The cannons had been something of a surprise. Command had said nothing about them. But in this war, with tens of thousands of guns stretched along a front from Switzerland to the North Sea, a battery of anti-aircraft weaponry was a rounding error to book-keepers.
He had been circling above, ready to pounce. Night-flying was rare, but men of his skill sometimes went up, to see if any targets could be caught unawares. He had been ready to finish off the strange craft when an anti-aircraft crew had gotten lucky. But the man had been lucky - or extremely skilled. He had landed the craft intact.
Which meant it could potentially take off again. And the arithmetic of war left only one response. The turned the Fokker on its wing, roaring down out of the sky like judgement from on high. He waited until the craft filled his gunsight, then the twin spandaus spoke, tearing into the fuselage and skittering across the wings.
And now for the pilot. He took aim at the road, cutting the engine and bouncing lightly, and silently on the dirt surface. Thankfully the winter was coming soon, the road was hard as rock.
He hopped from the cockpit as it came to a stop, pistol in hand. He took the flying helmet off, carefully putting it in a pocket. No light would glint from the surface. The old tricks that kept a man alive. And he slowly moved towards the treeline, to hunt a man directly.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2012-04-03 06:09 am (UTC)He had been circling above, ready to pounce. Night-flying was rare, but men of his skill sometimes went up, to see if any targets could be caught unawares. He had been ready to finish off the strange craft when an anti-aircraft crew had gotten lucky. But the man had been lucky - or extremely skilled. He had landed the craft intact.
Which meant it could potentially take off again. And the arithmetic of war left only one response. The turned the Fokker on its wing, roaring down out of the sky like judgement from on high. He waited until the craft filled his gunsight, then the twin spandaus spoke, tearing into the fuselage and skittering across the wings.
And now for the pilot. He took aim at the road, cutting the engine and bouncing lightly, and silently on the dirt surface. Thankfully the winter was coming soon, the road was hard as rock.
He hopped from the cockpit as it came to a stop, pistol in hand. He took the flying helmet off, carefully putting it in a pocket. No light would glint from the surface. The old tricks that kept a man alive. And he slowly moved towards the treeline, to hunt a man directly.