The Chronicles of Stixx
(The Aces High AVA tale of a Noob)
Airman Stixx emerged from the Ammo Bunker and staggered toward the grassy airstrip of his forward airbase. His mouth felt like someone had sifted the entire Sahara Desert through his teeth while he slept, his eyes hurt, and the throbbing in his forehead intensified with every step. The sky was bright, blurring his vision, and he held his hand up to shade his eyes. It helped, but only a little. Behind him, in the shadowy confines of the Ammo Bunker, oblivion beckoned with its heady aroma of Guinness Stout. On the other side of the airstrip lay the command tent where the orders for his return to remedial training waited on Commander Chapel’s desk.
“I don’t honestly know what I’m going to do with you, Stixx.” Commander Chapel had raged at him two days earlier. After a member of the ground crew retrieved Stixx in a jeep, and deposited him at the door to Chapel’s office where the commander waited.
“Shot down again. The fifth time this week. Those P38’s don’t grow on trees you know.”
Yeah, he knew, but try as he might Stixx just could not figure out the best way to use them against the Jerries. No matter what he tried they outsmarted him.
“Guess it’s time to take my medicine,” he mumbled as he staggered toward the hangar where he could clean himself up before his meeting with Chapel.
To his right , at the end of the runway, he could see a group of P38’s, parked beneath camouflage netting. He stopped, shaded his eyes with both hands, and squinted at the aircraft. Something didn’t look quite right. They were the wrong shape. Maybe it was the netting. Maybe they were trying to disguise them better. He glanced at the hangar and took comfort in the row of three spitfires parked outside the door.
Inside the hangar he lowered the hand shielding his eyes and made his way to the head. After relieving himself he bent down over the sink and ran cold water over the back of his head. It helped clear his mind, a bit, and as he dried off he glanced at the calendar on the wall.
Februar
Must be a misprint.
From the head he passed through the ready room and glanced at the assignment board. Looked like the fellas were out on a raid.
At the entrance to the command tent, a burly fellow, wearing a leather cap pulled down tight above his eyes, brushed past him.
“Excuse me!” Stixx said as he watched the leather clad man stagger away from him. The man said something Stixx didn’t quite catch. It sounded like, bit? Brit?
With a shrug Stixx stepped into the command tent.
“Airman Stixx reporting as ordered, sir!” He announced himself with a crisp salute. The man at the desk looked up at him with a startled, drunken, expression. It was not Chapel.
“Excuse me, Sir, but where is Commander Chapel?” Stixx asked as the man got to his feet with a noticeable weave to the right.
Stixx lowered his salute as his eyes settled on the Iron Cross at the man’s throat and he felt the world drop out from under him.
How? What? Who? He wondered wildly.
Stixx took a step back as his eyes scanned the office. The German officer moved to step around the desk, and Stixx suddenly knew who this was, and what had happened. They had taken the base while he was passed out.
His hand dropped to his sidearm as Stixx realized he was standing face to face with the dreaded German Commander the allies had codenamed TrueKill. As his hand slapped against his thigh he recalled that he had left his sidearm hanging in its holster in the ammo bunker .
Stixx staggered back through the flap of the tent as the sound of running feet approached him. He glanced to his right, and saw the leather clad man he’d passed before, running towards him. His feet became tangled and he reached out and steadied himself on the jeep sitting near the entrance. He glanced from the opening of the tent to the approaching figure running towards him with his sidearm drawn.
“Halt!” The approaching man shouted.
Without hesitation Stixx jumped behind the wheel of the jeep and jammed his foot down on the starter button. A bullet splatted against the windshield, another whined with a wicked scream from the hood of the jeep. And yet the starter motor ground on without effect. Stixx glanced down at the dash and saw that the starter switch was still in the off position.
He slapped it to the right, jammed his foot onto the starter button, and the motor roared to life. The gears ground in protest as he slammed the transmission into first. He was driven back into his seat when he popped the clutch, and for a brief moment the engine threatened to stall out. It sputtered, then caught, and Stixx clung to the steering wheel as he bore down on the approaching man.
The German pilot the Allies had codenamed, Lutrel, dove to the left as the jeep bore down on him. He lay on his back, firing his Luger at the dwindling jeep, as TrueKill staggered from his office firing wildly.
Stixx bounced in his seat as he raced across the airfield. He passed a tent just as several men, in German uniform, staggered out into the open, they dove to the ground as he roared past them. He reached the edge of the airfield and weaved among the trees as he fled through the forest.
What was he going to do? Which way could he go? where was the front? He had to stop, figure things out, he needed a safe place to hide out.
Lutrel got back onto his feet and dusted himself off as TrueKill staggered to him with a luger in one hand, and a bottle of Jagermeister in the other.
“We’ve got to stop him!” TrueKill raged.
“But it’s only a jeep, and an allied one at that,” Lutrel replied.
“Yeah, but it has four cases of Jagermeister in the back seat.” TrueKill replied
