "Who's there!? Come out you bloody wanker! Now!", he said.
