His name was Kaspar Fischer, and he was one of eighteen fighters accompanying the three big bombers on a sweep of destruction over the big industrial centre of the north-west (what was the name of the city? Kaspar couldn't remember- and, he supposed, it didn't matter much). From above he watched the bombs fall, and it was an awe-inspiring sight to see the shockwaves radiate out in perfect circles, reducing the orderly edges of walls and buildings to disorganized rubble. It was frightening, too, but he tried not to let himself be frightened. After his first flight, he'd realized that it didn't do any good.
A crackle on the radio alerted him to enemy fighters on the horizon, and suddenly the bombers were not invincible machines of destruction but slow, vulnerable behemoths. And valuable targets. It was time for the fighters to do their job.
Kaspar swung out to the side, away from the bombers, and saw the enemy fighters for a split second- at least twelve, at first glance, flying in menacingly perfect formation- before machine-gun fire erupted in the sky and the battle began in earnest. It was chaos. He hardly had time to breathe between dives and climbs, and hardly had a moment to fix his sights on an enemy plane and get off a quick machinegun burst before he was the one being fired upon. He slipped into fight mode without even realizing it; seventy years later, he might have said that it became like a video game, detached from the reality of death and destruction.
Then an enemy fighter raked past, tearing a path of fire through his wing, and all of a sudden everything was real again. He screamed and pulled up on the control column; the body of the plane shuddered, and in that split second of vulnerability another burst tore into the nose, bullets ricocheting at angles off the glass in front of him and leaving a spiderweb of cracks. The engine screamed, the control column locked in his hands, and the sky turned upside down.
He was going down.
Gritting his teeth, fighting panic, Kaspar remembered Karl's words: get out of the spin. Then bail out. He pulled back on the control column with all his strength, and slowly- ever so slowly- the horizon stopped turning. He saw the countryside laid out beneath him in a patchwork of green and brown, the ground looming closer- then he reached beneath his seat and pulled the eject. Nothing happened.
"Scheisse!" he exclaimed, returning his full attention to the controls. The plane was just barely under his control, tilting wildly upon its axis, trailing a streamer of black smoke across the blue sky. He was going to have to land it in one of those fields- and he had less than five thousand feet to correct his angle, or he'd be killed on impact. He pulled back- the damaged wing shook violently and for a moment he thought for sure he'd lose it, but it held steady. He was still going much too fast- the ground was rushing up at him- he could see the individual blades of grass--
And then he was half-laying, half-sitting, crumpled against the instrument panel. His head hurt; the sun streaming through the shattered glass seemed much too bright, and he didn't want to move. He'd heard enough horror stories about what happened to pilots who went down in enemy territory. But I'm alive, he thought in wonder. That's something.
With a groan Kaspar raised his head and pulled the window-release handle. The air that came streaming in might have been sweet were it not for the stench of smoke and oil. With the other hand he extricated himself from the belts. Then, on shaking legs, he climbed out, stepped onto the grass and blinked in the sunlight, one hand against the body of the plane for support. In front of him, the green pasture stretched away; beyond it, the farmhouse seemed very small and distant. Above him, a black plume of smoke drifted lazily into the clear blue sky; the plane had torn a deep furrow into the dirt behind it. The wing that had been damaged was now completely crumpled in on itself, as was the nose.
He thought he could probably walk to that farmhouse- but he certainly wouldn't find a friendly reception there. His situation was not good. Something blurred his vision; he wiped his hand across his forehead and found it covered with red. He looked down, saw the blood running down his neck and soaking into the collar of his jumpsuit, and shut his eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over him.
He fell back against the plane and slumped into a half-sitting position, gritting his teeth in a vain effort to fight off the wall of blackness that fell over him.
PLOT;; pretty simple; my character is a German fighter pilot in the Second World War who crash-lands his plane in northwest England, behind enemy lines. But there's a twist; he's actually landed in the modern day, in the year 2016, where he is found by your character- someone around his own age who lives on the farm whose field he's crashed in. That's all the guidelines I have for your character- everything else is up to you! Don't let the darker tone of this first post fool you- this'll probably be a pretty fluffy romantic comedy style roleplay with lots of cute misunderstandings and stuff like that.
Please only join if you're an advanced roleplayer- as long as your posts can at least match mine in terms of length, I'll be satisfied (and as long as you can write well and your character isn't a mary sue!). Please don't track unless you're planning to get your reply up within a few hours at most, and please don't post saying "can I join"- I'll answer that question right now. Yes, you can join.
I don't have a faceclaim for Kaspar, but you can picture him: he's a skinny eighteen-year-old, 6'2" and 150 lbs, very German face, more cute than handsome, innocent-looking, longish curly blond hair, big blue eyes. His plane looks like this:
we travel on the road to adventure, on a desert highway straight to the heart of the sun
like lovers and heroes, and the restless part of everyone; we're only at home when we're on the run