Posted by +Phnx on October 02, 1998 at 16:00:34:

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I actually wrote this remake of a clasic Holloween story last year (I think it was last year), but it didn't live very long on the AOL message board at the time. That and the fact that many of the newer virtual pilots may have missed it the first time round led me to believe it might be worth posting again.

After all, they show "Frosty the Snowman" every Christmas and no one seems to mind. So, why not this story. LOL.

I did want to note that the story mentions a place called "B86". This was a neutral base in AW 1, but for purposes of the story, I discribed it as belonging to the Bz-Landers. It's true designation was "N86", but often it did not stay that way.

Ok, that's enough from me. Here's the story of Ichabod +Craz. Hope you enjoy . . .

*****

Darkness fell on the tent of +Dead; a drearily hand that closes tightly upon the throats of men in the form of shadowed ghosts and prowling evil. It was the type of night that comes only once a year. A time of returning spirits to the land of soul-filled men. And when it comes in times as this, a war where men die horribly every day, it only adds fuel to the already burning imaginations of those trying to avoid that fate.

Halloween had crept it's way to Kliffsedge, not unlike a black cat who sets out to cross one's path. It seemed harmless enough at the start. But as the day grew old and pass away, it's motives soon came clear.

The party in +Dead's tent was drawing to a close. The beer had flowed freely and, as pilots often tell, the tales flowed even freer. But one tale stuck tightly to one particular pilot, who's story this is that I tell.

Meet Ichabod +Craz, a plain plane man with no outstanding qualities other than his affinity with wrestling sheep in his bomber. But on this night, this unholiest of all nights, he had drawn the night patrol. A patrol he dreaded more and more as each passing minute, and tale, spilled forth like blood oozing from a fresh wound.

But it was the last yarn that would be in his thoughts that night, as he departed on his patrol. It had started as a simple comment by a pilot named +Rip. Ichabod +Craz couldn't help it if his curiosity had gotten the better of him, for asking what +Rip had meant by, "Beware the phantom of the sky when you patrol tonight," seemed a simple and innocent question. Now Ichabod wasn't so sure.

"Tell true, young Ichabod +Craz," +Rip had said, the lantern light low and casting the shadows across the asker's brow. "You have never heard of the phantom plane?"

To which Ichabod had honestly answered, "No." and then believing that the explanation would be simple and short. But that was not the case, as young +Craz should have known. For it is almost impossible for a Nomad to give a short answer to anything, especially on a subject as this.

"Dear friend," said +Rip, as he lead the other to a nearby seat, much like cattle to slaughter, imagined +Craz. "Have a seat and let me tell of a tale, the tale of the phantom plane of Euro RR1."

Ichabod +Craz settled into the chair he had been lead to and tried to get comfortable. But an icy chill blew upon his neck from behind. The cold breath of death, perhaps, +Craz envisioned. But it turned out only to be the stale breath of +Dead.

"Quit breathing on me, +Dead," demanded +Craz, who was now not sure if he really wanted to know this tale.

"Sorry," said the drunken Nomad as he found a new position that was more suitable.

"This tale I tell is not well known," began +Rip. "For there are few who have experienced it left to relay it. It begins years ago, when a hungry young flier was the top ace of the skys. No man had dared take him on alone. And even a group attack was no sure thing . . ."

Ichabod +Craz could feel his heart begin to beat faster, his legs began to tremble. He quickly slapped his hand upon his knee and pressed it down to hold the foot firm on the floor. And still he listened, and listened well, as +Rip spun the tale to the young pilot as a spider to a fly.

"One night, this very night of All Hallows Eve, this young pilot was flying patrol," continued +Rip. "But high clouds forced him to fly lower than normal, and fog below meant that only a small window of visibility remained. This was his downfall, for a Bz-Land pilot spotted the lone Cz-Lander and, by using cloud cover, was able to get behind him and score a quick kill."

"Doesn't sound like much of a phantom to me," quipped +Craz.

"Ahh . ." responded +Rip, his eyes wide open and his eyebrows raised. "But that's not the end of this tale. For it is believed that this pilot died so horribly that every Halloween, when the night is in full bloom and the clouds are just so, the plane of this pilot returns to continue his patrol. And woe to any plane that strays in his path. For they say his bullets strike forth like thunder crashes, striking any in his path with shells made by the devil himself."

"Ha," commented +Craz, in an attempt to bolster his courage. "But if this pilot be so deadly, then how has this story been passed along? Surely if what you say is true, then there would be no one left to tell the tale."

+Rip smiled, a smile that crushed any courage that Ichabod +Craz had been able to muster, "But that's just it, my dear friend. One has survived! And to me he did impart this tale. For it would seem that this phantom has a limit, a boundary, if you will. Fly south past the mountains west of B86 and he surely cannot follow! This is as it was told to me."

"Bah! I don't believe such things," boast +Craz, though he actually didn't believe his own words. And by the look on +Rip's face, neither did he. "Anyway, how could one tell this phantom plane from any other on a night such as you mention?"

"By the sound, some say. A loud and ghastly sound that drives the prop like no other engine heard. And others say . . ." +Rip paused a moment.

"Others say what?" +Craz begged.

"His favorite move was the Immelman. It would seem that just before he died . . ." +Rip's voice faded to a whisper, "He had just noticed the attacker on his 6. He was almost vertical when the first bullets hit. Bullets that shattered his cockpit and severed his head."

"He has no head?" laughed +Dead. "Surely I could beat him then."

"He now does this move when he engaged an enemy. A move not only tactically sound, but also one that allows the enemy to see him for what he really is. For he is the Headless Immelman!" +Rip finished by slapping his open palm on Ichabod +Craz's shoulder. "Now be a good lad and go off on your patrol."

Ichabod +Craz slowly stood from his chair and walked out of the tent, feeling the weight of the night crowd about his shoulders.

****

It was these events that led up to what followed, for indeed the pilot Ichabod +Craz did begin his patrol, which by chance included a short stint over Cz land.

The patrol had gone quite well, as far as +Craz was concerned, for he had seen no sign of any planes up, least that of the Headless Immelman. But chance or fate or perhaps even destiny would play it's hand before the night was through. For soon it came that Ichabod was entering Cz land and it was then that he noticed that things seemed to change.

The ghostly wisps of fog began to converge below, covering the land as to lay it to rest. The broken clouds above seemed to close in over him, slowly first, creating and then taking away a single portal of light from the full moon above. Soon it was only a glow in the haze that created soft dancing images of eerie light all about him.

The tales of headless pilots and ghouls and goblins had taken it's toll, for soon the pilot began to see spooks all about. He pulled back on his stick to try and get above the clouds. But it seemed that the higher he rose, the more the clouds surrounded him, grabbed at him, buffeting his airframe and jarring his controls. The hands of the night were solidly upon him, forcing him down to the corridor. The corridor of vision that appeared as he had imagined when +Rip told his tale. A corridor that would seem home to a phantom of the sky.

It started as a soft and subtle sound, so distant that it was hardly notable to young +Craz. But it soon began to grow. Louder and louder still, the sound began to vibrate into the very soul of the lone Nomad pilot.

Ichabod quickly checked his gauges, looking for what he thought might be engine trouble. Oil, fuel . . . all looked ok. "Perhaps," he thought, "it is just the wind."

But still the sound grew and began to rattle the canopy. Rattle and clatter and clanging against it's frame, it seemed the canopy might try to shake loose. Ichabod touched his hand to it, wondering if it might just be his mind playing tricks on him, making things seem worse than they were. But what he felt only shot fear through him. It was as though he could hear better, the sound, almost like music, through the vibration of the glass. And the tune it played was a durge.

The tale told suddenly leapt to the front of his thoughts and he craned his neck to scan the midnight sky. But nothing appeared. No phantom, no plane, no nothing . . . .

The sound exploded into +Craz's ears, his hands reactively came from his controls and covered his ears. He cried out loud to any deity that could hear and, as he looked up, he saw it blaze right over his craft.

The fiery trail that swept from it's wingtips, the shadow-less glow that cast from it's frame. The outline was hazy, much like the surroundings it had appeared from and seemed to waver from sight. At best he could guess, in the split moment he saw it, it resembled a Focke Wulf, but nothing like +Craz had ever seen before.

Ichabod fought his fear and grabbed hold of the controls. As he did the mysterious plane dove down in front of him and disappeared from his view. But before the Nomad could dive after it, it appeared again, it's nose high above the tail, in what appeared to be the beginnings of an Immelman. And that's when he noticed it!

Under normal conditions the detail of which his mind was able to record would have astonished him out of his fear. But it was this very detail that sent a shudder down his spine.

The cockpit of the ghostly Wulf was notably damaged, like a large caliber cannon had struck it. Smokeless flame was trailing out of it, but it didn't seem to be coming from the engine or controls of the plane. It was coming from the pilot's head. A head that was large and orange.

The plane inverted above +Craz's craft and the other pilot looked down. What would normally be the meeting of the two pilot's eyes turned into a view of the grave for Ichabod +Craz. For the head of the pilot wasn't really a head and the flame was the hair of this beast. The head was a pumpkin which appeared to be hollowed; the mouth cut to a sinister grin, the nose a single triangle and the eyes . . .

It was the eyes that burned a hole into the soul of the Nomad pilot. Eyes that were cut narrow and sharp into the face of the pumpkin. Eyes that saw nothing and everything at once. Eyes that had seen and known death as a friend. Or an ally. They were eyes that flamed furry and hatred for all who gazed upon them. And vengeance be that which may quench the fire.

"The Headless Immelman!" +Craz shouted to no one.

+Craz forced his eyes from the other's and rolled his wings over. Pulling back hard, he looked back to where the Focke Wulf should have been. But it was gone. That's when the words appeared in his head.

". . . it would seem that this phantom has a limit, a boundary, if you will. Fly south past the mountains west of B86 and he surely cannot follow . . ."

Ichabod +Craz leveled out his wings and dove for the mist below. His heading was south and surely he could loose the phantom in that mist. Or so he hoped.

An explosion rocked the P38 as the first cannon shells from hell discharged to his left. +Craz ruddered opposite and rolled his plane. The fog below was coming up fast. And that's when he noticed that, as he dove, the fog seemed to clear a corridor for him. A corridor that didn't close to hide the attacking craft that was behind.

+Craz split S'ed, brake spiraled, and scissored but nothing seemed to work. The Headless Immelman was always behind him and the fog parted to allow a clear shot. But during one maneuver +Craz caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye. The peaks of the western B86 mountains loomed through the fog as a beacon on a stormy sea.

But Ichabod knew that he couldn't just head for the mountains. This FW was faster than most and worse yet, most FW were faster than 38s. Ichabod needed to force a move that would allow him to distance himself from the FW. He thought he knew just what to do.

+Craz went vertical and lowered his flaps as he hit the air brake. The FW followed into the loop but overshot the Nomad 38. +Craz rolled out of the inverted and sighted the target. Pulling the trigger he hoped he might get off a clean shot.

The bullets roared, the tracers sailed and . . . . nothing! The bullets passed right through the other.

"DAMN WARPS!" shouted Ichabod, though he didn't truly believe that to be the cause. But he had done what he wanted to do. He had forced a E robbing move on the Focke Wulf and it had bit hard.

Ichabod fingered the radio and transmitted on the open channel, "Come on, dweeb! Turn with me!"

Ichabod hoped that would cause the FW to open some distance on him in an attempt to gain more e and alt to continue the attack. No pilot worth his stick would try to turn a FW in RR with a 38. And it started to work, but only for a moment.

The FW climbed and climbed and climbed. It's nose was 90 degrees to the horizontal and yet it never lost speed. The only change was the scream of the phantom plane's engine, raising to a higher and higher pitch as the plane gained more and more altitude.

"Now or never," thought +Craz as he saw his chances for survival waning.

The 38 responded to the controls as it dove again into the misty landscape. The sound of the phantom engine at first began to grow distant. But suddenly it got louder again. +Craz dare not look back for fear he might freeze up. He had to make the mountains. It was his only chance. He pushed his plane past compression and still didn't let off the throttle. The g-forces began to tug at him and the rush of air leaking into his canopy grew almost as loud as the shrill scream of the ghost that pursued him.

"More speed, you nag!" +Craz ordered of his craft, "I need more speed! I'm almost there! Almost there!"

The whumping sound filled Ichabod's ears again, as the cannons of the spectral pilot fired at the fleeing 38. The Lockheed craft shuddered and rocked from the near misses. It was then that +Craz heard the first sickening sound of a hit.

The explosion shattered the glass all around him as the 38 groaned and heaved from the strike. She tried to tear herself from Ichabod's control but the Nomad held on and righted her wings.

The mountains rushed up as a second burst struck the Bz-land craft. Ichabod had just leveled out of his dive as this round tore into his plane. The pilot looked out the side window as the mountains rushed by in a blur of motion. And as they passed, the fog seemed to lift from around him.

"I made it! YES!!!" Ichabod smiled and flipped the bird over his shoulder as he pulled back on his stick to climb for his flight back to Kliffsedge, but the 38 wouldn't respond.

"Agg! Elevators shot!" cried Ichabod.

At that same moment the left engine cut out. For the first time, +Craz noticed that his oil was leaking and so was his fuel.

Quickly, he got on the radio and called in his position to the Nomad base. But he hadn't been paying attention to how his craft was drifting. Before he realized it, he was heading back north; back towards the mountains of B86, and to the pilot known as the Headless Immelman.

Unable to go up, and hardy able to control his dying craft, Ichabod +Craz came to a quick decision, just as the phantom plane came into view again.

He ripped open the remains of his canopy and climbed out of the cockpit. Tucking in his legs, he shoved off the back of the pilot section of the 38 and tumbled out between the two tails.

Moments later his chute opened and the drifting pilot watched as the steed that had brought him to safety plummeted off to it's death. Again, he looked up and noticed the phantom plane circling just out of gun range on the northern edge of the mountains. The FW circled once more and then climbed away into the sky. And as it faded from his view, a single orange object flew down towards Ichabod.

As it grew closer, +Craz knew that it was the flaming pumpkin that had served as the Immelman's Head.

In a rush of air and flame the "head" flew past the frightened pilot and a laugh echoed through the empty midnight sky. A laugh of blood lust and hate that filled Ichabod's ears and his memories, even to this day. . . .

At least, that's how the story was told to me.

The End

+Phnx
(Hoping you had a safe and happy Halloween)

Again, a special thanks to +Tiff for help on the research and other help he gave on this story

D.R.A.G.O.N.S

or

Dopey Ragging About Generic Ongoing Nothing Specials

It was a time in history where deeds were lost, being left to the frail memory of man to be remember-ed for the telling. A time when the written word was a skill learned and treasured by few, when power was not measured by the quill but rather the blade. It was a time before the magics and other dark arts where abandoned for the mechanical conveniences of today. When the earth lay flat and the superficial beliefs of the uneducated held more truth than no.

It was a land where men and beasts struggled for supremacy, if not just for survival. An ongoing war that few wish to recall and none have witnessed since. It was the time of shield and sword. Of claw and flamed breath. It was the ultimate battle of good and evil. It was the time of Nomads and Dragons!

Sir +Lostalot dismounted his horse, Undue Perversity, and scanned the horizon, his emblazoned white armor glinting in the setting sun. He had seen the black dots in the sky that had marked the coming of the Dragon horde, yet now they seemed to have disappeared. He wondered where his companions might be, at which crossroads he had been misdirected.

+Lostalot stroked his steed (his horse! Gez!) both to calm it and himself, he hated when he became separated from his hoofman. But he knew from experience if he held his position, he would eventually be found. This time was no exception.

A rustling of branches could be heard nearby. +Lostalot whirred around and drew his weapon in a single smooth motion. But his feet became tangled and he collapsed in a heap on the ground, his broadsword wrenching from his grip.

"You've almost perfected that move," said a voice from behind the hedge.

+Lostalot looked up and saw the owner of the voice appear, several men riding behind.

+Lostalot struggled to his feet and reclaimed his sword, "+Mirlin! Thank the Armored Warrior's Gods you found me! I had seen Dragons to the south, yet did not know whether to hold hither or continue on. My hoofman, Sir +Phoen the Ax and I became separated when we had departed the outpost to join you on this quest."

+Mirlin slipped from his saddle and squinted into the barren sky. He waved his hand in a strange gesture and a cigarette appeared in it, a small flame dancing before him just inches away. +Mirlin lit the smoke and then turned back towards his men.

"We must continue forward, my good men," +Mirlin said.

The rest of the Nomads began too look about. As if searching for something.

+Mirlin shook his head and slapped his forehead, "You dolts! I was speaking to you!"

"Ah," chimed in Sir +Ripen The Jeans. "You threw us with the good men bit."

"I see," said +Mirlin. "Well . . . anyway . . . we must push forward!"

Just then Sir +Dead Rider spoke up, "But, my Lord. What is the plan?"

"Plan?" asked +Mirlin. "Whatever do you mean, Sir +Dead?"

"When we find the Dragons," explained +Dead Rider. "What then?"

"Ah!" said +Mirlin in understanding. "We will deal with that when we find them!"

"We should pair up into teams of two," added Sir +Tiff The Spit. "Hoofmen will be: +Dead and +Mirlin, +Phoen the Ax and +Lostalot, myself and Sir +Jaberwalky the Brit, Sir +Band the Bard and Sir +Chit the Chat, +Ripen and Sir +Stogy the Smog."

"And where have the other Nomads off to?" asked Sir +Band the Bard.

"Off with some Arthur fellow to quest a grail or some such thing," replied +Mirlin.

"All right," continued Sir +Tiff the Spit. "Pair up and be ready."

"Yes," said +Mirlin, climbing back onto his mount. "We shall forward and meet these traitorous Dragons and, once be gather-ed upon overlooking hill top, ride down in thunder upon their ranks! The shrill of missile will set the tune for our victory as our swords sing of being unsheathed! And in a chorus of cries, let not the day be theirs, but rather a swift and glorious blow to the like of the winged scourge that flutters below! In a single voice, let us cry out, for victory for God, Arthur, and Armored Warrior!"

And in unison the Nomads cried out the battle chant and spurred forward with undo haste! The trail hinted of a bitter battle ahead, yet the squad of men did not hold back. The odds were most favored for those of wing, but the faith of fellowship was strong. And at long last did the men of the White country find where the Dragons had camped for their stay.

As the Nomads approached the sight, they heard a sound so unfamiliar to them that it caused pause. A peculiar clapping sound that grew in intensity as they approached the glow of what could only be a large bon-fire. Peeking down upon the Dragon horde, the Nomads, for the first time, knew what was producing the noise.

"Why, they're patting each other on the backs!" exclaimed +Dead Rider. "What's that all about?"

"I haven't a clue," said +Mirlin. "But they make an awful racket doing it! Come, let us use stealth and spy upon this gathering."

And so in silence did the Nomads approach, and creep to the edge of the hedgerow to spy upon the foul beasts who laired below. +Mirlin held his hands to quiet the group, wishing to hear of what tales the Dragons would spin, before the Nomad attack was to be unfurled. And listen, they did.

A rather large Dragon was up front, eyeing the smaller members before him. His scales shone red in the firelight of the gathering and his eyes reflected gold in his gaze. He sat back on his haunches, showing a missing piece of armor on his belly. A weak spot that +Mirlin duly noted.

"Fellow Dragons!" roared the larger. "Hear me!"

The other Dragons began to chant, "Smaug! Smaug! Smaug!"

The larger Dragon raised his hands to quell the others, "Thank you, thank you! But we must continue with this meeting! We have done things together that no other group has done before! Soon, I think, people will speak of the Dragons with fear, and awe, and hate, and respect..."

"He forgot confusion and loathing," chimed in +Phoen the Ax.

"Shhh," responded +Lostalot.

". . . and thus will the Dragons dot the sky above their precious land! And in flame and furry will we come down upon them!"

And with that, the Dragons all howled and cheered, columns of flame streaking towards the sky from their gaping maws.

"Silence!" demanded Smaug. "We now have a report from one of our members. Quicksilver, please come up here and tell us what you have learned."

A smaller Dragon came up to the front and turned back to the assembled group.

"Thank you, Smaug. My report:" and the smaller Dragon drew in a large breath of air. "At first it seemed like we might have problems with some of the other groups in this area but after some doing we were able to beat them down and make them see that we Dragons were here to stay because we may have ate flak (Pun intended) about our abilities as a group but it would seem that we have quashed the flak that so gave us trouble and in proving that it was wrong in several areas I feel we have proved to all others that we are not only growing but are here to stay so they can say what they want because we all know that what I say is true and in it being true is therefore what is going to happen, cause that's what I said was gonna be, cause it's the truth!"

And all the Dragons cheered.

+Dead Rider turned to +Mirlin and asked, "What do you think?"

+Mirlin scratched his head, "I have no idea what he just said!"

+Tiff crawled up along side the others, "Do you think it's worth attacking them? I mean, it seems like it'd be a waste of our time. We have nothing to gain, nothing to prove, and besides that, I have no more room in my trophy case."

+Mirlin thought a moment and then spoke, "Let us not go down there. It is a silly group of Dragons."

And with that the Nomads RTBed for some much needed spirits. And after much wine did flow, and when +Band's singing did sound much like song, did they return to their quarters. Each with visions of silly Dragons, dancing Shillelaghs, and dead baby seals in their dreams.

The End

smile.gif

+Phnx