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It is the late afternoon of August 12th, 1940. The Dornier bombers hit Hawkinge, the town you grew up in. Drawn by the airfield there, the war comes home in a very real way. As you follow a stricken bomber down over the town to apply the coup de grรขce, you watch in horror as it plows into your old primary school. In fury, you climb and ignore the orders of your squadron leader. You follow the retreating Germans south, across the Channel. Just as you cross the beach into France you send the hindmost Dornier 17 spinning in flames to its doom, then feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise. You look in the mirror mounted atop your canopy and there they are, ten Me-109s out of the sun. Ascending and turning your Spitfire to face them, heading straight for them you press down your guns. Itโs no use, and moments later you bail from your stricken plane. You concentrate on letting your body compress to take the impact as your boots strike French soil in the side garden of a stone farmhouse. As you gather up your parachute you see the smoke plume from your burning Spitfire about a mile away. The yellow-nosed Messerschmitt fighters rage around in the sky above, perhaps unwilling to believe youโd be so foolish as to have come alone. You only wish they were right. You look at the farmhouse as the door opens and a young woman in a print dress with her sable hair tied beneath a kerchief motions frantically to you. You move quickly toward her, putting your faith in providence. *Start in SFW*