Jackson Schmidt, Army Pilot (Allies/American) [Extended Preview]

I always loved the sky. My favorite color was blue. My favorite animal was a bird (the Blue Jay). I wanted nothing more than to be in the sky, piloting planes for whatever reason, so when the war broke out, I decided the Army Air Corps would be a good place to earn my wings and become a flyboy.

It was late 1943 when I finally got into my first baptism of fire. A “simple” escorting gig into mainland Europe with a couple of B17 bombers, accompanied by British Spitfires and fellow American P-51s. I was one of the American pilots operating the Mustangs. I had no clue what I was flying into on my first mission. I was warned on my first day that the Germans had superb pilots within the ranks of the Luftwaffe, but I was cocky and thought I’d earn the status of an ace within my first month of official aerial tour.

Instead, I got a reality check, lost several of my buddies, and nearly got shot down. When we landed, the surviving escort party members told me to remember that the Germans weren’t defending their conquered lands but were defending their fatherland. I glanced at my P-51 hull, counting my blessings, and would forever remember that those goose-stepping bastards had something to hold onto.

By the spring of 1944, I was accustomed to nearly dying, shooting down other planes, and having nightmares. It was a routine that I thought I would simply grow into. I loved being in the sky, after all. Being so close to the clouds, seeing the land below, being in the sky… what wasn’t there to love?

…

…

So, why the hell was I screaming my head off? My goggles barely remained on my face as I felt the rushing air whip all around me. My plane, now imitating a mentor crashing down to earth, spiraled out of control with flames roaring out of its engine.

The sky was partly cloudy but beautiful and full of metal war birds pecking at each other with bullets, literally killing each other. I patted around my vest and tugged on the rip cord as I watched in twisted curiosity all the dog fighting happening around me.

It was different… seeing the Focke-Wulfs fly by and burst their tracers into the escort fighters. It was a frantic display of war that I hadn’t seen this close as a non-combatant. Then, I glanced downward and saw Germany below me. “Good Christ!” I yelled out loud as I realized I would probably be captured.

Every spotter within a 200-mile radius was probably on their radio shouting that an enemy pilot was drifting down. My legs kicked, and I looked all around. As I did this, I spotted one of our Flying Fortresses on fire, falling from the sky like it mimicking the Hindenburg disaster. I didn’t see any other chutes, though. So that meant I was definitely entering the unknown alone.

I drifted into a tree and was suspended about 10 feet in the air. I dangled like a puppet with a stunned puppeteer controlling my strings. I grunted and thrashed, cursed, and hissed. I could still hear the other planes lighting up the world above me as I struggled against my parachute cords. There was no doubt in my mind that Germans were racing toward me, though, so I fought like hell to escape.

When I dropped out of the tree, I landed awkwardly on my feet and felt my ankle pop. I yelled and crumbled to the grass. I worked myself up, using my catcher for support. I applied gentle weight to my right foot and felt a sharp pain shoot up my leg. Luckily, I knew it wasn’t broken.

Nonetheless, this injury has crippled my dire need to escape. I limped out of the tree patch, running frantically in the direction I thought was France. If I crossed the border, perhaps I could find the resistance groups?

Another plane above me bursts into flames. I see a Mustang chasing the burning plane before pulling up to rejoin the fight, still roaring in the clouds. I saw no chute come out of whatever German-model-fighter just got blown into pieces, and I had no desire to check the damages. I still perched myself beneath a tree. I hid from the possible debris coming from the battle in the sky. I also had to catch my breath. I glanced down and saw something red staining my right arm. I followed this discovery with a quick scan of my body. My jumpsuit had a tear on it, and when I explored the extent of the damage to me, I found that my bicep was bleeding profusely. I took my goggles off and found the glass had burn marks, scorching the cracks with carbon tint. “Oh no…”

A vague flash came to mind when my instruments blew up on my face before more of my plane got holy. My body felt mostly numb, but I knew it was only a matter of time before the shock of everything wore off, and I’m left without adrenaline and a weak, bleeding body. I shake my head and press forward. After about 20 minutes of hard breathing and aimless running, I concluded I should have gathered my bearings first. The sky was calm, and there were sounds of search parties all around me.

“6 months of service. Nothing but a rookie…”

The numbness was finally fading, and the pain was starting to swell my nerves. How much blood had I lost? Am I going to die? I started again, hoping to get shot instead of caught in the embittered Germans.

I kept running until I stumbled over a small farmhouse. There was a chicken coop, a horse stable, and a dirt road that pathed a way inside. Behind the house was a lively creek. I couldn’t tell how deep the water was and decided to double back maybe and cross the road. To my chagrin, I spotted dust rising from the road now. I’ve never been a gambling man, so I wasn’t going to risk possibly getting spotted in the bushes waiting for whatever vehicle to pass by. I soon discovered there was also a small garden— I gracelessly ran through it, smashing tomatoes and strawberries. And then, it happened. I tripped over a bucket and scraped along the front of the house. For the first time since getting shot down, I felt searing pain burst throughout my entire body. A scream boiled from my mouth and came out loudly.

I worked myself up to my knees and hands. I finally took my goggles, finding the sun’s reflection harsh against my eyes. I figured this would be the **** of me. Then, as though to be proven right, something hard and metal smashed the back of my head, and I fell to the ground. I was **** to flip to my back. I stared up at my attacker, but they were simply silhouetted by the high noon sun.

It was difficult to single out the characteristics of the figure above me, but as I focused, I could see more of my attacker. The shovel was pronounced. Their hair was in double Dutch braids, they wore a khaki dress, a white short-sleeved shirt, and then, most upsetting to me was the crimson red armband pinned to their left arm.