Yep, We like to play up the dumb ole country boy. That way everyone underestimates us and we take advantage of it. As you well know. We think much faster than we talk! How about "Charles Chaterley"
Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear or a fool from either end. BOC Member since....I can't remember!
I don't get too worked up about it. But from a gaming perspective, it sometimes feels like the more questionable demises run contrary to the intent of DiD. Like I said, I don't mind calling it a kill if you and your wingman collide going after the same target unaware of the other. That likely happened quite often. But occasionally the AI does something wonky, like run into you from your dead six. That I'd have a hard time believing even the most target fixated pilot would do. Then it feels more like you are fighting the game than the enemy.
Deacon, agreed. System failures, like a malfunctioning joystick, suck and warrant a three-fingered salute. Mission should then not record and you can call it a nightmare for your pilot, where he wakes up in the middle of the mission. Rear-ending wingmen, that's a different story. Have to live with it and shake your head in disbelief, just like when they dive after an already on fire enemy and end up ploughing the field.
"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys, The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain, From out of my arse take the camshaft, And assemble the engine again."
Well, that's what I've done thus far. Not certain that will always be the case though.
Sometimes when your whole flight initializes about five feet above the field and bounces themselves to death or when your flight of 6 is stalling all over themselves trying to outslow the BE they are escorting and wind up an aircraft part yard sale at angels 9, I think you trip across the line into unrealistic behavior.
Not casting blame on the devs for those rare gremlins that every complicated system has. However, I am increasingly inclined to view those events as glitches and not as features. Others are welcome to their own feelings on the matter of course.
Although I haven't been flying recently, I've been keeping an eye on the reports in this thread. So please keep it up, gentlemen! I enjoy the stories and the pics.
Unfortunately I no longer have enough free time to fly two DID campaigns simultaneously.
"Upon my word I've had as much excitement on a car as in the air, especially since the R.F.C. have had women drivers."
James McCudden, Five Years in the Royal Flying Corps
You can't say a human wouldn't do something totally irrational - even driving on the roads you see all sorts of nutters day in day out, who would easily kill themselves let alone you. Many pilots were lost through accidents, live with it, that's war in the air WW1 style.
You can't say a human wouldn't do something totally irrational - even driving on the roads you see all sorts of nutters day in day out, who would easily kill themselves let alone you. Many pilots were lost through accidents, live with it, that's war in the air WW1 style.
Truly I don't want to belabor the point, but there are definitely some things that a human wouldn't likely do that lead to undesirable behavior in the sim. Simo runs still happened when I was flying mil, though they were thankfully less common than in the early days of flight. In game, I have no beef with calling it bad luck when you swap paint in a furball or fixate on a target as I did the other day.
Having said that, there are absolutely some AI behaviors where the AI is trying mightily to do the smart thing, but can't quite decide what that is. The big whifferdills that the escort flight does if the escorted aircraft is substantially slower is one example that comes to mind. Leading a flight of 5 or more at a couple of knots above stall speed is just not good flight leadership. And it yields predictable results like stalls and midairs.
As always, I'm really not looking to slam the AI or WOFF as I pretty firmly believe it is one of the best sims ever made. But I always have a hard time accepting that its few vices are secretly virtues. I accept the occasional head scratchers for what they are and try to work around them. So my pondering over the last couple of days has not been in the way of aggravation at WOFF, but more of considering whether your flight lead running your flight into the mountains is a fortune of war to be accepted or a rare AI glitch to be recovered from.
In any case, I don't mean to get into a Luf on the point. I'm still undecided myself. Should I ever decide to resurrect a pilot after my personal BS light comes on, I will be more than happy to courteously recuse myself from the DiD campaign.
I don't really play for points and my pilots never seem to live that long anyway.
Mission: Escort Bombers to Target near Burgge on the Coast.
A Flt: 4 N-11 B Flt: 5 N-10,s and N-11's.
Alt: 1500 Meters.
Bombers: 2 FE's. Meet over Airdrome.
Remarks: We got our blooming backs ripped open. A Jasta of Halb's fell on us as we crossed the lines. Top cover lost 2 N-11's before they ripped into us then the bombers. We were scattered to the 4 winds I had 2 of the Vultures circling me like I was a Road Kill. I managed to fire off 2 drums about 94 rds then broke free and ran for it. As I sped away, I spotted both bombers going down on the enemy side of the lines.
Sgn Claims: 1 Halb Destroyed. Losses: 2 N-11's+ 1 damaged From A flt. B flight: 1 N-10 Lost +2 damaged. and 2 Fe's Destroyed. Intell Rpts: Jasta 11 was in Area.
Anything in the Air can make Mincemeat out of my N-10. I have become the Hunted.
Carrick, time for a change. Time for you to become the hunter again.
"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys, The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain, From out of my arse take the camshaft, And assemble the engine again."
Sept. 14, 1916. Bruce Wayne woke up this morning, said: "I've got this", went up and bagged the Red Baron.
"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys, The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain, From out of my arse take the camshaft, And assemble the engine again."
Mission Line Patrol. T/O: 0715 hrs A Flt: 3 N-11's B Flt: 5 N-11's and N-10's
Alt: 2300 meters Loc: Just short of the lines. E/A sighted: 2 Rolands higher and to the East 1 Dfw to the West Higher still + Jasta 2 a/c. Engaged: Jasta 2 machines 8 -11 Albatross Type Scouts. Claims: None Losses: B Flight 4 Destroyed+ 1 Heavy damage with pilot wnd ( ME).
Remarks: My flight leader turned a 180 and led us into the furball. I was tail end Charlie and saw my Leader and his #2 get the chop then 2 e/a were on me firing and weaving. I got off Pot Shots of 40 rds no hits but helped to keep them off me. Finally one of them hit me ( Wnd) then his wingmate got my motor with a bust. I spun in to low level and forced landed on out side as they flew back to Hun land. Off to the Hospital till the 20th.
I haven't been able to keep the story of Blaise St John-Cottingham up to date due to work pressures, but I'll fix that next week. Here's a quick installment written on the road that should be read with your Sunday morning tea and toast.
After Christmas, the CO undertook to meet privately with each of his pilots, an entertainment he announced would be repeated from time to time. My first such audience with Major Paget-Graves came the morning after New Year’s whilst I was nursing a headache and he was disgustingly full of energy.
Paget-Graves was both lugubrious and birdlike in feature. He walked with a pronounced limp and used two sticks to get about, as he’d crashed his machine and smashed himself up badly back in 1915. But this morning he was in a game mood.
“So, Mr. St John-Cottingham, how do you think you’re getting on here at Sixty?” be began cryptically.
“Well enough, sir,” I replied. The CO’s face betrayed nothing of where this conversation was bound. “I’ve bagged two Huns, and if I could only get assigned a Type 17 I’m sure I could add to that.”
“Aircraft assignments, for the moment, are up to the Flight Commanders.” His hawkish eyes were studying me. “I’ve heard you are a bit of a loner. Do you know what the others call you?”
This question gave me a chill. I had no idea and feigned nonchalance. “Haven’t the foggiest, sir. And can’t really say it matters much to me.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t, Cottingham. They call you the Neapolitan.” This was certainly the worst nickname in history. It made no sense to me, and I said so.
“From The Merchant of Venice of course,” said Paget-Graves. That, apparently, should have meant something to me, but the blank look on my face gave me away. “Shrewsbury School, right?”
I nodded. I neglected to mention that the war had saved me from the shame of failing my university entrance exams.
“Then you ought to know your Shakespeare. Portia to Nerissa. She’s describing her suitors, one of whom is a Neapolitan prince.”
“Prince? Then that’s not so bad,” I said hopefully.
“Ah, but Portia explains that ‘he doth talk of nothing but his horse.’ That’s you, Cottingham.”
I looked about for a response and stammered something about having been in the cavalry, after all. But the CO folded his hands pensively and leaned over his desk. He fixed me with his stare as an etymologist pins an insect to a slab of cork.
“Mr. St John-Cottingham, it’s time you realised that part of being an officer is that you must lead men. And one cannot lead men one cannot understand. Moreover, one does not want to lead men one has not come to respect. I intend to make you a leader.”
This took me aback. I stood to inherit several very profitable mills, a fine estate with outstanding stables, and more than half a million pounds. Leadership was, in my view, a birthright. As for my fellow officers, they were an odd lot. Many were of snot-nosed schoolboys or Oxonians who read classics and quoted poetry, but couldn’t row or ride worth a damn. The rest were a scruffy lot of colonials. The colonials were a great deal more fun in a binge, but scarcely people with whom I could identify or whom I'd want to call close chums.
Major Paget-Graves continued. “Colonel Pretyman and General Higgins are contemplating a cricket tournament at Easter. Have you played?”
It was a silly question. I’d batted a century once for the first eleven at Shrewsbury. It was not my favourite sport, but I had a flair for it. I began to describe my accomplishments, but the major cut me off.
“There will be an officers’ team from each squadron in the brigade. We likely won’t begin to identify who will represent Sixty until mid-March. I have suggested that the tournament have a separate division for other ranks. One officer will be permitted on the OR teams, provided the officer captains the team. For this squadron, that officer will be you. Each such OR team may also have three NCOs.”
I immediately began to complain how little I really knew about putting together a team, and I expressed doubts that we had eleven ORs who had even seen the game, much less played it, but the CO held up a hand.
“Mr. St John-Cottingham, this is an exercise in leadership. And it is not a request but an order. You WILL select, train, and field the finest ORs’ team in the tournament. And you WILL win. I have personally wagered ten pounds with Colonel Pretyman that our ORs will take the cup.”
“Do you think that is wise, sir?” I asked. “After all…”
Major Paget-Graves interrupted me. “It is your job to make it wise, Cottingham. Oh, and by the way, I told the Colonel that you had put up ten pounds as well.”
I began to protest, but the CO just laughed.
“I know you are good for it, Cottingham. Besides, the Wing Commander offered three-to-one odds. You stand to do rather well when we win, and it will be just about the time you’ll come up for home leave. Go see Sergeant-Major Aspinall. He knows all about it."
