The fifty-calibers rattle on even as the Bf-109 pulls up out of it's pass, trying desperately to damage any bit of the German aircraft, but falling too short as the distance between the B-17 and the 109 increases.

"Did we get hit in the last run?" The pilot, a stout man by the name of Tim, says with a hint of anxiety in his voice.

"We were, there's a hole the size of my dick in above the waist-gunners' position!" Exclaims Kaleb, the Flight Engineer, over the radio.

"Fuck, waist-gunners check in!" The pilot's voice rattles sternly over the comms. Thankfully it is met with the two gunners telling the pilot to calm down and assuring him they're OK.

The pilot lets out a sigh of relief, almost impressed that they has survived three passes from those damned G-models, ones that bear the new 30 MM gunpods.

As the pilot's eyes scan the sky for more Krauts, his eyes drift to the B-17 on his left, dubbed 'Smooth Betty' by her crew members. Tim's eyes widen as he suddenly spots the ball turret, facing partly in his direction and presenting a large hole towards Tim's plane.

"Patch me through to Smooth Betty right now!" Tim shouts through his headset, cuing the radio operator to begin getting on the right channel.

"-amn this machine I fly in!" Is the voice the crew is met with as they're finally put in through to Smooth Betty.


The crew of Tim's '17 watches Smooth Betty in shock, the pilot's voice giving them all a sudden jolt.

"Damn it all! Damn this war! Damn this life!" The pilot screams beckon Tim's mouth to slowly open in an attempt to reach out to the raging man.

"This is Three-Oh-Five to Smooth Betty, check in with your ball turret to confirm if he's alright." Tim says, Smooth Betty's pilot stopping for a good ten seconds before he finally speaks.

"He's dead. My entire crew is dead apart from me and my bombardier." The pilot says, voice sounding dazed.

"Pilot, how badly are you and the bombardier hurt?" Tim says, eyeing the cockpit with utmost intensity.

"I got a good bit of shrapnel in my back, bombardier is probably faring just as well as me." The pilot's voice causes Tim to grip the yaw even tighter with dread.

"Smooth Betty how is your craft? Can you make it to target?" Tim tries desperately to get some hope from this entire situation, but the slivers of hope are quickly fading.

The pilot doesn't respond for another twenty seconds, the pilot appears to look around, probably checking for any visible damage on the B-17. Tim's eyes begin to scan the B-17 again, this time he notices the motionless co-pilot, the large tears in the fuselage where the waist-gunners were supposed to be, and the now-noticeable arm hanging and bouncing from the blown-open ball turret.

"Damn this all." The pilot starts back up, visibly swaying back and forth in the seat as he loses more and more blood.

All the sudden, a high-pitched wail comes from above as a 109 comes zooming in from Smooth Betty's six-o'-clock. Green and white tracers, some the size of tennis balls, slam into the bomber with supreme force.

Smooth Betty shudders and begins to roll over as 30 MM HE shells slice through the wing and fuselage, cuing a bright flash to erupt from the left wing, opposite side from Tim's plane.

"Damn these Germans! Damn my death! Damn it all! Damn the heavens! Damn the he-" The pilot's voice cuts out as the B-17 visibly tears apart due to the high speed, sending smoking engines and large chunks of aluminum soaring over the German countryside.

Tim leans back in his seat, trying his best to forget everything he just saw and heard. His meditation is cut short, however, by Kaleb's voice coming over the comms.

"109 five-o'-clock!" The Flight Engineer calls out before the Boeing is suddenly lit up by the same tracers that took down Smooth Betty. Tim sits up quickly after bracing for the run on the bomber and immediately taps into his comms.

"Hello! Who's alright?" The only voice that responds back is the tail gunner's voice, however it was labored and presented little more than a few uncomfortable groans and grunts, clearly showing that he's probably not going to last the next fifty minutes there and back to the base.

Tim grips the yoke tighter than ever now as he begins to notices that he's lost all rudder control, no matter how hard he presses the rudder he still can't seem to force the bomber to turn.

Tim looks down, trying to find a reason as to why the rudders are jammed, but only finding his right leg blasted open, from a 30-MM no doubt.

Tim looks up, beginning to feel like passing out any second, and leans his head against the window on his left. And as his eyes begin to shut on their own and it gets harder and harder to breathe, he speaks one last time.

"Damn my legs."