OTT BE Mission 16: Breaking Point. Mike's Tale
Notes: There may be a few spoilers in this bit, so skip to the start of the AAR if you don’t want to read them.
First things first. A big thanks to Bob for writing and giving us this mission. A really interesting, challenging and absorbing one.
I believe I learned more about the game, playing this mission, than I have done for a long time. And very, very enjoyable it was too!
First off, apart from limited use of Marksman I, I have never used ace abilities before. Having three of them given to me for use, at level II was a real revelation. McLeod, my pilot, could never have achieved what he did here without them and personally I could definitely get used to having them all the time – some hope! I chose to use Marksman II, Acrobatic Pilot II and Dedicated Ground Crew II. Having played the mission, I would definitely choose them all again if I couldEven only being able to use them every other turn at max, they were very useful indeed.
I also believe I learned a great deal more about the significance of altitude. It took me far too long to realize I could climb out of range of one of the two seaters and I almost left that too late, but once I had finally cottoned on, I was able to relax a bit more. Up to that point the little so and so had given me a rough time!
I have had a few goes at two seaters before but never in this kind of situation. Learning to attack from their blind spots and being patient enough to do so, again, took me a few bad knocks to work out. That might be really obvious to those players who have been about a bit or who understand flying, but not to me I’m sad to say!
Having two opponents present, especially when they were both two seaters and I was running low on health, taught me the value of running away at the appropriate moments. It also taught me quite a bit more about using the advantages I had, speed and altitude!
Next, if you read what follows, you will note that McLeod had quite a bit of good luck too. Not least of which was during the final shoot out of the mission. That came as a complete surprise to me and a real delight, it has to be said. I should add, though, that the manoeuvering was definitely thought out by yours truly. Of that I was pretty pleased!
I used Uncles D8 charts again. Now finding them really good, when used predictively! Thanks again Uncle.
Finally, I have to admit that writing a story about a pilot who has reached “breaking point” I found pretty challenging. The only experience I could call on for that was my reading of the biographies of real pilots of the time, of both sides. Then I just acted like I was the pilot. I’m afraid the language is a bit ripe, but then I cannot imagine it wouldn’t have been in reality. I hope you’ll pardon my excessive use of it. On a lighter note, I could not but laugh at the experience of the previous mission. I read the AAR from another player who used the term “bastard”. Fine by me and fine by the website, but when I put into my own AAR the diminutive form of the name Richard, it was censored!
The usual excessive story telling I’m afraid, with the usual health warning. Skip to the Butcher’s Bill for the bare bones!
Enjoy.
OTT BE Mission 16: The Breaking Point – 21 June 1918
“Good morning, sir. Have you got a moment?”
“Of course Peter, come on in and make yourself comfortable”, said the CO, whilst at the same time waving a piece of paper in the air like a circus contortionist and looking from side to side and up and down. He scrabbled around for a few moments, almost knocking a glass from his desk. Was that whiskey Peter could smell?
“Damn, where did I put that bloody invoice?” He stopped fussing and looked up.
“You look rather more serious than usual young Piper, what’s up?”
“Well, sir. Its Alan, sir. I mean Lt McLeod. I’m worried about him.”
“Really, I haven’t noticed anything unusual about our Canadian friend! He’s a damn good pilot you know! Been with us since the start. What are you worried about?”
“Well, sir. As you know we share one of the huts. And recently he’s taken to drinking rather more whiskey than the rest of us. Morning noon or night! Especially just before we go up on an op of any kind. And he talks to himself, sir. Sits on his bunk, with his head down and mutters away for minutes on end. If I ask him if he’s feeling ok, he looks startled and stops, but just says he’s fine. But I know he’s not, Sir. And I don’t think he’s eating enough to keep a sparrow alive. When I first met him he was cool as a cucumber. But he’s changed, sir.”
“We all have, Peter. Even you, in the short time you’ve been here. And we all drink copious amounts of the hard stuff.
“Where’s that bloody invoice got to?”
“Yes, sir. I know. And most of us need a bit of the old Dutch courage before flying. But this is different, I know it is.”
And right on cue, as if the the intruder had been listening at the door, which he hadn’t, the orderly knocked on the door and opened it.
“Its McLeod, sir. Gorn off in one of “C” flights SEs sir. No orders that I knows of, an’ I aint ‘eard as ‘e ‘as permission to go solo, sir! Thought you ‘ad distinctly ordered none of that, with all this latest stuff goin’ on, sir.”
“Aah, OK sergeant.” replied the CO, slowly and deliberately. “Thank you. Nothing we can do until he returns, so that’ll be all for the moment.”
“If ‘e returns.” Muttered the orderly under his breath as he closed the door again and retreated into his own part of the building. “’e were drunk as a lord, God ‘elp ‘im!”
“Damn! Well, I hope you’re not right about all of this stuff, Peter. I sincerely hope not. I’d send you off after him, only we have another show on this morning and you’re required for that. The whole damn squadron is required. McLeod is going to have a bit of explaining to do when he gets back, I can tell you. He may have problems, like the rest of us, but there are people he can talk to about it. Maybe he just needs a spot of leave. That’s it, I’ll arrange for him to have some leave and perhaps a spot of duty back in Blighty. That should put him to rights.”
And with that, a not very happy 2nd Lt Peter Piper went about his own duty. He was really rather disappointed with the CO. Surely he should have been aware. Alan McLeod was one of his”boys”. But quite honestly, the CO himself hadn’t seemed particularly normal just recently. This bloody war was getting to everyone. Would it ever end? He needed a drink!
“Tally ho” shouted McLeod, as he took another swig of Jamesons. Boy but this was good, smooth, stuff. He loved the taste of it and loved the Irish for producing his golden nectar, his medicinal booster, his soul lifting draft.
And he felt, literally, on top of the world, up there in the clouds at 16,000 feet. Here his troubles evaporated into nothing. Here he was his own master. No bloody orders. No disapproving looks or comments. No ghosts watching his every move from over his shoulder. No bloody letters from home, asking if he was wearing the bloody socks they had sent, inside unwanted food parcels, at great hardship to themselves. No bloody lies to tell them about how easy life was and how he had learned to play the extrordinarily odd game called cricket, with its nonsensical rules. How much easier was soft ball! And no bloody images of death, filling his head during the day and haunting him through sleepless nights.
But above all, none of those murdering bloody brass hats with their jolly red bands and their blustering bloody British arrogance. By God had he enjoyed buzzing that bastard in the staff car just after take off. Landed up in the ditch, the old codger and serve the bastard right. “Bet that put a dent in his hubris” he thought to himself, angrily. He hated them all, sitting in their bloody offices miles from any trouble, sending his mates off to their doom, day by day, with no more care than the desire to put their God Almighty ridiculous, self advancing, over ambitious bloody plans into effect.
“I’ll show the bastards. All of them!” he screamed. He finished the first bottle and tossed it carelessly over the side. Undid his safety belt, stood up, wobbled a bit, but managed to take a leek over the side.
“What do they care anyway? Kill, kill bloody kill. Die, die bloody die. Its all the same to them.”
He was beginning to feel, not only decidedly unfocused, but very, very morose too.
“OK snap out of it you stupid shagged out, ditch born son of a whore” he stormed at himself. And with a smattering of the strong will he had been born with, he pulled his mind back to the decision he had made. Revenge! That’s what he was going to take. Revenge! Not against the Hun! He had nothing against them. They were just doing the same bloody stupid, horrific, murderous bloody job as himself.
No, he wanted revenge for his friends and fellow pilots, for his lost youth, for his lost sanity. Against the bloody system. Those who put him there. Those who started the God damned war, those who sat at home in their comfortable business offices and made money from the war. Of course, by this time he had conveniently forgotten, or supressed, the idea that he himself was partly responsible for his current state. He was the one who volunteered, delighted in the chance to learn to fly, delighted in the hunt. Delighted in the cameradery and the excitement of being young, away from home and on the most incredible adventure life could provide.
“Whoa there. Stop!” he thought. Focus my boyo, focus!”
And there below him was his first victim. The first he was going to destroy, with no thought as to whom it might be, or why he was there, or what the cosequences for his loved ones would be. He just wanted to kill! Suddenly, it was all clear to him. The answer was here and now. Suddenly he had never felt so good. He was a brilliant pilot. An expert, both as a pilot and a marksman. Everything was now ten times larger than life. Everything was moving so slowly for him. All the calculations he needed to make were as clear as a bell and as accurate as anything anyone had done before. He was an Ace! And he was one with his aeroplane. He was the aeroplane and the aeroplane was he!
Then he dived! Laughing, crying, screaming at the top of his voice, loud enough to be heard all the way to heaven. Or hell!
Without realizing it, McLeod had headed directly for the front lines as soon as he had finished trying to put a general in the ditch. The ground now beneath him was pock marked with the evidence of the conflict that was the source of his present state of mind. Scored with the dark blemishes of trenches, scratched into the earth like the pencil scribbling of a child, the muddy, insane picture made it difficult to spot other aircraft, to the untrained eye. But he was not untrained. Months at the front, on and off, had accustomed his eyesight, his brain, to the detection of just about any kind of movement in the sky. From some way off too. Which is one of the reasons he had survived this long. Below him, therefore, he instantly recognized the outline of the enemy two seater, hurrying along the lines, probably on a photo recon op. It was an Albatros C III, popular with it’s crews, but since McLeod thought they had been withdrawn last year, there was a chance the pilot was merely on a training exercise. But that made no difference to him.
He levelled off at around 11,000 feet, just about the ceiling for the CIII. He was still some way behind it and was hoping he could get right up close and comfy, before introducing himself to this troublesome neighbour. However, the observer on board was awake and alert, unlike himself and he was still some way beyond, what he judged to be, the effective range of either of his machine guns, when the Albatros started to take evasive action. It veered, first to the right and then to the left, which tested his alchol ridden senses. No doubt the pilot was trying to give his observer a better line on the approaching threat. At least he didn’t dive for home, like most of them seemed to do. This one was game for a fight. He was going to stay and play the deadly game. Good, his drunken state registered! No rookie this one!
The SE5a flown by McLeod was quick though. With a top speed of 138 mph there was never any question of the Albatros outrunning him. Its maximum speed was a mere 87 mph so its only real defense was either to dive for the safety of its own lines and the protection of archie, or to use its own armament skillfully. The German pilot was good, but not so the observer!
Just before he swung left himself, to follow the two seater, McLeod noticed another aircraft approaching from his six o’clock. “Ah, the third form of defense. Act as a decoy.” It looked like a scout from the quick, dizzy, glance he had time for. He needed to dispose of the two seater quickly, if he could. The harsh, familiar, barking commenced as he opened up at long range, immediately inflicting serious damage on the hun. (Albatross CIII hit for “5” - 0 + 3 ignored with ace ability played)(SE5, McLeod, hit for “1” but rear gun of CIII jams)
My, but he felt on good form today. “Hi as a kite” he thought to himself! “But an ace none the less!” And with that awful pun in his head, he gave the enemy in front of him a second burst, at close range. And completely missed.
(Albatros CIII hit for “0 + 0”)
“****e hawks” he thought. “Get a grip man. That was a sitter.” No, it was a shot or two too many of the Jamesons! He had to focus!
The Albatross tried to double back towards the approaching escort, that must have been lurking above, waiting for just such an opportunity. Not a scout he could now see, with his ever so slightly blurred vision, but another CIII. Dangerous. McLeod didn’t like playing with an enemy that could shoot him from both ends. Made him feel uncomfortable. One was bad enough, two was just plain stupid.
By now he was well and truly on the tail of the original CIII, and the observer wasn’t having a go back at him. Guns must have jammed. Again he fired, two short bursts at pretty close range and to his immense joy, and relief, the bird rolled over and proceded to plummet unerringly to the earth. “Yes!” he cried allowed. “One for the lads!”
(Albatros hit for “2 + Flames + Boom card drawn” – at this point I realized, after the photo was taken and we had moved on, that the Ace ability had been used incorrectly, but the two damage cards counted were the first two drawn, promise. I hope I paid better attention myself thereafter)
Just in time, because the relief crew was closing in like a Great White on a Seal.
He grappled for his bottle of whiskey, tipped his head back and took, what he described as, a healthy slug, in celebration of all friends recently passed away! Stowing the precious nectar, he glanced askew at his next victim, although his own aircraft seemed to be sliding, of its own accord, in the wrong direction!
Zip, zip thud clang boing zip zip. His inhebriated mind sort of took on board the notion that bullets were flying around his ears. But he really didn’t care that much, except it served to increase his ire!
(SE5 hit for “2) He turned away, but to his annoyance, the cheeky newcomer followed. Zip, thud, zip zip zip thud thud and more bullets crashed past and into his SE5. Hell, this blighter was merciless!
(SE hit for”2” more plus left rudder damage + 1 aim bonus)
So, swearing profusely, announcing profanely that this hun was never, ever going to be able to have any offspring again and that he must be the illigitimate son of a lady of ill repute, McLeod made a very rapid turn about, totally ignoring the groans of protest from the airframe of his scout and opened fire. But he was taken by surprise, when unexpectedly the hun failed to desist. Daka daka daka daka, daka daka daka daka, went the machine guns of both aircraft in harmony, making a rather offensive din to the ears of the drunken McLeod.
(SE5 hit for a third time for “2 + smoke + 1 aim bonus”) (CIII no.2 hit for “2 + 0” SE’s gun jams but ace card “Dedicated Ground Crew” compensates)
At which sobering point, something in Mcleod’s brain clicked back into gear as his recklesness was suddenly made apparent and, even through the alcholic mist, he realized that the crew of the two seater were definitely getting by far and away the best part of this deal and that he was in danger of seriously embarassing himself.
He dived under the Albatros, smoke pouring from somewhere up ahead in his engine, stinging his eyes and half choking him. He coughed and coughed and coughed again and then he threw up! Which probably saved his life. Why was he doing this? What in the name of the Almighty did he think he was trying to achieve, “I’ve had enough” he screamed, “I wanna go home!” But he couldn’t, of course, because he’d got himself into this mess and there was no way out other than to complete the job.
Half choking, half crying, he wiped the mess away and tried to clear the tears from his eyes. He had to pull himself together, whatever would his mother think? Oh God! And with that, having deposited three quarters of a bottle of whiskey, mostly over his Sidcot, he managed, somehow, to recover some of his senses and focus on the business of survival. The professional in him began the struggle to win him back. Not easy under the circumstances!
All this while, the last few seconds that is, he hadn’t really been conscious of where he was going, only that he had to get out of immediate danger. He looked about, still feeling very unsteady in his head, and saw the enemy aircraft turning in his direction.
It turned still further as Mcleod closed the gap, obviously trying to cut off his route home. But that was a mistake, this time by the hun. Daka daka daka daka. Mcleod fired, but once again, too soon, at too great a range. (Albatros CIII no.2 hit for “2” - using ace ability Marksman II) He could see no evidence of damage at all. He didn’t even know if he had fired straight! And for the second time, he took cover by diving beneath his opponent. Beyond that, beneath the tail of this deadly creature, he was again safe, for the moment.
He turned about, sharply, to make another run against the blind spot of the Albatros, only to be confronted by his growing nightmare. Yet another enemy aircraft had appeared. As if sent by the Gods themselves, as punishment for his profanities; an avenging angel of death, come to exact retribution from the wrong doer. “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain!”
The hornet coloured beast was tearing towards him from his 3 o’clock, no doubt its terrible sting prepared to inflict awful pain. What should he do? Continue on his present path or turn and face his doom? The ache in his head forbade decision making. He could not decide, and so his mind was made up for him. Momentarily frozen and inactive, as indecisive as the day he was born and perhaps as the day he was to die, he flew straight ahead. Automatically he gripped the Bowden leaver tight, squeezing hard enough to throttle the pilot he aimed for, and the bullets sped onwards.
(Albatros CIII no.2 hit for !1”) (SE5 hit by DVa for “0”. Guns jam on DVa)
But the Gods were only toying with him for now. Expecting any second to be on his way to hell, his shoulders hunched and tense, he dived for the third time beneath the two seater. Suddenly as if by divine intervention; forgiveness of the sinner; the message entered his head. “Not hell” it said, “Heaven you dolt”.
And that was the answer. Of course it was. He could fly to 17,00 feet. The bloody two seater couldn’t touch him there. The Scout could of course, but he’d stand a better chance against that, without that bloody two seater to worry about as well. His head was clearing a little. Still feeling decidedly sorry for himself though, he pulled back on the joystick and began his ascent to heaven.
(SE5 hit by rear gun of two seater for “0”. He didn’t even notice in his self pitying state)
At first, the bemused German pilots wondered what he was up to. Which gave him a brief head start. Then in their fury, anxious for their quarry not to escape, they turned in pursuit. But the two seater crew could only howl in frustration as the Britisher climbed ever higher, out of their clutches. But not so the eager scout pilot, whose Albatross DVa could fly every bit as high, if not higher, albeit at a slower pace. He would catch this mouse and then play with it for a while. He would teach it to stay at home and not fool with its betters.
And so it followed, also climbing ever higher towards the heavens. Lured on by thoughts of glory, perhaps put there by the mischievous Gods of war. For it was certainly they who played the next scene, rolling their random dice from cloud to cloud as the two gladiators sort their approval. The exchange of fire that followed, determined the fate of one man, but left the fate of the other in the balance. It was the German pilot who lost this throw of the dice, taking a blow, from above, that ripped into the fabric of his machine and scared the wits from him.
(SE5 hit by DVa for “1 + 0”)(DVa hit for 3 + 4 + 2 aimbonus points)
Quickly he turned and sped away, looking to buy time, whilst he recovered his composure and assessed the damage taken by his beloved Albatros. Whilst all the while, below them, his ally circled profitlessly, staring longingly upwards and wanting so much to help. Unable to reach!
So then another dance commenced for entertainment. The two contestants up above began to circle, round and round, eyeing one another, first carefully, then malliciously, then with cunning, planning their next moves. McLeod was sobering at last. He had thrown up once more, removing the last vestiges of the contents of his stomach, but he cared not. He could see again. Not nearly clearly enough, but sufficient to get him by. More to the point he was beginning to think more clearly.
He would circle ever closer, in smaller circles. Offer himself as a target. Give the hun the opportunity to get on his tail. Then he would turn on him and pounce! That was the plan.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the plan unfirled. The Gods ceased their gaming and watched intently. They took bets and smiled knowingly at one another, but not even they were certain of the outcome of this part of the play. McLeod inched ever nearer, and the German pilot too believed his was going to be the better end game.
At last, McLeod launched his trap, flying a bit too close for comfort, but just out of his enemy’s firing arc, he offered the German his bait, his life, the victory. But as the hun turned, too slowly, missing his chance, McLeod turned, almost on a sixpence. And attacked, with ferocity. The first shots were weak, but not the following.
(DVa hit for “1” and then again for “ 2 + 1 + 2 aim bonus points”. All three ace cards played – to permit the turn following the Immelmann; to permit a better damage score; and to nullify the gun jam experienced by the SE5. It was enough to destroy the DVa)
In anguish, the hun cried out to those Gods, cursing them for their betrayal. And his wings were burnt beneath the sun he had flown too close to and he crashed to the earth and his doom.
“Haven’t I seen that one before somewhere?”, said one of the Gods. The rest just gave him a dirty but mildly amused look.
And the crew of the two seater, who had not been forgotten, could only grind their teeth!
But how best to deal with them, were the thoughts now occupying McLeods still muddled brain. The nightmares persisted, dogging his every movement. His mind was still a cesspit of evil trauma, even though the physical man was now almost in command of itself again. He passed above the quarry, looking down at them looking up at him.
“Why wouldn’t they just go away?” Simple really. They wanted him destroyed. He thought they were his to deal with, now the scout was gone. But not so. The bells clanged in his head as he staggered to rise for the next round. And there before him was a fourth opponent. Yet another two seater, a Rumpler. It was not beneath him either, down there where he could leave the two of them for a time and think things through. No, this unholy son of a bitch was at his height, with a greater possible ceiling. Nowhere to hide now.
“Shog off, hun” he screamed and dived, his mind made up. No choice left to him. He would go for the weaker of the two and pray to those wayward, flippant Gods to blind the Rumpler pilot. Possibly, please, the man had not seen him, or if he had, was not interested in this fray. Did he have better things to do? A more important mission perhaps? McLeod cast him from thought, the aberration had been banished. He would take on the CIII and live or die by that fatalistic choice.
So he didn’t notice the bullets that followed him down. The indication that he had been noted, despite his prayers, by even more eyes with an interest in his demise.
(SE5 hit by Rumpler for “0”. SE5 plays ace card to permit dive after Immelmann turn)
Resigned to his fate, McLeod flew towards his destiny, whatever it may be. Moroseness was returning. He’d been out here for a lifetime now, flying on a daily bases, over this mud strewn, shell ploughed, fought over **** hole of a land. He had known some fine fellows, most of whom were now feasting in the halls of Valhalla. Men, boys really, with whom he had refused to form friendships, but whom he could not but help likeing, even admiring on occasion. Where had they gone? Where was he going? What would mother say?
Daka daka daka daka, daka daka daka daka. The lights were twinkling as they approached, reminding him of candles on a Christmas tree, many many years ago, their dazzling beams twinkling through panes of glass as he skidded on the snow covered pavement outside, clutching his mother’s hand and being dragged unwillingly to church, when all he wanted was to open the presents someone had left beneath that tree.
Zip zip zip thud. Bullets passed and bullets found their mark, but did he care?. Had he ever?
He returned the compliment, his thoughts detached. Where was he exactly? He had no idea!
(SE5 hit by CIII for “1”. CIII’s forward MG jams) (Albatros CIII no.2 hit for “1 + right rudder damage”)
Once more, his assailant unwittingly and unintentionally, saved his life. This time by almost colliding with him. The shock of this experience ripped him from his self pitying reverie and he wrestled frantically to fight his machine around the Albatros. He was an ace, was he not, focused and taught like a true gladiator. Again he turned, savagely, on the sixpence and full of hate, he knew not for whom, he fired and fired, screaming curse after curse, until the target was no longer there.
He was crying again, but nobody was there to hear him. His eyes were full of tears and his breath came in short gasps. Must get a grip! More to do. The game is still on!
(SE5 hit by CIII no2 rear gun for “0 + 0”)(Albatros CIII no2 hit for “4 + 3 + Engine Damage + 2 aim bonus points. Aircraft destroyed.)
Weary now, his head full of sorrow and self doubt, of baggage and gremlins, of self pity and hatred. He felt leaden. The driving force behind this behavious now ebbing like the tide dropping from a river bank, exposing the mud, the filth, the worms inside his brain. The Rumpler approached, but he didn’t want to play. Not yet! He avoided it, caution and animal wariness taking him wide of the hungry predator. He would have to do something about it, his rebellious mind was screaming. So attack from behind and beneath.
But neither did the Rumpler wish to play that game, instinctively turning towards it’s foe as McLeod flew past. But McLeod was the faster and able to turn tighter.
“Stubborn creature, isn’t he” said one of the Gods, or his detached self, he knew not which! Revenge he wanted, revenge he gets, but there has to be a price. So here comes another one to test his strength of purpose. Just as McLeod believed he had the Rumpler in his sights and only had to close him down, the fifth opponent appeared as if from nowhere.
“Another scout, without a doubt, he heard the shout from up above; we’ll take your life and finish this strife, since for your type, we have no love!” Was he muttering to himself again? Had his sanity now really departed. “Fight man fight, came the call from his other self, the professional from within, now crouched in a dark corner, somewhere. You cannot abandon us. Fight!”
McLeod could take no more, his resolve was gone, he had reached his breaking point. With that, he forgot the Rumpler, sent only to shake his nerves, to fill his mind with fear. He turned and raced towards the devil dressed in black.
“To be or not to be?”, that was most definitely the question. He would face his nemesis one last time and if he died, would be relieved of all this stress. He would rest, knowing he had at least taken some revenge for his friends and colleagues. But if this final tourney went his way, that would be it. His blood lust was gone. His spirit broken; he would depart and find his way back “home”. One final charge, into his valley of death.
Daka daka daka daka, daka daka daka daka.
(SE5 hit by DVa no.2 for “1 + 3”)(DVa no.2 hit for “4 + smoke + 5 + pilot wound. McLeod plays Marksman II)(DVa no.2 hit again for “2 + 2 + 2 aim bonus points”. McLeod played ace card Acrobatic pilot II)
Daka daka daka daka, daka daka daka daka. The bullets rebounding from metal with the ring of bells sounding the death knell. Daka daka daka daka. He turned one final time. Daka daka daka daka.
And it was over. The black death was gone. Returned to Hades from whom it spawned. So he turned, never to witness the Black Albatross spinning to earth, to the trenches below. His aircraft groaned and whistled through a hundred holes that should not have been there. It was seriously wounded, but would carry him home- just. The Ack Emmas would not be pleased. His flight leader would not be pleased. The CO would not be pleased. Nobody would be pleased. But, at last, a sort of peace washed over him. The Rumpler had disappeared, stage right. Another monster had appeared to mock his departure. But he was going home. To rest!
The end
Butcher’s Bill
Central Powers
Given the nature of this mission, with a random selection of opponents, none of the usual pilots were used. They remain anonymous. I hope that is acceptable. The Rumpler flew off table, so survived. The Hannover CL III (at bottom right) appeared just as McLeod was leaving. He was forced to exit as the final fight, with the second Albatros DVa, took his heal;th to 15/16!
2nd Lt Alan Arnett McLeod (Canadian)
RTB / 4 kills / Alls well that ends well! Although given his state of mind, perhaps he needs a short rest, even though much of his problem was alchol induced. I’ll leave the decision on that one to Uncle. The scores above include two extra cards to show aim bonus points.
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Fair exchange I'd say - not that I condone your reckless behaviour of course 
You are now your flight's top scorer with eight credited victories and will be awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross & Croix de Guerre.
but I had similar issues down to over excitement and splitting play across a few sessions 
.
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