1947

(A little mood music > https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHh_Z7RgCEk [Embed] )

Jerry rubs his chin in discomfort, other hand tucking itself under his elbow as he tries to process what he's listening to.

The fact of the matter currently at hand is that American radio has just announced the results of an overnight invasion of the East Coast; at least a thousand dead Americans, seventy destroyed tanks, and thirty aircraft destroyed. Maybe there would have been less losses if they were ready, if the planes were on patrol missions, maybe if everyone realized how dangerous and volatile those Russians were.

Peter who stands in the corner repeatedly kicks the back of a chair and screams at nothing, doubling over multiple times as he screeches his rage at Russians located hundreds of miles away; his uniform is in such disarray and his hair is in such a manner that would make anyone doubt he is in any branch of our military, much-less the (newly-founded) U.S. Air Force.

More than less likely, some of Peter's friends have died. This becomes increasingly plausible since his airfield is on the East Coast, meaning that it's in the newly-taken Russian territory. This is part of why Peter screams, but not the only reason, obviously.

Ian stands facing the window, completely blocking out all thoughts and communication with his two other brothers. The third brother, a member of the Second Armored Division, simply cringes as he fails to refrain from thinking about that intense combat that's going to sweep straight across America.

"Jesus Christ," Jerry starts.

"Will we still drop the bomb on the Reds if they're here?"

"No Jerry, nobody is going to pull another Hiroshima, especially if it's in the United States." Ian says, turning around to face his brothers.

"I want them all dead!" Peter screams again, kicking the chair once more, this time breaking in the wicker weaving of the back of it. The raging brother turns around from the chair, now facing his two brothers, and runs two hands over his hair, slicking it back. "I'll be damned if I'm going to sit by and let these motherfuckers take over our country."

Ian unfolds one of his arms and points at peter with a stern look.

"They won't." He corrects him, "The fact is, Pete, is that we won't let them take it over." Ian then returns his arm to his other, crossing them once more.

"Tomorrow we're coming from leave early, both of us. We'll return to our divisions and we'll go from there; understand?" Ian says to Peter, who hesitates momentarily before nodding in reply.

"What will I do?" Jerry asks, brows furrowed thoroughly in discomfort.

"Listen carefully," Ian starts, walking to Jerry and putting a hand on his left arm, gripping tightly as he takes a second to figure out what the little brother to do. "Go down to town hall tomorrow and join the local militia. Take the thirty-aught-six from the cabinet up there with you and make sure you let whoever is recruiting you know you know how to use it. Otherwise you're treated like a baby." Once Ian is done explaining, he motions for Peter to come closer to him and Jerry.

Pete obliges and Ian immediately puts his arms around his two brothers, hugging both of them tightly. "This is it," Thinks Ian.

"This is the last time we'll be together."

The Next Day: Peter

The roar of the four-engine bombers reverberate through the air as Peter stares involuntarily at the sky, mind running through how the hell the U.S. is going to go about this whole situation.

As the jeep comes to a stop, Peter takes a moment to come out of his trance, glancing at the driver who's looking in the opposite direction. "Thank you, God bless." Peter says, hopping out of the jeep and walking away.

A P-80 squadron.

Peter couldn't believe what he was told; he was re-assigned to a new P-80 squadron. Any pilot would shit themselves if they were in Peter's shoes, just as Peter did now, a large smile on his face as he walks to his quarters.

Peter soon figured out he would be bunking with four other squad-mates. (He would have been bunking with more given that more men were present at the airbase and not transferred to a base closer to the East Coast.) The other four men were also recently assigned to the P-80 squadron and hadn't begun training yet, meaning that Peter and the other four were all in one boat.

Harold stands at around five-foot-eleven, topped with blonde hair and built with a stiff posture and bulky arms. An all-around pal whose demeanor brightened up the quarters a million times over.

Jared, the second squad-member, towers at a startling six-foot-five and presents black hair which lies on top of a lanky body. The tall man presents a rather strange but sincere attitude, the sort of guy who can start up a conversation over nothing.

The third fellow, going by his alter-ego Carl, stands at a spot-on six-foot. He's garnished with thick brown hair and is an eccentric, energetic guy, definitely ready to start training.

Loyd, clocking in at a solid five-foot-nine, is a man note-worthy because of his strong-willed and rather totalitarian vibes. It was almost as if he was the one in charge of the entire room of squad-mates without having to say or do anything, he practically emitted control.

The rest of the evening is spent with Peter getting acquainted with his squad-mates and discussing their new positions as jet pilots. Soon enough, they all settle down for the evening and eventually go to sleep.

The next day, Peter and his squad-mates are introduced to the revolutionary jet fighter that America's pilots have been dying to get into. (Alongside the naval F2H, F9f, etc.) The sleek aluminum fuselage and wings gave Peter a hard-on as he stared the plane up and down. There was an actual reason why Peter joined the air force, he loved aviation ever since he was born and only God and his family came before flying.

A quick introduction to where the basic instruments are located is given before the squadron members are quickly rushed into a small room where some instructors begin to explain the differences between the P-80 and whatever props they were flying before. For Peter, his P-47 was a child's toy when compared to all the needs/complications of the P-80.

"Hot-damn," Thinks Peter,

"This is going to be a hell of a ride."

The Next Day: Ian

From the moment he stepped foot on base, Ian knew that this war is going to be hell. A newly-introduced Su-6* came in at about fifty-feet off the ground and blasted holes in the sides and engine-bays of about five tanks before flying away. The tanks, no-doubt, were not repairable since the large fires started from the gas in the engine and the ammo in the turret burned up the insides beyond any restoration.

Ian was actually surprised to find out that his M4A2-W-76, dubbed "Ol' Ironside", was unharmed; only receiving a couple of glancing blows from the Ruskie's seven-millimeters. (Spare some dirt thrown from the thirty-millimeters missing the tank by a couple of feet.)

The crewmen of Ol' Ironside were also in good condition, taking cover in the garage where another Su-6 did a strafing run but did little damage other than creating a lovely sunroof for the U.S. crewmen.

After a short chat and reunion with the rest of his crew, Ian immediately re-associates himself with the tank he's missed for a week, rather happy with the meeting but not with the circumstances of the meeting.

One thing that Ian was not familiar with, however, was the large white star painted on the top of the turret of the tank.

"It's for our aircraft." Ian's gunner starts, leaning on the front of Ironside. "Since half of the Russian armor effort is made up of Shermans, all U.S. and other Allied armored equipment is to have stars painted on top of the tanks for identification.

"Huh, that's a new one." Ian says, running his fingers over the pseudo-wet paint.

Peter grips the stick as he observes the small cockpit, tapping the comms switch multiple time just to feel the satisfying click of it switching on and then off as he releases it. Thankfully, this P-80 was a crashed one that's being used for training and cockpit association.

"Start spooling up the throttle now." The instructor says, leaning on the side of the cockpit. "Take it nice and slow and make sure to give it a second or two once you get to fifty-percent."

Peter slowly brings his hand forward, moving its way carefully to the halfway mark on the throttle. However, his hand suddenly gives, the throttle slamming forward past the halfway point and a loud bang erupting in Peter's ear.

"Now you're dead. Too much fuel got dumped to the engine and you died. Good job." The instructor says, holding a smoking revolver close to Peter's head.

"B-But my hand slipped." Peter explains, stuttering due to the jolt the gun gave him.

"No excuses, you need to be ready for everything that can occur on a jet." The instructor says, giving Peter a friendly, reassuring slap on the back of his pilot's helmet.

"Alright, I'll be ready this time." Peter says, returning the throttle to the starting position slowly, a procedural requirement, before starting again. This time, Peter's hand keeps the throttle in a stern grip the entire time he shifts it, making sure to let the throttle rely on him and not vice-versa.

Once the throttle is situated at the one-hundred-percent mark, Peter looks to the instructor for further instructions. The man just gives peter a sincere smile and a pat on the shoulder.

"Good job, pal. Now, onto taking off and landing...." The instructor says, leaning into the cockpit to begin the next part of his lesson.

And so the rest of the day went, each trainee coming out and being instructed on proper flying practice for a jet. Only one came back with a smile on his face was Carl, but he was practically made for unconventional training.

The Next Day: Jack

The youngest of three brothers cautiously walks into town hall, giving nervous glances back and forth as he makes his way to a collapsible wooden table, a giant target hanging on the front of it with the words "MILITIA SIGNUP" in all capitals on the front of it.

Several men with pistols in holsters were in line, all of them probably fifty or over, signing up for the local militia. "Howdy," Says the recruiter with a Texas drawl, writing down something before looking up to Jerry, his eyes immediately dancing over the semi-automatic Garand.

"You in the Military?" The recruiter asks, eyebrows raising in interest.

"No, my oldest brother had a friend in the military who was killed in an artillery barrage. The rifle's stock was torn apart, but my brother took the rifle with him and restored it over a couple of years. Now it works and fires just like it used to." Jerry says, causing the recruiter to squint at Jerry before nodding.

"Damn, well let's get you signed up." The recruiter places his pen to the sheet he has while his other hand holds him up against the table. "Name?"

"Jerry, Jerry Jackwood." The youngest brother says, rubbing the sling of his rifle. The recruiter scribbles down his name, looking back up at Jerry with a smirk.

"I knew your father when he lived down on Cheffield." The recruiter says, putting his writing hand on the table in front of him. "My name is Rodney, Rodney Clover. You-know, I think me and you are going to get along just fine."