It was a cold February evening when I arrived in the Misfits base of operation after a long arduous journey. There was a fine mist in the air, the kind that causes the glow from distant light to appear ghostly. I could hear the faint sound of laughter and music coming from a sparsely lit solitary building on the edge of the airfield.

Instinctively I approached until I stood in front of what could only be best described as a wooden shack held together with tacks and tape, above the eave it read ACEHOLE. I reached for the tattered rope handle and pulled the wooden door, which had seen better days as ordinance crates and entered. Directly across the small room in large print read, "Welcome to the Misfits everyone else can catch our lead".

Four pilots sat at the make shift bar, which was made from the remnants of the top wing of a downed enemy Spad, bullet holes included. Drinking spirits, although it smelled more of piss and vinegar from some home made brew in the dark corner of some tent. In unison, they all turned and stared directly into my eyes, each having the same cold hard as steel glare. What have I gotten myself into? I thought. As if rehearsed, they raised their mugs one by one until each held them above their heads and announced, "welcome to the Misfits".


I awoke the next morning, at least I think it was morning and the next day. In a deep voice I heard, wakey, wakey noob, time to see what kind of flying skill you have. I sat up and instantly felt a vice like grip on my temples and must have winced a bit as again that deep voice thundered in my head, yep, that's the kool aide effect he said as he chuckled and said, I'm foust you have 10 minutes to get your butt to the field.

Kool aide and who the, what the hell happened? vaguely recalling the events of last. Welcomed to the squad with my first drink of what tasted like turpentine stripping the layers away from my throat as I swallowed. Maybe I was a bit hammered, but I swear I recall a huge green flash across the room, followed by a large crash and, and then hulk not so smart followed by laughter. Yeah, I must have been hammered.

After splashing my face with cold water, I was surprised to see in the mirror that I still had my uniform on from the previous night, wow must have been a pour me into my cot night. What the hell is this, black and yellow stretchy pants, no time to ask, couple minutes to get to the field.

Walking (stumbling)towards the row of planes that sat at the other end of the field, near the hangar tents, I could see foust already mounted inside his Siemens. To his right with the prop spinning, sat an Albatros, assuming this is my ride I approached to find bzerkbzerk just below the cockpit. Again that deep laugh over the engine noise and foust yelling, you don't remember do you bzerk, tell you later, let's fly.

Quick familiarization of the controls, wheel brakes set, wave to have chocks removed and throttled up, following just to the right and slightly behind foust, we bounced down the field, wheels up.


We climbed to 500 and leveled off, I was able to see the lush valley below surrounded by hills on either side. After a few minutes, foust glanced over his right shoulder with his arm waving a follow me signal.

We rolled left and inverted, dove toward the valley, continuing the roll and leveling at 200 until we lined up on a sole tank in the distance. Again with the signal to follow and another to begin a run on the tank, I followed just above and behind him avoiding his turbulence.

Foust pulled up and rolled right as I pressed on towards my target, wanting to make an impression, I lined up on the tank. Centered in my gun sight I began my run, should be easy as it was stationary. I dipped my nose slightly as I approached and released my bomb, looking over my right shoulder I watched it's decent, at the last second the tank lurched backwards and my bomb exploded 30ft in front of it sending grass and mud in all directions.

Foust reappeared off my right wing frantically waving the RTB signal and I fell in line to return to base. I parked my plane and set the brake and shut her down. Climbed out of the cockpit to see that foust had already made it into the munitions hangar. His arms flailing around in the air like a mad man, while circling some young tech like a predator yelling some profanities that were barely audible from my location. Dumb A** something Bat terd sum of a box I think he was saying.

I decided it best to leave it be until he finished his rant and found a lone tree that had seen better days as it was scarred from many attacks on our base. It had a lonely branch, scorched by fire that provided just enough shade and a crater next to it, a comfy place to sit.

After a few minutes, may have been longer as I dozed off, I heard someone say, soo you're the new guy! bzerkbzerk. Heard you nearly got a tank today during an eval flight. I looked up to see this guy standing over me, his hair standing on end and held in place by dried mud, his uniform covered in mud from the waist up and his face obscured from the filth. I could barely make out a name on his badge, T-butt I believe it read.

Yes I said, if that tank had stayed in place it would be a pile of rubble right now. Yes it would he said and so would I, that was my tank and if I hadn't sneezed at the last second, pulling back on the controls, I wouldn't be standing here.

Listen T-butt I had no idea. T-butt he burst out laughing as he looked at his badge brushing away the filth and said, it wasn't your fault. Someone put a live bomb under your bird instead of a dummy bomb. It's T-built not T-butt, you're definitely a Misfit welcome to the squad. I nearly take this guy out and he's laughing and welcoming me, found a good home. Still have to get to this bzerkbzerk thing, that's for another day.

After T-butt ahh T-built cleared up the mayhem from this mornings flight, he strolled over to the munitions hangar where foust could still be heard laying into the tech who loaded my bird with the hot potato, I decided to have a look around the base.

I found myself walking down the flight line admiring the aircraft, perched and ready for flight, each one identified by it's pilots call sign. Von Hulk, Jack Burton, Snake Plisken... kapow, kapow pow, thunk. Sounded like a thunder storm at the end of the field, but mechanical and in the distance a lone plane billowing black smoke was lining up to land. Each backfire pushing a trail of flame out the pipes while the plane lurched as if wincing in pain. It's pilot set her on the deck just as graceful as a feather from a passing jay, swaying in the breeze gently falling to earth.

Upon landing, he cut the engine and drifted up the field, coming to a stop a few feet from where I stood. A large plume of dark oily smoke now settled over his plane and obscured it from sight temporarily and then emerged an oil slick covered pilot with a large grin exposing his white teeth. He removed his goggles and a clean outline appeared exposing the rest of his face which now looked a bit like a rabid raccoon.

Extending his hand he said, howdy, I'm Raptor. I've been out on a search and rescue mission for some time now, as you can see, my bird needs some attention and I need a bath. You don't say, I introduced myself and explained that I was new and 24hours young to the squad. He explained a bit of his mission and how he had vowed to get answers to the disappearance of his good friend Yorkie. He explained how he feared that Yorkie had been jumped by five or more Camels and may have had to bail out. He then began to explain that he felt as though Yorkie may have then been captured by the MHC and taken to their H.Q. MHC???

As we walked and he continued on with his tale of adventure and quest for closure, he asks. Have you seen [M]y nuts? Thinking I misunderstood his question, I replied. I'm sorry the noise from the mechanics crawling over your bird drowned out your question. He again asked. Have you seen [M]y nuts? Now I know I heard it that time and paused before answering. Backing away with one hand behind me searching for the nearest weapon and the other in front of my eyes I replied in a stern but shaky tone. We have just met and I think you already know the answer and well sir I don't think we need to continue to, umm, have , ahh this , hmm conversation any longer.

Seeing the panic on my face. Whoa there bz, now laughing and choking at the same time. Me still ready to beat him, now holding up a large wrench. He's a crazy bass turd Misfit and judging by your reaction I would say you have not seen [M]y nuts and I have no intention of dropping my flight suit, so what ya say you put the big wrench back where you found it.

Anywho, if you see him. Tell him I need to speak with him and I will be with the shrink Dr. BTJ discussing the latest findings of the MHC. He'll know what it's about. Whiping the sweat away from my brow, I replied. Yes sir and good luck on the mission to find Yorkie, sure we'll meet up some time in the ACEHOLE.

What else is going to happen while I'm here I thought, boy was I about to find out. I still have to get to that bzerk call sign.

I grabbed some chow in the mess tent, while providing cover, light could be seen coming through the various holes and tears in the canopy, guessing from past attacks on the base. I passed several empty wooden tables and benches to sit near the back where I could view the airfield and feel the breeze blowing through.

Yo bz I heard someone say, when I turned and looked, there stood a man holding his steamy tray of grub and a smile from ear. Mind if I have a seat he asked? Looking at his call sign on the front of his uniform, I replied, sure my pleasure Nuts and wondering how it is these guys seem to know my now familiar call sign?

Once he sat and began to chew on his meal, I mentioned that Raptor had been looking for him and said that you would know what he needs to talk about and you could catch him at the doc's quarters. Chuckling while trying not to spit out his potato soup(I think it's potato soup) he said thanks he would find him in a bit.

I had to ask, what's so funny? He took a deep breath, sipped some water from his tin and began talking. A couple of month's ago, Raptor approached me and said he had an important mission for me and it could change the out come of this war. Enthusiastically I listened. Raptor began explaining that he had been carrying carrier pigeons in his plane so that while out searching for Yorkie, he could relay vital enemy positions back to us, giving us a bit of an advantage. However, depending on wind speed and direction, some pigeons were being blown into the tail of his plane and rendering them useless as they fell to their doom. When he throttled down, he was taking a chance of being shot himself although the pigeons were clearing his tail at about 60 knots.

Also, his pigeons were now instant targets by the enemy ground units when they seen them released from his plane. Sooo, Raptor devised a great plan that would confuse the enemy, hence giving us the advantage. Nuts explained that he was all for the advantage and excited to get started, he asked Raptor to explain. Now chuckling a bit more, again sipping from his tin and gathering his composure, he began.

Rap figured that I could train chickens as carriers, instead of the pigeons. Hell Rap had said, they won't know what to think and them birds are heavy enough to clear the tail at 80 knots cording to his calculations and they can glide out of harms way.

Wow, that's not a bad idea I said, excited a bit at such a great thought of confusion for the enemy and an advantage for us as well. Again chuckling, Nuts said that being the man he is, he agreed to train these chickens and did so. Said, he had a lot of positive results with them, keep them a little hungry, throw them out of the plane and once they hit the ground, they run in a circle several times, then run like hell towards the coop.

Now he is laughing hysterically at this point, me asking, well has it had any affect? He said why yes it has and I'm pretty sure Raptor is looking to restock on carrier chickens before he departs. Now he laughed so hard he fell over backwards off the bench, landing on his back.

Again asking between his fits, well have we gotten any information from them? Of course we have, out of the 25 we have given to Raptor, 2 have returned safely carrying messages, laughing so hard now he's coughing. Well what did they say man?

First one read:

GREAT IDEA, CONFUSED AT FIRST

Second one read:

THEY RUN IN CIRCLES FOR A COUPLE OF SECONDS, THEN RUN LIKE HELL, IF WE DON'T SHOOT THEM FIRST. WE THANK YOU FOR THE DELICIOUS CHICKENS, WE HAVE CHICKEN SOUP FOR DINNER, PLEASE FEEL FREE TO THROW US MORE AT ANY TIME, YOUR ENEMY.

That crazy coot has been feeding them our carrier chickens and giving them the advantage, I nearly spit my eggs (potato soup) across the mess hall.

Finishing our powdered eggs with what they called gravy and a side of stale bread, Nuts and I took a walk and he began to show me around the place. As we talked, Nuts explained how close knit the Misfits were as a group and how well they flew as a squad. Each pilot had been hand picked, observation he said and gathering intel as well with a little horse trading to say. I see, some haggling skills required, he laughed a bit and said, well you need a certain mentality to be a Misfit, guessing you're beginning to figure that out.

We passed a few structures, what was left of them. Burnt out skeletons and crumbled walls, all that remained on this war torn landscape. Nuts explained that one had been the enlisted mens barracks and the other the logistics and mapping offices, both lost during a surprise attack while the squad had been out on patrol. One in particular stood out more than the others, it didn't appear to be hit by bombs, nor burnt like the rest. Instead it looked like something had exploded from the inside causing the structure to be blown out in one direction. What was intriguing, was the single toilet that remained, looked as if it had been blown out, it was the only clue as to the structures original purpose. Thinking out loud, I asked if it was the original latrine? and how in the hell did such damage occur? Was it an explosion?

With that now familiar deep down guttural laugh, oh yes, it was quite the explosion that took out our once pristine latrine and officers quarters. It was quite the set up for a field base, hot and cold running water with a shower room, changing room and even individual toilets with a bit of a privy wall. Single bunks, foot locker space and three fire places for those winter months.

With out skipping a beat, Nuts composed himself and began his tale. It had been one of those long Autumn days, started around Dawn. We had been assigned a zeppelin patrol that day and knew that until the threat was eliminated or the all clear had been given, we would be pulling numerous sorties. Needless to say, top brass declared all clear close to dusk, tired, chilled and hungry we headed to the chow hall. On the menu was a fine chili guaranteed to knock the chill off yer bones and clear the sinuses for a month, what a treat that was.

We had finished our meals and retired to the ACEHOLE for some fine refreshment of a fresh brew of kool aide. After a couple hours that chili began working it's magic, whole room had an air about it so to speak and that chili didn't set well with a couple fellas. Figuring they could get some relief, they tried drinking more kool aide in hopes that they could numb the discomfort they felt. Ahh yess I recall a bit of that numbness from the night before and asked if it helped?

Well yes he said, it helped in more ways than one and after awhile one of them fellas excused himself to the latrine, not far behind him Von Kopp had also excused himself in search of the latrine. We were all sipping our drinks, relaxing, but every few seconds it seemed as if the ground had shaken a bit but we had a few in us so we just continued to wind down. His face is getting red now, veins bulging from his neck and temples as he once again burst into laughter and fell to his hands and knees. Reaching down, I helped him to his feet again, he grasped my shoulder for support and steadied himself to continue.

A large explosion from the latrine rocked the Hole, knocking us all of our feet leaving us dazed and confused, we ran outside once we gathered our wits. We found Dirt covered in filth a couple hundred feet from what you now see is left of the quarters and latrine and a sole toilet standing. Dirt explained that all was well until that chili hit his guts the wrong way and figured he'd go take care of bizness in the latrine. Not long after he entered his stall, Von must have entered as he couldn't see him at the time but heard his discomfort. A few speechless minutes passed, then he said it sounded like a struggle was taking place in the stall next to him, followed by some rather large whoosh sounds that vibrated the entire building and had an unpleasant smell. Dirt, an ole country boy didn't think nothing about it, figured hell the chili was working it's magic on some other fella.

After a few minutes, he said the noises became louder and the whoosh, whoosh more frequent with some more vibration of the building. Next thing I know, there's a loud explosion, not like with fire ya know but it was an explosion and I'm flying through the air, debri and other STUFF hitting me, landing like a rag doll near the flight line.

Once again, Nuts can not control his laughter as he continued, Dirt said, when he looked back where the barracks once stood, all he could see was a green hulky figure with no pants hovering above that sole toilet there with the back half missing and the building gone. So yes there was an explosion of sorts and no one has heard from or seen that ol country boy since the chili bombing.

My advice is to avoid the latrine if you see Kopp headed that way, apparently his bowels have never been the same since and on occasion we all have to run for cover. Then I recalled the past night's memory of that green flash. I was in the latrine at the hole when it happened, someone yelling in coming take cover and then Kopp or Hulk crashing through the stall wall, no pants and Hulk not so smart. I'm guessing that was a minor explosion.

We continued walking, both laughing at the thought of the chili bombing incident and passing a hangar to the left. Looked more like a top secret facility as it had barbed wire and guards at each corner with a sign reading, authorized persons only. Asking what the fuss was all about, Nuts said, ohh that's bware's secret weapons testing facility. He locks himself in there for days working on some new aircraft to help us win this never ending battle against the red's. Caught a glimpse of it once he said, looked like nothing I've ever seen before. That plane looked like the wings were in an X shape, but them guards closed the doors and chased me out before I could get a better look. We continued past the top secret hangar and found ourselves outside the ACEHOLE.

Seating ourselves, we ordered a shot of kool aide. Of course I'm the curious sort and had to ask, has anyone gotten inside bwares hangar?

Tipping his shot glass up and slamming it to the make shift table(once a wheel for a D-VIII) he leaned over. A few month's back, myself, Snake Plisken, Jack Burton and a few others were blowing off some steam after an intense day in the skies. We were all beat up as the day's events hadn't gone well for either side and the losses were stacking up. As we saluted our fallen brothers, one disgruntled pilot sat in the corner over there near the wall of honor drinking by himself. He seemed to be taking it harder than most, which happens to the best of us and sometimes better to just let them be.

Every so often we could here an occasional outburst from him, like those crazy red lights coming from that hangar, huhhh. We just saluted and kept the flow going that night, music and all no thought given. Next couple weeks was pretty quiet and on occasion we would catch a glimpse of that kilt wearing pilot, seemed a bit dirty and his hair matted with mud. Tried talking to him but he would just mumble something about lights and raise his hands and turn away, not now he said, things to do.

I said excuse me for a moment Nuts and stood from our table, returning with a bottle now as I figured that whatever was coming had to be good and wanted no interruption of the kool aide. Pouring two fresh shots, we quickly tipped them over and slammed our glasses to the table. Nuts reached into his breast pocket and produced to fine, fat cigars and handed one to me. We lit our smoke, had more to drink and with a quick salute he continued with yet another tale.

It was another night here in the HOLE and again we was blowing off some steam, next thing we know, sirens are blaring, bright red and green explosions illuminating through the winders and this un godly high pitch scream. Everyone in the Hole who wasn't stumbling ran out to arms while others to mount the birds. Fearing a night raid as the air raid sirens were now blaring, we prepared to defend the base. Somehow I ended up facing the tail section of my bird after jumping into the cockpit, kool aide had something to do with that, during my drunken blunder, I bumped my guns and took out part of the watch tower and sent them sentry's scrambling for cover.

Now we could see that the explosions and screams were coming from bwares hangar, bright flashes, loud crashes and lots of strange sounds. A large hole exploded from the side and that kilt wearing scotty burst through it and headed into the tree line just to the east pursued by bwares troopers. Blasts of light could be seen coming from the woods but faded within the hour and eventually the base stood down.

Sipping from our glasses now and drawing from our cigars we sat for a moment before he began again. Well you see, bware has some great security inside that hangar and it served him well that night. He had been in his hangar when that crazy scotty had penetrated his space. That crazy guy had tunneled his way under the outer security and broke through just behind a wall where bware had been working that evening. He exited his hole and instantly found a booby trap that stung him someplace under that kilt, proving that there is no protection under that garment and explaining the scream that echoed through the base. As you can imagine, alarms sounded and some sort of fight followed. Bware using his top secret weapons and some Force to go after the offender, while his troopers stationed inside stormed to his defense, guns lazing.

Well that scotty got more than he bargained for and only made it out in one piece when the side of that hangar exploded providing him an exit. Unfortunately, he escaped that night.

We learned later, he'd become disgruntled at the loss of fellow pilots, stressed with the constant harassment from the reds and snapped. Apparently hell bent on leaking any information he could find and hatched his hair brained plan.

Where is he now?

Ohh, he's still around, a bit pissy at getting stung in such a place by bwares trap and determined to cause havoc. He's become quite the propagandist after his debacle in the hangar(known now as the HANGARS EVENT). You'll be able to identify him if you see him, apparently that sting had some crazy side affect and causes him to fly in a constant right side barrel roll, looks like some crazy spiral vortex with all those leaflets behind him.

This time Nuts excused himself while I sat absorbing all that he had shared with me this day, taking another sip and long draw I looked around the Hole. It's history on it's walls, it's future walking through the door and a beginning to another day.

Wait, what? took out part of the watch tower, almost missed that one and will have to ask what happened after he shot it up, or his backside shot it up that is.

A couple of weeks passed and I now have settled into what has become the norm, wake up, head to squad briefing, eat grub and execute the days orders. While en-route to this mornings briefing, I bumped into a rather large man, knocked me right on my butt. Looking at a pair of snake skin, silver tipped boots with large spurs, jet black stretchy pants with a solid yellow stripe on both sides, a pair of 1896 1/2 colt .47's with a fine pressed shirt outlining broad shoulders, stood this man with his handle bar moustache that had several spirals on each side and a 32 gallon tan hat on his head.

Reaching out with his monstrous right hand that could easily squeeze the life from a man, he helped me to my feet and said excuse me fella, didn't see you there. Dusting myself off, no problem, I should have been paying better attention myself.

Now face to chest, he says, they call me T.R. or Mongo for short and I'm looking for the morning briefing, I had to steady myself as I found myself in the presence of a legend. Well T.R. uhh Mongo, I'm headed that way myself and would be glad to show you, thank you sir he replied.

It was a silent walk towards the briefing and as we walked, the rumors I had heard began to flood my memory. It's rumored that Mongo had been out on patrol and downed several reds, however sustaining damage to his siemens and nearly out of ammo, he was attemting to return to base(RTB). He had a relationship with that bird and treated it like one of his trusty thoroughbreds on his ranch and even called it his trusty steed, Jerry.

He had been jumped by six red's, guessing they had an easy target as Jerry was spouting smoke and leaking oil from the engine, like a pack of wolves, they dropped in for what they thought was an easy kill. Mongo flew the hell out of Jerry, knowing his steed well, he quickly dispatched four of the red's, expending all of his remaining ammo before his engine finally froze up as the last bit of oil drained the life out of Jerry's engine.

Mongo dipped Jerry's nose to gain some speed, knowing he still had two more pursuing him and found some cover in a cloud bank, giving him just enough time to drop to the deck and set Jerry down with ease. Now the enemy spotted him and figured that with clipped wings, they would finish the fight and avenge their fallen comrades. Rolling in for the kill, both planes began firing at Mongo as he ran for cover, bullets tearing into Jerry and just missing him as he found some trees.

Passing him they banked left, Mongo realizing that jerry would never carry his saddle again, he watched as they began to line up for a second run. They circled, the lead plane now coming out of his arc, while the second swung wide to come in just to the right and behind the lead.

Mongo stepped out from behind the trees and stood out in the open, as if in defiance and daring them to take a shot. Both planes are now lined up and firing in unison, bullets tearing up the earth all around him and he just stands there, didn't even flinch. Just inches off the ground the lead pilot drifted a bit right, obscuring Mongo from his wingman. Closing the distance and firing, Mongo waited. At the last second, he stepped forward and right, leaping into the air and through the wing spar of the lead plane, throwing a right hook and nailing the pilot in the temple as he passed his cockpit. With a diving roll, he quickly came to one knee, reached down with his left hand and skinned his .47 and fired all 7 shots into the trailing birds engine.

As we entered the briefing tent, all heads turned and the chatter ceased, I stood with the only pilot with a kill by knock out and a revolver. I said this is T.R. Mongo for short, please welcome him to our Misfit family.

[*M]bzerkbzerk wrote:

2

A couple of weeks passed and I now have settled into what has become the norm, wake up, head to squad briefing, eat grub and execute the days orders. While en-route to this mornings briefing, I bumped into a rather large man, knocked me right on my butt. Looking at a pair of snake skin, silver tipped boots with large spurs, jet black stretchy pants with a solid yellow stripe on both sides, a pair of 1896 1/2 colt .47's with a fine pressed shirt outlining broad shoulders, stood this man with his handle bar moustache that had several spirals on each side and a 32 gallon tan hat on his head.

Reaching out with his monstrous right hand that could easily squeeze the life from a man, he helped me to my feet and said excuse me fella, didn't see you there. Dusting myself off, no problem, I should have been paying better attention myself.

Now face to chest, he says, they call me T.R. or Mongo for short and I'm looking for the morning briefing, I had to steady myself as I found myself in the presence of a legend. Well T.R. uhh Mongo, I'm headed that way myself and would be glad to show you, thank you sir he replied.

It was a silent walk towards the briefing and as we walked, the rumors I had heard began to flood my memory. It's rumored that Mongo had been out on patrol and downed several reds, however sustaining damage to his siemens and nearly out of ammo, he was attemting to return to base(RTB). He had a relationship with that bird and treated it like one of his trusty thoroughbreds on his ranch and even called it his trusty steed, Jerry.

He had been jumped by six red's, guessing they had an easy target as Jerry was spouting smoke and leaking oil from the engine, like a pack of wolves, they dropped in for what they thought was an easy kill. Mongo flew the hell out of Jerry, knowing his steed well, he quickly dispatched four of the red's, expending all of his remaining ammo before his engine finally froze up as the last bit of oil drained the life out of Jerry's engine.

Mongo dipped Jerry's nose to gain some speed, knowing he still had two more pursuing him and found some cover in a cloud bank, giving him just enough time to drop to the deck and set Jerry down with ease. Now the enemy spotted him and figured that with clipped wings, they would finish the fight and avenge their fallen comrades. Rolling in for the kill, both planes began firing at Mongo as he ran for cover, bullets tearing into Jerry and just missing him as he found some trees.

Passing him they banked left, Mongo realizing that jerry would never carry his saddle again, he watched as they began to line up for a second run. They circled, the lead plane now coming out of his arc, while the second swung wide to come in just to the right and behind the lead.

Mongo stepped out from behind the trees and stood out in the open, as if in defiance and daring them to take a shot. Both planes are now lined up and firing in unison, bullets tearing up the earth all around him and he just stands there, didn't even flinch. Just inches off the ground the lead pilot drifted a bit right, obscuring Mongo from his wingman. Closing the distance and firing, Mongo waited. At the last second, he stepped forward and right, leaping into the air and through the wing spar of the lead plane, throwing a right hook and nailing the pilot in the temple as he passed his cockpit. With a diving roll, he quickly came to one knee, reached down with his left hand and skinned his .47 and fired all 7 shots into the trailing birds engine.

As we entered the briefing tent, all heads turned and the chatter ceased, I stood with the only pilot with a kill by knock out and a revolver. I said this is T.R. Mongo for short, please welcome him to our Misfit family.

Geminee-jee-hose-a-phat, could be heard echoing through the barracks as Jack Burton burst into the hallway with a young private on his tail. I'm so sorry sir he was saying, all the trucks were shot up the other day during the raid and yer rig was the only one left un damaged.

Uhh, ohh, nobody was allowed near Burton's custom rig, called it the X-press. Only rig with a turbo charged diesel, six 10 inch exhaust pipes and custom paint. Four pipes, two per side extended vertically through the hood cover and the other two behind and above the cab, not exactly issue but those pipes could lay down a smoke screen and none but Burton drove that pig.

Burton doubled as the supply officer until a replacement could be found. Between sorties, Burton would lead the way, providing a smoke cover for the convoy of supply trucks. Sir, we needed medical supplies and.. well you were out on a mission, so I figured it was an easy run and back before you returned.

Calmer and seated now in front of the fireplace, warming his hands, I understand son, just tell me what happened. Well you see, I had made a couple runs and it was easy and got all the medical supplies. Then this fella, don't remember his name, said all the pilots were waiting on some new issue stretchy pants as the current issue had seen better days and since I was out, could I pick them up? from the Vulture 123rd 15 miles to the south. I figured, hell why not, had two easy runs, a third can't hurt none.

Made it down there and picked up the new issue, secured my load, grabbed some fuel for the return, hell even found a couple cases of cupcakes when no one was looking. Was about five miles from our base, came round the bend to the last river crossing, that's when I saw them two black vehicles blocking the crossing. Slammed the brakes, hind site sir should have punched the gas, but knew if I put a dent in the hog, you'd chap my backside. Anyways, four men, two from each vehicle exited and approached your rig. Now these boys weren't no soldiers sir, they dressed funny. Figured they was trouble, each wearing dark glasses, long black blazers with a dark grey shirt and a light grey tie, super shiny calf high combat boots and... uhh, well.. uhhh.. they was wearing, well sir umm.

SPIT IT OUT SON, Burton exploded. Well, they was wearing pantyhose sir, I swear they had on pantyhose. PANTYHOSE! PANTYHOSE! yes sir, pantyhose. At gun point they had me exit your rig, one of them boys climbed in and drove off with your rig, stretchy pants and them tasty little cupcakes, chocolate cupcakes. So sir, they stole yer truck.

Face now bright red, Burton held himself together long enough to excuse the private, looked up and seeing how I was standing and heard all the commotion from across the room, waved me over. Now seated across from him, he looked me directly in the eyes and said, the MHC have hijacked my rig and it's contents.

MHC, Raptor mentioned them on my first day, but I hadn't heard about them since. Yes the MHC, better known to some of us older members as the MANTY HOSE CONTRAPTION. Whoa I said, that's quite a name, no he said, quite a secret organization. They tried selling us manty hose uniform pants, let's just say that they were tight in places that tight should not be applied, one good reason why we chose the non drafty stretchy pants and the MHC hasn't forgotten our decision and vowed to seek justice. Justice was when we chose not to wear mantyhose, but they didn't see it that way and last we heard, the reds seemed to like them.

A couple days passed, when an envelope arrived, in it was a photo of a man wearing a misfit jacket, Yorkie in the breast tag. A look of terror in his eyes as he was wearing mantyhose, a form of torture no doubt and in the background was that hog of a rig. I could tell that the wheels were turning in Burtons head, putting together a rescue plan to rescue his rig and return Yorkie and yes in that order.

[*M]bzerkbzerk wrote:

[*M]bzerkbzerk wrote:

2

A couple of weeks passed and I now have settled into what has become the norm, wake up, head to squad briefing, eat grub and execute the days orders. While en-route to this mornings briefing, I bumped into a rather large man, knocked me right on my butt. Looking at a pair of snake skin, silver tipped boots with large spurs, jet black stretchy pants with a solid yellow stripe on both sides, a pair of 1896 1/2 colt .47's with a fine pressed shirt outlining broad shoulders, stood this man with his handle bar moustache that had several spirals on each side and a 32 gallon tan hat on his head.

Reaching out with his monstrous right hand that could easily squeeze the life from a man, he helped me to my feet and said excuse me fella, didn't see you there. Dusting myself off, no problem, I should have been paying better attention myself.

Now face to chest, he says, they call me T.R. or Mongo for short and I'm looking for the morning briefing, I had to steady myself as I found myself in the presence of a legend. Well T.R. uhh Mongo, I'm headed that way myself and would be glad to show you, thank you sir he replied.

It was a silent walk towards the briefing and as we walked, the rumors I had heard began to flood my memory. It's rumored that Mongo had been out on patrol and downed several reds, however sustaining damage to his siemens and nearly out of ammo, he was attemting to return to base(RTB). He had a relationship with that bird and treated it like one of his trusty thoroughbreds on his ranch and even called it his trusty steed, Jerry.

He had been jumped by six red's, guessing they had an easy target as Jerry was spouting smoke and leaking oil from the engine, like a pack of wolves, they dropped in for what they thought was an easy kill. Mongo flew the hell out of Jerry, knowing his steed well, he quickly dispatched four of the red's, expending all of his remaining ammo before his engine finally froze up as the last bit of oil drained the life out of Jerry's engine.

Mongo dipped Jerry's nose to gain some speed, knowing he still had two more pursuing him and found some cover in a cloud bank, giving him just enough time to drop to the deck and set Jerry down with ease. Now the enemy spotted him and figured that with clipped wings, they would finish the fight and avenge their fallen comrades. Rolling in for the kill, both planes began firing at Mongo as he ran for cover, bullets tearing into Jerry and just missing him as he found some trees.

Passing him they banked left, Mongo realizing that jerry would never carry his saddle again, he watched as they began to line up for a second run. They circled, the lead plane now coming out of his arc, while the second swung wide to come in just to the right and behind the lead.

Mongo stepped out from behind the trees and stood out in the open, as if in defiance and daring them to take a shot. Both planes are now lined up and firing in unison, bullets tearing up the earth all around him and he just stands there, didn't even flinch. Just inches off the ground the lead pilot drifted a bit right, obscuring Mongo from his wingman. Closing the distance and firing, Mongo waited. At the last second, he stepped forward and right, leaping into the air and through the wing spar of the lead plane, throwing a right hook and nailing the pilot in the temple as he passed his cockpit. With a diving roll, he quickly came to one knee, reached down with his left hand and skinned his .47 and fired all 7 shots into the trailing birds engine.

As we entered the briefing tent, all heads turned and the chatter ceased, I stood with the only pilot with a kill by knock out and a revolver. I said this is T.R. Mongo for short, please welcome him to our Misfit family.

Geminee-jee-hose-a-phat, could be heard echoing through the barracks as Jack Burton burst into the hallway with a young private on his tail. I'm so sorry sir he was saying, all the trucks were shot up the other day during the raid and yer rig was the only one left un damaged.

Uhh, ohh, nobody was allowed near Burton's custom rig, called it the X-press. Only rig with a turbo charged diesel, six 10 inch exhaust pipes and custom paint. Four pipes, two per side extended vertically through the hood cover and the other two behind and above the cab, not exactly issue but those pipes could lay down a smoke screen and none but Burton drove that pig.

Burton doubled as the supply officer until a replacement could be found. Between sorties, Burton would lead the way, providing a smoke cover for the convoy of supply trucks. Sir, we needed medical supplies and.. well you were out on a mission, so I figured it was an easy run and back before you returned.

Calmer and seated now in front of the fireplace, warming his hands, I understand son, just tell me what happened. Well you see, I had made a couple runs and it was easy and got all the medical supplies. Then this fella, don't remember his name, said all the pilots were waiting on some new issue stretchy pants as the current issue had seen better days and since I was out, could I pick them up? from the Vulture 123rd 15 miles to the south. I figured, hell why not, had two easy runs, a third can't hurt none.

Made it down there and picked up the new issue, secured my load, grabbed some fuel for the return, hell even found a couple cases of cupcakes when no one was looking. Was about five miles from our base, came round the bend to the last river crossing, that's when I saw them two black vehicles blocking the crossing. Slammed the brakes, hind site sir should have punched the gas, but knew if I put a dent in the hog, you'd chap my backside. Anyways, four men, two from each vehicle exited and approached your rig. Now these boys weren't no soldiers sir, they dressed funny. Figured they was trouble, each wearing dark glasses, long black blazers with a dark grey shirt and a light grey tie, super shiny calf high combat boots and... uhh, well.. uhhh.. they was wearing, well sir umm.

SPIT IT OUT SON, Burton exploded. Well, they was wearing pantyhose sir, I swear they had on pantyhose. PANTYHOSE! PANTYHOSE! yes sir, pantyhose. At gun point they had me exit your rig, one of them boys climbed in and drove off with your rig, stretchy pants and them tasty little cupcakes, chocolate cupcakes. So sir, they stole yer truck.

Face now bright red, Burton held himself together long enough to excuse the private, looked up and seeing how I was standing and heard all the commotion from across the room, waved me over. Now seated across from him, he looked me directly in the eyes and said, the MHC have hijacked my rig and it's contents.

MHC, Raptor mentioned them on my first day, but I hadn't heard about them since. Yes the MHC, better known to some of us older members as the MANTY HOSE CONTRAPTION. Whoa I said, that's quite a name, no he said, quite a secret organization. They tried selling us manty hose uniform pants, let's just say that they were tight in places that tight should not be applied, one good reason why we chose the non drafty stretchy pants and the MHC hasn't forgotten our decision and vowed to seek justice. Justice was when we chose not to wear mantyhose, but they didn't see it that way and last we heard, the reds seemed to like them.

A couple days passed, when an envelope arrived, in it was a photo of a man wearing a misfit jacket, Yorkie in the breast tag. A look of terror in his eyes as he was wearing mantyhose, a form of torture no doubt and in the background was that hog of a rig. I could tell that the wheels were turning in Burtons head, putting together a rescue plan to rescue his rig and return Yorkie and yes in that order.

Operation Banjo

All was going as planned, Foust and T built had covertly crawled all night in their tanks and put themselves into position where Yorkie and Burton's rig were suspected of being held.
Foust had put his tank in the sweet spot on the hill N.W. of the base and T in the draw to the N.E. just out of sight. T had a hitchhiker, Burton who planned to sneak into the hangar suspected of holding his rig and Yorkie.

Four plane's, broken into two groups, Banjo and Fokker completed the roster for the rescue mission. Raptor and Mongo made up Banjo flight while myself and Nuts were Fokker flight.
As the sun crested, we flew over the North ridge directly behind the enemy position , headed S.W. and foust fired his first shell taking out machine gun nest, T builts shot followed taking out the flak guns as Banjo and Fokker flights strafed the runway.

All was going as planned, hell we had destroyed most of the birds on the ground with our first pass while Foust and T continued to slam homerun shots into the base. A bit hairy at times as some of those shells arced right across my nose a couple times, good thing those fellas know how to tank. Caught them off guard and still in the rack we did and all the commotion allowed Burton to sneak into the hangar un detected.

Banjo and Fokker flights banked to the S.E. to begin providing cover for the tanks and headed N.W. into a figure eight pattern to begin another run if needed. In all the excitement, I had forgotten to drop my bomb and struggled a bit to keep up with Nuts, but managed by dipping my nose a bit to gain speed.
A large group of Spad's suddenly crested the North Western peak and lined up our flights in their sights, gun were now blazing and rounds passing all around us. We tightened both groups to strengthen our fire power and pulled our triggers. Foust had swung around and began firing as fast as he could load his shells and dropping planes in a large puff of black smoke and debris.

Another flight of two Spad's had popped over the hill behind the base, N.E. of T and began to head his direction in an attempt to take him out and flank Banjo and Fokker flights. Banjo and Fokker continued firing as we passed the Spad's in a head on fight, it was like hitting a hornets nest with a big stick and dodging the stingers as we passed.

Banjo broke left and Fokker to the right swinging around the spads to again concentrate our fire power and opened up again while keeping an eye on the attempted flank maneuver. One Spad had sighted in on T and began to fire, dust now flying all around his tank as he tried to jink and jive out of harms way still firing at the first group of Spad's and knocking them down, hell of a sight to witness.

Realizing that my bomb was slowing me down, I decided to pick a target and drop it as I knew it was just a matter of time before one of them reds realized I was an easier target. I lined up on a fuel truck and pulled the release lever, bombs away. Didn't realize how low I was until the percussion blast took off three feet of my lower wing, plane jerked right and I found myself hitting the dirt while cart wheeling several times before a tree stopped the roll.

Climbing free of the mess, a bit dazed and bruised, I took cover under what was left of my bird and watched as the battle continued in the air and Nuts buzzing my position to ensure I was safe, several reds on his tail, that is until they were Fousted.

Burtons rig broke through the wall of the hangar just across from my position with troops in manty hose and knee high boots, pursuing him on foot. I broke from my position on an intercept course with that truck hoping he would recognize me. Making eye contact, he slowed just enough for me to jump on the running board and climb in the rig on the passenger side.

Son of a toothless, gum sucking horse, they were waiting for us he yelled. Where's Yorkie I asked? Wasn't there he said, looked all over for him and nothing but my rig was in there with them manty hose troops. Heard some of them manty hosers talking about some secret tunnels and big ship in the lake, said they moved him that way to the boat.

Burton steered his rig towards Tbuilts position and began the decent into the draw coming face to cannon with T's tank. Slamming the brakes we skidded to a stop just as T fired a round over the rig. We heard the explosion as the pieces from the Spad that had been on our tail landed all around us, one more second and you two would be full of holes T yelled.

T said that's the last one, c'mon lets get the hell outta here. Slamming that pig into gear and smashing the pedal, Burton lead the way home providing cover with a thick black smoke as we left the base behind in ruins.

We made it back to base and so did the rest of Banjo Fokker flight, all a bit shaken and bruised, planes needed repairs and we all needed a drink. Something kept going through my head though, Burton had said they knew we were coming. It began to make sense, those reds came outta know where and jumped us good.

This mission was passed onto only one other, only one who could possibly be playing both sides, Zuperchief.

[*M]bzerkbzerk wrote:

[*M]bzerkbzerk wrote:

[*M]bzerkbzerk wrote:

2

A couple of weeks passed and I now have settled into what has become the norm, wake up, head to squad briefing, eat grub and execute the days orders. While en-route to this mornings briefing, I bumped into a rather large man, knocked me right on my butt. Looking at a pair of snake skin, silver tipped boots with large spurs, jet black stretchy pants with a solid yellow stripe on both sides, a pair of 1896 1/2 colt .47's with a fine pressed shirt outlining broad shoulders, stood this man with his handle bar moustache that had several spirals on each side and a 32 gallon tan hat on his head.

Reaching out with his monstrous right hand that could easily squeeze the life from a man, he helped me to my feet and said excuse me fella, didn't see you there. Dusting myself off, no problem, I should have been paying better attention myself.

Now face to chest, he says, they call me T.R. or Mongo for short and I'm looking for the morning briefing, I had to steady myself as I found myself in the presence of a legend. Well T.R. uhh Mongo, I'm headed that way myself and would be glad to show you, thank you sir he replied.

It was a silent walk towards the briefing and as we walked, the rumors I had heard began to flood my memory. It's rumored that Mongo had been out on patrol and downed several reds, however sustaining damage to his siemens and nearly out of ammo, he was attemting to return to base(RTB). He had a relationship with that bird and treated it like one of his trusty thoroughbreds on his ranch and even called it his trusty steed, Jerry.

He had been jumped by six red's, guessing they had an easy target as Jerry was spouting smoke and leaking oil from the engine, like a pack of wolves, they dropped in for what they thought was an easy kill. Mongo flew the hell out of Jerry, knowing his steed well, he quickly dispatched four of the red's, expending all of his remaining ammo before his engine finally froze up as the last bit of oil drained the life out of Jerry's engine.

Mongo dipped Jerry's nose to gain some speed, knowing he still had two more pursuing him and found some cover in a cloud bank, giving him just enough time to drop to the deck and set Jerry down with ease. Now the enemy spotted him and figured that with clipped wings, they would finish the fight and avenge their fallen comrades. Rolling in for the kill, both planes began firing at Mongo as he ran for cover, bullets tearing into Jerry and just missing him as he found some trees.

Passing him they banked left, Mongo realizing that jerry would never carry his saddle again, he watched as they began to line up for a second run. They circled, the lead plane now coming out of his arc, while the second swung wide to come in just to the right and behind the lead.

Mongo stepped out from behind the trees and stood out in the open, as if in defiance and daring them to take a shot. Both planes are now lined up and firing in unison, bullets tearing up the earth all around him and he just stands there, didn't even flinch. Just inches off the ground the lead pilot drifted a bit right, obscuring Mongo from his wingman. Closing the distance and firing, Mongo waited. At the last second, he stepped forward and right, leaping into the air and through the wing spar of the lead plane, throwing a right hook and nailing the pilot in the temple as he passed his cockpit. With a diving roll, he quickly came to one knee, reached down with his left hand and skinned his .47 and fired all 7 shots into the trailing birds engine.

As we entered the briefing tent, all heads turned and the chatter ceased, I stood with the only pilot with a kill by knock out and a revolver. I said this is T.R. Mongo for short, please welcome him to our Misfit family.

Geminee-jee-hose-a-phat, could be heard echoing through the barracks as Jack Burton burst into the hallway with a young private on his tail. I'm so sorry sir he was saying, all the trucks were shot up the other day during the raid and yer rig was the only one left un damaged.

Uhh, ohh, nobody was allowed near Burton's custom rig, called it the X-press. Only rig with a turbo charged diesel, six 10 inch exhaust pipes and custom paint. Four pipes, two per side extended vertically through the hood cover and the other two behind and above the cab, not exactly issue but those pipes could lay down a smoke screen and none but Burton drove that pig.

Burton doubled as the supply officer until a replacement could be found. Between sorties, Burton would lead the way, providing a smoke cover for the convoy of supply trucks. Sir, we needed medical supplies and.. well you were out on a mission, so I figured it was an easy run and back before you returned.

Calmer and seated now in front of the fireplace, warming his hands, I understand son, just tell me what happened. Well you see, I had made a couple runs and it was easy and got all the medical supplies. Then this fella, don't remember his name, said all the pilots were waiting on some new issue stretchy pants as the current issue had seen better days and since I was out, could I pick them up? from the Vulture 123rd 15 miles to the south. I figured, hell why not, had two easy runs, a third can't hurt none.

Made it down there and picked up the new issue, secured my load, grabbed some fuel for the return, hell even found a couple cases of cupcakes when no one was looking. Was about five miles from our base, came round the bend to the last river crossing, that's when I saw them two black vehicles blocking the crossing. Slammed the brakes, hind site sir should have punched the gas, but knew if I put a dent in the hog, you'd chap my backside. Anyways, four men, two from each vehicle exited and approached your rig. Now these boys weren't no soldiers sir, they dressed funny. Figured they was trouble, each wearing dark glasses, long black blazers with a dark grey shirt and a light grey tie, super shiny calf high combat boots and... uhh, well.. uhhh.. they was wearing, well sir umm.

SPIT IT OUT SON, Burton exploded. Well, they was wearing pantyhose sir, I swear they had on pantyhose. PANTYHOSE! PANTYHOSE! yes sir, pantyhose. At gun point they had me exit your rig, one of them boys climbed in and drove off with your rig, stretchy pants and them tasty little cupcakes, chocolate cupcakes. So sir, they stole yer truck.

Face now bright red, Burton held himself together long enough to excuse the private, looked up and seeing how I was standing and heard all the commotion from across the room, waved me over. Now seated across from him, he looked me directly in the eyes and said, the MHC have hijacked my rig and it's contents.

MHC, Raptor mentioned them on my first day, but I hadn't heard about them since. Yes the MHC, better known to some of us older members as the MANTY HOSE CONTRAPTION. Whoa I said, that's quite a name, no he said, quite a secret organization. They tried selling us manty hose uniform pants, let's just say that they were tight in places that tight should not be applied, one good reason why we chose the non drafty stretchy pants and the MHC hasn't forgotten our decision and vowed to seek justice. Justice was when we chose not to wear mantyhose, but they didn't see it that way and last we heard, the reds seemed to like them.

A couple days passed, when an envelope arrived, in it was a photo of a man wearing a misfit jacket, Yorkie in the breast tag. A look of terror in his eyes as he was wearing mantyhose, a form of torture no doubt and in the background was that hog of a rig. I could tell that the wheels were turning in Burtons head, putting together a rescue plan to rescue his rig and return Yorkie and yes in that order.

Operation Banjo

All was going as planned, Foust and T built had covertly crawled all night in their tanks and put themselves into position where Yorkie and Burton's rig were suspected of being held.
Foust had put his tank in the sweet spot on the hill N.W. of the base and T in the draw to the N.E. just out of sight. T had a hitchhiker, Burton who planned to sneak into the hangar suspected of holding his rig and Yorkie.

Four plane's, broken into two groups, Banjo and Fokker completed the roster for the rescue mission. Raptor and Mongo made up Banjo flight while myself and Nuts were Fokker flight.
As the sun crested, we flew over the North ridge directly behind the enemy position , headed S.W. and foust fired his first shell taking out machine gun nest, T builts shot followed taking out the flak guns as Banjo and Fokker flights strafed the runway.

All was going as planned, hell we had destroyed most of the birds on the ground with our first pass while Foust and T continued to slam homerun shots into the base. A bit hairy at times as some of those shells arced right across my nose a couple times, good thing those fellas know how to tank. Caught them off guard and still in the rack we did and all the commotion allowed Burton to sneak into the hangar un detected.

Banjo and Fokker flights banked to the S.E. to begin providing cover for the tanks and headed N.W. into a figure eight pattern to begin another run if needed. In all the excitement, I had forgotten to drop my bomb and struggled a bit to keep up with Nuts, but managed by dipping my nose a bit to gain speed.
A large group of Spad's suddenly crested the North Western peak and lined up our flights in their sights, gun were now blazing and rounds passing all around us. We tightened both groups to strengthen our fire power and pulled our triggers. Foust had swung around and began firing as fast as he could load his shells and dropping planes in a large puff of black smoke and debris.

Another flight of two Spad's had popped over the hill behind the base, N.E. of T and began to head his direction in an attempt to take him out and flank Banjo and Fokker flights. Banjo and Fokker continued firing as we passed the Spad's in a head on fight, it was like hitting a hornets nest with a big stick and dodging the stingers as we passed.

Banjo broke left and Fokker to the right swinging around the spads to again concentrate our fire power and opened up again while keeping an eye on the attempted flank maneuver. One Spad had sighted in on T and began to fire, dust now flying all around his tank as he tried to jink and jive out of harms way still firing at the first group of Spad's and knocking them down, hell of a sight to witness.

Realizing that my bomb was slowing me down, I decided to pick a target and drop it as I knew it was just a matter of time before one of them reds realized I was an easier target. I lined up on a fuel truck and pulled the release lever, bombs away. Didn't realize how low I was until the percussion blast took off three feet of my lower wing, plane jerked right and I found myself hitting the dirt while cart wheeling several times before a tree stopped the roll.

Climbing free of the mess, a bit dazed and bruised, I took cover under what was left of my bird and watched as the battle continued in the air and Nuts buzzing my position to ensure I was safe, several reds on his tail, that is until they were Fousted.

Burtons rig broke through the wall of the hangar just across from my position with troops in manty hose and knee high boots, pursuing him on foot. I broke from my position on an intercept course with that truck hoping he would recognize me. Making eye contact, he slowed just enough for me to jump on the running board and climb in the rig on the passenger side.

Son of a toothless, gum sucking horse, they were waiting for us he yelled. Where's Yorkie I asked? Wasn't there he said, looked all over for him and nothing but my rig was in there with them manty hose troops. Heard some of them manty hosers talking about some secret tunnels and big ship in the lake, said they moved him that way to the boat.

Burton steered his rig towards Tbuilts position and began the decent into the draw coming face to cannon with T's tank. Slamming the brakes we skidded to a stop just as T fired a round over the rig. We heard the explosion as the pieces from the Spad that had been on our tail landed all around us, one more second and you two would be full of holes T yelled.

T said that's the last one, c'mon lets get the hell outta here. Slamming that pig into gear and smashing the pedal, Burton lead the way home providing cover with a thick black smoke as we left the base behind in ruins.

We made it back to base and so did the rest of Banjo Fokker flight, all a bit shaken and bruised, planes needed repairs and we all needed a drink. Something kept going through my head though, Burton had said they knew we were coming. It began to make sense, those reds came outta know where and jumped us good.

This mission was passed onto only one other, only one who could possibly be playing both sides, Zuperchief.

Is it possible? Do we have spies among us? I couldn't shake the thought as I slammed another kool aide shot. Besides Zuperchief, another name kept coming to mind, a recruit who now is an intelligence officer who had a career ending incident during a training flight.

Foust reminisced that fatefull day, I had taken dog of dogs up on a routine training mission as I do with all new recruits. All had gone well so we RTB and I waved him in for a landing, I banked out left and swung in behind him as he made his approach. He came in to hot and bounced his bird, the nose pitched up and he came back down on his tail and his plane crumpled and broke like a stick all around him. I had to pull up and right to avoid the mess left on the strip. His legs had been broken in the crash and he spent many months recovering but was not able to fly again, ending his career as a pilot and his time with the squad. He ended up in intelligence as a result of his injuries, but kept sending me letters that he would fly again and exterminate all his begrudged enemies, after a few month's the letters quit coming and we moved on as usual.

EXTERMINATE.... EXTERMINATE... EXTERMINATE ALL MISFITS, was intercepted a few days later on the short wave radio. Over and over and over again the message kept repeating and now no communication from Zuperchief or his intelligence officer who turned out to be dog of dogs. Now the entire base was on alert and the based buttoned up tighter than a frogs hind end. It now seemed evident that dog of dogs was now part of that ambush to rescue Yorkie and possibly took the chief as leverage.

We tightened up the squad and began new training tactics, brought in a few new pilots and began to think of a plan to end this annoying transmission and possibly find Yorkie and the chief. We added a new gun to the crew, call sign Davey Crockett. Feared by the enemy as a long shooter from across the valley of death, he can split the hairs of a wig with his Kentuuucky short rifle with a magnifying lens scope thingy.

I found Davey out on the flight line, polishing the lens of his magnifying glass, Howdy there bz, great day to take down some MHC guys and track down this doggy doo as well. Well sir, that's why I'm hear, but we need to tighten a few more screws before we fly of the handle and find ourselves smelling the bottom of our soles instead of wiping up the mess.

Ohh geez bz, are you here to rib me too about those pesky hangars a few days ago, I mean I wasn't drinking the night before nor was the sun in my eyes or nothing like that I swear my bombs hit them hangars. I spotted those pesky MHC pilots through my magnifying glass and followed them a bit to the North, heck they led me right to that airfield. So I figured I'd split the hairs on those wigs before they knew what hit em and then take out a couple hangars with my bombs. Now I dropped them boys easy, 1,2,3 all went down and lined up for my run. Bombs away, bombs away both inbound on target, explosions on both them hangars, I banked right to haul tail outta there and I swear when I looked over my shoulder, they were still there, undamaged.

No sir, if you say that's what happened, then I have no doubt that some strange thing is happening. Others have reported seeing what they thought are enemy planes flying backwards but then they just vanish, while some reported that while pursuing enemy planes, they flew right into the mountains and re appeared on the other side.

Listen Davey one of our own has infiltrated deep into the doggie house, code named: misfit chimp and has been providing us with some great intel, I thought you should know that your not seeing things and were putting a plan together so keep that short rifle ready.