Animal wrote:Wednesday Event After Action Report (porn inside for those who dont care to read it) After Action Report (AAR) Cottonmouth, and the stench of booze, Asian girls, sex, and death, that would describe our barracks that morning in the Pacific Theater. An important mission for which we did not care to attend a briefing to was about to begin. Where was our CO, we did not know, he was probably AWOL again (he tends to get drunk and wonder the jungles on his own) Being the next in command, I took the task of Flight Leader. This job came natural to me since I know this plane more than everyone else, and besides, everyone else are a bunch of rambling dip****s. Latrine Scrubber Innonimate, Latrine Scrubber Moloch, Latrine Scrubber Frogman, and Scrubber First Class Osage would be my loyal wingmen. This would be a total ****storm of a mission, the usual kind for the Fat Drunk Bastards. Takeoff Rolling was uneventful, no friendly fire this time. Maybe the hangover made everyone forget how much we hate each other. By my mistake, we rolled north instead of south like the rest of the flight. No biggie, I don’t care about the others. Let them go ahead so they can take the flak. Ingress By listening to the radio for a while, I manage to fit the puzzle and realize that our mission was to sink some Japanese destroyers. Our rendezvous point was a ****load miles away, and we had to climb to 25k. I immediately realized that by the time we get there, hook with the other squads, and find the destroyers, our fuel would be low, as we had no external drop tanks, and where carrying our heaviest ordnance. AUB, our commander, didn’t seem to realize this, or he just shut his traphole and tried to lead us to our doom. Haha! Not us Bastards. We are too clever for that friggin traitor. I suggest on friendly radio that everyone lower their RPM and Manifold as to save fuel until we find the destroyers. I was ignored. OK, **** them. I gave the order to the Bastards, and everyone followed it without question (a rare event) except for Grima “Innonimate” Wormtongue. He began blabbering on how we had enough fuel to last a lifetime, and being a general pain in the bellybutton and malcontent. I told him to shut up and everyone ignored his constant, usual whining and we went our merry way to find the destroyers and sink them. Destroyers in sight! By the time we found the destroyers, everyone had realized that we did not have enough fuel to sink them and fight their escorts. Luckily, thanks to my intellect and knowledge of the Lockheed P-38L Lightning, us Bastards had some extra fuel, which served us well to fight our way into the target, and out, with shinning results: 2 destroyers sunk by the Fat Drunk Bastards After we had dropped our ordnance, it was time to fight our way out thru the swarms of riceburning KI-61’s. The fight was rough, but we got 4 confirmed kills two by me and the rest who cares who got them, out of the approximately ten KI-61’s, and two chute kills, both by Yours Truly (Grima “Innonimate” Wormtongue argues that one of the chute kills was his, but that is a lie). After the fight, Innonimate found a fitting end to his traitorous tour of duty in the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. After the fight was over, our fuel state was critical, as I had predicted. All the other flight leaders dead, the remaining pilots followed me on our hopeless quest to dry land. I carefully planned our RPM and Manifold settings during the flight, but after 5 minutes of flight (an impressive length considering how little fuel we had left) I realized that I could not lead them to dry land. At one moment, I considered turning around and opening fire on them, a compassionate end compared to the torture the Japanese would unleash on their apples; but then I received a miraculous report that a friendly carrier group was nearby. As we turned around, I realized that out of the 5 people who were following me before, only 3 where left! They either crashed against the ocean, or where treacherously shot down by Osage, who was flying behind, and probably came to the same realization about the torture. With the little fuel I had left, I flew my P-38L to the carrier deck where a bunch of sailors tried to run for cover as my bird crash landed. I then pressed .ef on my keyboard, fetched a beer, and watched the Dave Chappelle Show. Regarding Innonimate: His constant whining, and suspicious remarks lead me to believe he is a spy working for the enemy, and his only goal is to lead the Fat Drunk Bastards into disaster. Last night, I saw him creeping behind a radio, talking in some Asian language, and sipping some gay Smirnoff Ice type of girly drink.
FDBs; This was one of our more stellar performances... We launched 10 (fatty, argyll, skernsk, gordo, mason, sling, myelo, sally, claidmor, and exile) We proceded uneventfully enough NOE to P39, with Gordo, Sling and Myelo off lost somewhere. Just outside of 39 we popped up to about 6k and approached for an ack killing, myself mason and exile lined up. Knowing it would be easy with the 3 of us, (plus SBM who were even with us), I rolled over and dove in. Looking starboard, I noticed with some suprise that mason and exile had broken off to go outside the ack. Looking upwards, I noticed Nash and the other SBM and pulled up for a higher dive. Looking downwards I noticed that I was the only ack target and promptly cartmanized "Screw you guys, I'm going home." Two acks on the way to my auger, and left mason in charge. Gordo, being a witless twit even in the company of the fat drunk bastards, confused his buttons and promptly shot myelo out of the sky. As retribution, Beer God erased him from existance. Sally, trying to write his name in the sand with his machine guns, augered on the dot underlying the exclaimation point. Claidmor tried to read the scribble in the coastline sand. Unfortunately given his literacy level, by the time he could discern "Sally wus here!" he had created a canadian sized hole in the ground. Undeterred by the shotcomings of his comrades, Mason heroicly led the leftovers back to base to rearm. Sling is still lost at this point, pretending to be some kind of CM type guy. On the rearm pad, just behind skernsk and mason, argyll attempts to broadcast something in canuckish on the squad channel, but having missed the / key, when he hits 'b', 30mm takes both mason and skernsk out of commission. Dreadfully ashamed of gross incompetence unthinkable even for a canuck or a fat drunk bastard, argyll quits aces high. Sling, trying to find out where we are since he was lost trying to remember his 3 CM commands, promptly fails the idiot test and hits enter 3 times trying to convey a message. Exile, being the lame, goody I'll make fancy schmancy TOD stuff type, of course is carefully rearming on his own pad, away from the riffraff some call his squadmates. He and the sole remainder of SBM teamed up in some sort of dynamic duo type thing, but as we could care less about exile or what he does, I can't tell you anymore than thankfully he was killed out there somewhere. If you see his body, do us a favor and spit on it if it's not too much trouble.
