The Book of Noob
Chapter 1
Creation. The Dawn of Noob. First Flight. Tail Wheel. Torque. Stall. The first Hanger fly-through and the first Tree. Online. RTFM. In the Weeds. First Contact. Bandits. Turning. Burning. Trim. Rebirth. Despair. The Gods speak again. More Despair. Happily ever after.

In the Beginning there was Light in Texas, Pixel upon Pixel of Light, and then there were Aeroplanes. And when there were Aeroplanes there was great Joy upon the Earth and above the Earth, for then there were also Individuals of great Daring and Confidence to pilot them. They were known amongst themselves as Fighter Pukes, yet to the Appearance of Gods they were all Noobs. And it was good.

So beginneth the Story and so it be told for ever more. In the Beginning all were Noobs. And the Noobs beget a second Generation of Pilots, bearing the Family Name and in all respects similar to their Forefathers, and that too was good.

On the first Day of Installation the Fighter Pukes bang'd their Chests and strapp'd their Bodies into Machines of wondrous Matter, to immediately prove their Mettle. Yet despite Curses of increasing strength and foulness their Craft refused to leave the Earth, as if these winged Beasts of Destruction had a longing too strong for the sharp Embrace of solid Matter. Ground Loop upon Ground Loop was performed to the cries of "WTF!! What am I doing wrong! Why won't this Damned Plane fly??!?". Because they were Noobs, and Noobs knoweth not better.

From the Heaven boom'd forth a mighty Voice, scaring the Noobs half out of their Minds and impressing them forever with their lack of Knowledge in matters pertaining to flight. "Harken to ye Noobs! Thee shalt lock thine Tail Wheel afore attempting to leave thine surly Bonds". So did the Noobs lock their Tail Wheels, and it was immediately perceived as good. Yet the surly Bonds remain'd unbroken and there was a great gnashing of Teeth upon the Earth.

So did the Noob maltreat his Stead that Aircraft upon Aircraft were reduced to smoking Piles of twisted Aluminium until the Voice boom'd forth again, this time with badly concealed Mirth. "Thou shalt bear in Mind the awesome Power of thine Engine for it createth Torque of considerable strength sufficient to throw thee Cheek first unto the Ground. Harness this Power with judicious application of Rudder and counteract thine rolling tendency with opposite Aileron". Thus did the Noobs practice much until they could safely throw themselves into the Air several meters before encountering further Complications. For they were truly Noobs.

A greate kaboom was heard many a times as Noob after Noob slamm'd catastrophically into the unyielding Ground, hardly mask'd by shrieks of horror and consternation. So the Voice also boomed "Noob! Thou shalt not pull almightily on thine stick afore thine Airspeed is sufficient for Flight, or be punish'd swiftly by fearsome Stall to flutter harshly to the hard Matter. Fool! Stabilize thine Craft to comfortable Speed and then thee may Maneuvre". Thus He spake and the Noob obey'd until he was no more an earthbound Noob but a flying Noob.

On wings of horrific destruction recently tamed the Fighter Puke swung himself loftily into the Skye. "Yay! I'm UP! Now art I no longer a Noob! Look out! Here I come!" crooneth he and aim'd his nose through the nearest Hanger. Many a times distinctly dented and charr'd it was before the Noob rushed giddily through its wide yet narrow span, to embrace the omnipresent Destroyer, the Tree, in spectacular Explosion. And so Noob remain'd a Noob, to the great Entertainment of Gods and Spectators.

So came the wondrous Day - verily, the First Day, the Day of his real Birth - when Noob pressed the tantalizingly glowing Button that spelt "Play Online". Lo and behold! A land of plenty, where Fighter Pukes galore were already aloft and seeking each other's swift annihilation. Humbled by this presence of other, hysterically vocal, Noobs, Noob snuck out on a faraway Field called Cambrai or Bertrix to try his luck and his Guns. Up he went and all the Angels of the Sky hummed in unison. "W00t!" was his first utterance, and "WTF!" his second, as the evil Vulcher from Hell swept down and smote him in a vicious blow. "Haha!" croon'd he, "Noob! Check thine Six before takeoff or I shall smite thee another time!". Much distressed and lusting for Revenge did the Noob thus check his Six, and seeing nothing but a great big Seat took off again into the waiting Guns of Vulcher.

"This was not in the Manual I did not read", cried the Noob and loudly bemoaned his Fate many a times in succession until his Brethren from rear Airfields came to his succour and chase'd away the wily Vulcher.

The multilayered Sky now clear'd, the Noob didst fly away at the unholy altitude of several tens of meters, only barely avoiding to cut the Grass on a certain popular Hill, so resplendent in gaily colored pieces of various shattered Aircraft. "So this is what it's like to be a Fighter Puke" extolled the Noob, happily testing his Guns for all to see. On his next sortie he didst not test his Guns like so no more, and the sneaky Swooper didst in fact not see him so easily. "Now I am verily a Fighter Puke, I know when not to fire my Guns!" cried the Noob. "Nay" the Gods of the Sky and the High Domain retorted, "thou art nothing but a Weedklipper Noob". And there was much squinting and grimacing below.

Flying low over the eternally Green Pastures didst the Noob now spy a strange Roundel glowing ever brighter. "My God, what hast thou sent in my way? This Apparition is like nothing I have ever seen" he muttered, and emptied his Guns for King and Country in what perchance might be the right direction. Oh such marvellous Thunder, watch the pearly lines of sweet Tracer arcing toward the strange Shape yet falling curiously short. "WTF!!! Why doth he not fall down in fiery Flames such I didst not long ago??!?! Crud and nerf!!! These Guns are Ghey!!?! I'm a Fighter Puke and these Frikken Guns are no good!", yell'd he and pounded his Temple in consummate frustration. "Lordy No, thou art no Fighter Puke until thee knoweth thine Enemy from thine Friend" chuckled the Gods above and sped mightily away on their double-digit Mission.

Next upon his Trail of Misery came actual Contact form'd as zings and pings unto his Aircraft. "WTF!!?" he shouted yet again and threw his Crate into wild evasives. So pitiful were they seen from the other end of the Gun that all the Napkins in the World could not wipe away the Tears of Laughter of the opposing Pilot, though it didst bring our Noob a brief respite. "Where the Blue-blazoned Bondoogles didst he come from??!!?!" cried the Noob, "I was certain the Sky was clear, nothing couldst I see however much I looked!". "Whence did thee look?" ask'd his fellow Noobs, fully anticipating the reply: "Why, forward of course, how else would I know where to fly?". Rolling on the badly swept Floor and clutching their Stomachs in painful Laughter didst the Company of Noobs then declare "You Noob! Thou must look upon the entire Sky at all times, many a times in rapid succession, never slacking, never failing, or thee will be smote without Ceremony. Thee who thou doth not see thou cannot combat - thou lose Sight thou lose the Fight".

So when the foul Enemy come upon him a second time, the Noob pull'd mightily back upon his Stick and suffer'd another weird Experience - the World went black as Tar yet the throb of Engine was yet extant. "Yah! I am now a Fighter Puke for I knoweth how to evade mine Enemy!" shouted he. "Nay, yet art thee not a Fighter Puke, thou art nothing but a flaming Noob" came the swift reply from the lofty Highs, and verily, the dreaded Skulls grinn'd at our Noob again. "Thou art a Noob for thee knoweth not that your Maneuvre must be like flowing Water and Womens' Temper - hard to predict and ever shifting". Thus watch'd the Noob his blazing demise with mixed emotion, wowing some Day to fly like the Gods a-yonder.

In his next Engagement the Noob harkened the Words of Wisdom and cautiously handled his Aircraft. A trifle too cautiously perhaps, for it took the Enemy not long to seize such a gallant Offering. Desperate with Fear and Humiliation the Noob shouted for Advice, to be told to "Turn and Burn!". Of Burning he knew far too much already, yet precious little of the previous. Circle after circle doth he turn, the Enemy in hot Pursuit and snapping at his Heels. "Ye Gods!" he yell'd, "I am verily turning for King and Country, yet this evil Bastard will not yield! And doth I not fly the most turningest Plane of all already?!?!".

Thus spake the booming Voice. "Thou shalt always be trimmed so that even when climbing, diving or fighting thou canst releaseth thy Grip on the Stick without immediately departing from thine selected Attitude. Thee who never trims shalt be smote without effort by thine correctly trimmed Opponent and thee will shout "WTF!! No WAY! How did he do that??!?" a thousande times afore thee learneth the Secret of Trim".

In that moment was born the "T&B Noob". Lengthily, at least according to his Standards, and lustily did he henceforwarde cast himself with abandon into any old Furball, a Concept harkening back to ye olde Days when Naphtaline-drenched fighting Cats were tossed into a Ring, there to rip each other asunder, Fangs out and Hair afire. "I'm a Fighter Puke and I'm oh-kayee, thee are mine Enemy and thee smellee!" roareth the Noob, spraying and praying that his Shots would hit something other than thin Air and himself something other than the Ground. And it was good.

Yet something was amiss! Never did his Fire connect properly and never did he score anything other than Enemy Aircraft "damaged". He had yet to witness an Opponent break out in Fire under the Hail of his Guns. So mortified was he by this failure that he approacheth one of the lesser Gods, asking him for Advice. He had none to give, except "get closer, Noob". These Words echoed worthlessly in his Skull, for even though he pushed his Throttle Quadrant fully forward could the Noob never seem to get close enough to the elusive Enemy. "Oh vey! Woe is me! Mine aircraft is too slow, the Enemy too fast, my Guns so nerfed and pork'd, never will I be a Veteran or Demi-God! Woe is me! Where is the unsub Button?" he would lament in moments of utter Despair.

In this moment of utter Need and Dejection did the Gods Benovelence shine upon him, bathing him in the bright Light of Insight and burning away the Fog of Uncertainty. They said: "Noob! Thy must apply Lead Pursuit! With Pure Pursuit thee will never close with thine Enemy! Aim thine Aircraft in front of the elusive Enemy, towards the Place in the Sky whence he is travelling, not directly at him, and thee will gain Closure on him even when thy Aircraft is slower than his! Capisce?". The Noob pondered these truthful Words at great length with Mouth agape and his Hands describing various Trajectories, eventually coming to the Conclusion that the Gods verily spake with immense Authority. And from then on it was very good.

So did the Noob think of himself as a bona-fide Fighter Puke again, inasmuch he could now point his Crate anywhere in the Sky and find the golden Vector of pertinent Closure, though it did take many a painful visit by the dreaded Skulls and many a Negotiation of the General User Interface to become airborne again. He would scream "Whee-ha! Look out for the Fighter Puke and his awesome Lead Pursuit!", except when instead he produced a much-feared Over-shoot before the Muzzles of his Enemy. "Ha! Thou art not a Fighter Puke! Thou art but an Overshooting Noob without Class or Knowledge in the Dark Art of Lag Pursuit!" chuckled the Gods and again made strange motions with their upper Extremities for his Erudition.

With new-found Zeal and Energy did the Noob cast himself into yet more cataclysmic Furballs, there to apply various amounts of Lead, Lag and Pure Pursuit. Mightily did he sweat and toil, many were the Hours slaved away in constant Agony, many were the Tears of Exhaustion and Humiliation, until finally did the Penny drop. "Woweee... I must not always point my Gunsight on mine Enemy but can actually", he paused to gasp, "release a Fraction of Elevator pressure to glide beyond and over my Prey, then to slash in on him with a fantastic Lead solution! What ho!". So he lived happily ever after, and it was good to behold.

Revelations. Landing Gear. Pilot Error. Deliverance. Hopes Dashed. The Gods lay down the Law. The Nerf Brigade. Revenge double-dashed. Stat-Ho's. Travails. Nosebleed. Go diving down. Number of the Beast. Uber Noob. Winged Man.

As the Noob progressed over the first Hurdle of Learning he became accustomed to looking out for himself in other directions than through the Gunsight; he managed to takeoff without crashing nearly every time; he found that Trees and Shrubbery were made of particularly tough Material not to be messed with; he learned that Otto the AI Gunner would plink him every time even through Buildings with unfailing accuracy except if thee were in a Stuka turning very slow over the Deck; he began to understand that Energy is not merely something thee get out of a Candy Bar and promptly forget in your Lint-filled Pocket - in short, through the event of every single Sortie a new Revelation would dawn upon him. And he took that as good and true.

With increasing alacrity and frequency he would shout "Rut Roh! Teh Pwn! Here comes the Fighter Puke to save the Day!", yet on every occasion something inexplicable would cause him to end his Sortie in abundant Flames; as a meteoric Projectile; in jaggede multicolored Pieces thrust forcefully into the Ground. And the Gods would snicker and cackle "NAY, a Fighter Puke art thee Not! Thou art nothing but a Noob with minimal Experience in the Art of Five-dimensional Combat. Thee hath yet to learn to use thine Eyes and thine Braine properly so that thou may employ thine Takeoff Gear twice in the same Sortie". And the Noob said: "Whut?".

Such floateth the early Days by in World War Two Online, the Noob meeting other Noobs in the Skye and sometimes gunning them down, sometimes being gunned down by them. As usual however, the very Bulk of Casualties were suffer'd through that dastardlieste of Enemies known as Pilot Error. This Pilot induceth Noob with overzealousness in filling his Targets with Lead to the Point of Collision; causeth him to pull too hard on the joyous Stick or even push too much so that he again was visited by Skulls; tempted him to look over his Shoulder when flying but a few metres over the still unyielding Ground and leading to the Publick Entertainment known as Lawn Dart; assureth him that a Split-Esse can be performed safely from 200 feet of Altitude; and many other funny Pranks. And it was not so good.

About this time the Gods in their lofty Abode issued forth a much-awaited Announcement: the Poor-Cousins of France were to be gifted with a new-fangl'd Machine of greate destructive Power, immediately doubling their available Fighter types. The Machine was to be delivered "soon", and so happy were the French Noobs that they fëted on braised Sheep and somersaulted with joy. Alas, they ran out of Sheep in short Order, for "soon" were not "soon" but "much later" or at the very least "not right now, but quite soon" and even French cannot party that long but were forced back into their pokey Hawk 75's. Thus did the Gods play with their Underlings and had many a Laugh on their Expense, or so it was thought. And that too was not so good, but it promised to be.

At long last the Saviour-Aircraft of the French arrived: the God-blessed, wonderfully equipped and brand spanking new Dewoitine D.520. Promised to give the Evil Cabbage-reeking Messerschmitt 109 more than a match, the Noob lustily threw himself into the Skye again in his gleaming new Ride, there to run down and out-turn the fabulously turning 109 before inserting an ample Dose of 20 mm Hispano in his Posterior. It was not to be! "Confound it, there seems to be something amiss with this Plane!" shouteth he, for it could neither climb nor turn nor glide nor hardly be looked out of. The Dewoitine did burn very well though, and it did fall quite nicely. Thus were the already Pique-Nique-unfriendly Lawns of France strewn with many a D.520, and the manifolde gnashing of Teeth and the outraged wailings of "nerf!" was pitiful to beholde. That too was not so good, and thus was Promise dashed.

In these days of Malcontente and Anxiety one Crowd stood out with yellow-nosed conspicuity. They were the 109 Noobs, a brazen, unabashed and loudmouth'd Clique of gleeful Pilots with multicoloured signature files of imposing design, undaunted, indeed cheer'd, by the wailings and gnashings across the Fence. "Heh! STFU Noobs! Thou knoweth not how to fight in thy new Planes yet, and thee must fly with great Energie, Wingmen and Coordination to have a chance! Thee are not proper Fighter Pukes like we! Phhbbbtt!" sayeth they and waved manie a photoshopped Screenshot about. Such great Calamity and feuding was there that the Gods saw fit to intervene, they too extolling the Virtue of Tactics and Cooperation while at the same time roaring mightily: "THEE ART **ALL** NOOBS FOR EVER MORE unless thee purchase mine Book and readeth diligently how to be 1337 like me". And that didst shut them all up, for a day or two, which was pretty good.

Amidst this unsightly Commotion an unlikely Group didst emerge, that verily praised the lambasted Dewoitine for its potent Cannon. This they used with noobish joy and noobish abandon to smite vaste numbers of tactically superior Panzers sitting outside their Infantry Barracks etcetera, and little didst they care for combat in the Skye. Panzer upon Panzer litter'd the Field to such extent that all the Axis tactical Geniuses beleaguered the Gods Abode: through unison and Sky-rending Imitation of female Animals, and with much waving of Tinfoil Hats and rare Documents, didst they convince the Gods that such Cannon cannot exist! And not one Week gone by, that Cannon was indeed replaced, while the Axis tactical Geniuses went back to strafing Allied tanks asunder in great numbers for the second consecutive year. That was neither good nor not so good but downright outrageous, yet so it goes.

Soon faded but not forgotten, this Slight liveth for evermore in the Minds and Hearts of greenclad Noobs. With Hearts a-boil with Anger didst they vent their Frustration in Circle-strafing of every little thing grey and scurrilous. This might be a fine Idea, as it used to be, were it not for the uselessness of their Rifle Bullets, the Sawdust content of their little Bombs and the acute destructive Power of the Flak30. Subdued, these Noobs turned back to use their Wheels and Tracks and Feet, at much the same Time as the Noobs in foul Grey Planes arriv'd. Funny was it not, for they had nothing with what to fire back such as their Enemy could, nor were there anywhere to hide. For six Months. That was also quite outrageous, yet so it goes.

Whatever Side or lamentable Facts one chooses to see, this is not a tale of Army Woe but of F'ing Noobs and their crave of Vets to be. Some relevance hath it though, for many of the circle-strafers claim'd the Veteran's Title, crooning "I'm so 1337 and thou art but a Noob! When thee have a Thousande Kills like me, then thee may, maybe, kiss my Boot". Upon close Inspection wert those Stats not so braggart after all, consisting mainly as they did of ill-gotten counts of Squishie and Cardboard Tanks destroy'd. This the Gods said nothing about claimed they, though in Publick Light were such claims not Fame but mere total Noobery. For Pilots counteth not Trucks and Locomotives but other Planes, such as Tradition holdeth. So it is, and that is good.

So returneth we to the Noob and his Travails. Through all this he flew most happily, shouting "WTFG!" and "w00t!" and "WTF!??" at various times, trying hard to avoid the Sucker-Traps, the Evil Foe, the Unobtanium Trees and the still Stone-hard Ground. And it was mostly good.

One Day (perhaps in March) the Noob felt something snap, his Office now lit with saintly clarity. "Wait a minute..." he said, and ponder'd 'pon a fleeting Thought: "Those guys that fly above me, why, I almost never see them burn!?!". He scratched his sparslie stubbl'd Chin and (drumroll, crank up the saintly lights) breathed his Mind: "Mayhap I too should fly that high?". So on his next Sortie he gave it a Shot and climbed to 2000 Meters, though Nosebleed didst he get and only Oxygen made his Eyes go still. "Wow... I can see for Miles and Miles, and even choose what Foe to fight! 'Tis indeed a mighty thing to have, this Altitude!". Of course he was prompty shot by other Pilots doubly wise, for they came in at 3 k or more. And that was truly good.

Thus for every time Replaned, he added 'nother thousand Meters on the clock, for through this Year's Travails he learnt, that nothing hurts so much as an Ego bruised. Yet Altitude by itself was to small avail when at the Front he didst arrive - for now he flew ungodly high and all his Fodder wert down below! And many a times didst he say to himself "I go diving down!" to smack right down into the ground. Strange it were and all didst he blaime 'pon his Stead, 'til the Gods shone down to say "Noob! Harken to! Whenst thou goeth diving down from greate Altitude, thou must chop thine Throttle and trim to front lest thou wantst to imitate the great Lawn Dart - Speed is good though only in fair measure, thou must never throw thyself past VnE". And this the Noob did grasp.

Slowly didst the Noob progress, on every Hop learning something new. For instance, many a times didst he hear a strange Outcry - "6!" or "666!" or even "noob 6!" - thinking nothing of it first and then of big-Chested Women, shortly 'fore the Skulls arriv'd. Piece by Piece he glean'd that this dost mean he was in mortal Danger, and 'pon hearing the Devil's Number, he cast his Crate over and under as soon he could. Then he learn'd that his joyous Stick could verily be moved in all Directions, causing him to roll while flying. "My Lord!" exulted he, "'tis wondrous how fun this be! Chasing Enemy by pulling hard is NOT the only way to go! Yet may I still become a revered Puke!". At this of course the Gods snigger'd smugly, "Ya, Grasshopper, a proper Fighter Puke may thee eventually be, but first thee must retract thy takeoff Gear". This the Noob found slightly disturbing, for what Earthly purpose may that fill?

A Year gone by and Noob wert he still. Not content with shooting Squishies, he looked far and wide to find other Treats. Through much piloting to and fro, and much looking hither and thither, learn'd he to find a tasty Snack in almost every flight. These were brown and strangely shapen, flying slowly and somewhat straight - ideal for Noob to try his luck. Many a munchy Blenheim didst he fry, and easy was it too. Further yet he ventured out, learning that the less they moved, the easier they'd be to kill. Thus he found a score or more, though following an easy pass through Shot and Shell, Noob was sure to catch an angry Mob much intent on having his Hide. By trial and Error he found a Cure: running bravely without a Worry. Thus he sang "La-la-la-la-la, now I art a Fighter Puke!" though the distant Voice of Gods may whisper, "Nay, yet art thee nought but an uber Noob. In manly Combat must thee prevail, and often too, fore thou may calleth thee a Fighter Puke". And this didst gnaw on our Noob.

"If Uber Noob I be, why canst I then not shoot that elusive Spitfire, or kill the evil Charcane?" lamented Noob in Publick Places. Much Laughter didst his Words provide, yet Answer was promptly given: "Fool! Thine 110 is but a Piece of Junk, it cannot hold a Candle to the Wunderplanes of thine Enemy! First thee must find a Winged Man, and fly much with he". So he did, though Winged Men were far and few apart, and much waiting and asking was not his Ticket. On such occasion as he didst have this Winged Man however, he liveth slightly longer and if not by much, at least it felt slightly more glorious. And that was good and held some Promise.

For many months hereafter didst the N00b make a conscious Effort of finding a Winged Man on his flying Endeavours, though the Essence of Wingmanship eluded him still. First of all didst he have the almost Insuperable Difficulty of keeping visual Contact with his ostentative Winged Man, leading to many a laboured situations trying to reconnect. “Uh…Where art Thou?” he might say, and upon getting an Update he would be none the wiser for it. “This dastardly microscopic Map showeth not the names of which Thee speak! FFS! Stupid game!” he would wail, and bemoan his Navigational Inadequacy. Then rendeth the Voice of Gods again the multilayered Skye: “N00b! Thee must download and print a Map of the whole World, and imprint various Landmarks in Thine Thick Skull so that Thee art nevermore at a loss for Position. Sheesh!” Finding the Golden Trove of Five he didst so, and it was extremely good.

Yet the Challenge of sticking to his Winged Man was not immediately relieved by this Cartographic addition. For looking out of his Office in various Directions, keeping his Aircraft on an even Keel AND following his Winged Man through turns and multifarious gyrations didst impose the severest of Strains on his Attention. Thus he found himself looking mostly forwards again, wowing to keep his Eyes glued on that other plane come what may. Especially problematic was the embarrassment of overshooting his Leader and promptly losing Sight in the frantic attempt to regain Position, then the debilitating Realisation of finding himself all alone in an empty Sky. So much did he Curse his Fate that the very Air of his Office turned Blue, shortly before being visited by the old Skulls and Crossbones again.

This bothered our N00b to the depths of Despair, for had not the Gods themselves said that flying with a Winged Man would make him a Bona Fide Fighter Puke? Yet here he was, seeing nought but Skulls with much too alarming Frequency, even on such sorties when he managed to follow his Leader with some success! So he brooded and pondered, gnashed his Teeth and even contemplated an Army Career again. “Bollicks to Fighterpuking! My God, why hast Thou forsaken me? I am in such dire Need of Knowledge, and no amount of Effort seems to be of avail!” lamented he. A great Cackle rolleth through the Tracer-burnt Skye as the Gods retorted: “Thou pitiful N00b! Merely following another Aircraft is not proper Wingmanship! Thou must have Holy Separation, and be using the Voice through it all, lest you be aught but an Inconvenience to your Leader. Now go away and bother us no more until Thou have learnt Thine Lesson!” And the N00b took this, reluctantly and with much Trepidation, to Heart, although he had not the slightest Idea what of the Gods spake.

Through humble Inquiry and some Webbed Search Engines didst the N00b finally get a Clue of what the Gods alluded to: The Voice safely installed he next endeavour’d to put it to pracktical use. Of Holy Separation he had not a Glimmering, though he was marginally confident that it would reveal itself in due Time. So spaketh the N00b lustily in the Ether with his fellow Winged Men, inducing them to many a pained Sighs and irritated Silences, for the N00b could not restrain his Enthusiasm for Voice Communication. A long Time didst it verily take for the N00b to understand proper Use and Discipline of this Tool, but as he didst so it was very very good.

As this Chapter comes to a Close, we have seen our N00b elevated from the Misery of Lone-Wolfing on the Deck to the first fumbling steps to becoming a true Team Player. Though the path is winding and narrow, painful and fraught with many a Trap, the N00b has shown himself in possession of that most coveted Trait the Acolyte Fighter Puke must have: Perseverance. Bear with Us, Thine most humble Narrator, as we trace the further Steps and Adventures of our N00b through his forthcoming Evolution of Skill and Awareness, in the Glorious Realm of version One Point Six and beyond! It promises to be pretty good.

Overview. Unlearning. Quandary. The Gods rave. Oh-Nine. Ham and Cheese. Exultation. The Disciplinarian. Tuesday. Spitdweebs.

Didst he not have it all? Basketh in Glory didst he, and crooneth gleefully didst he many a times in that Abomination of Publick Entertainment, Pleiskul, over the measly kills he garnered, to the utter Scorn and Loathing of his Peers. Wondrous Voice Communication he had, a mighty fine Joyous Stick, Rudder Pedals even and an unlimited amount of Aircraft to wreck solely for his own Pleasure. And while all this was jolly good, he had neither Style nor Character, not the slightest glimmering of Humility or Humour. Thus bereft he could not enjoy his Game to Capacity, but spent his Time Grunting and Cursing in much Anger. Yet there was Hope, for he was on the true Path of Learning, in Pursuit of the Golden Rule of Separation. And that was exceedingly good.

With Battle raging ever Bitter in the Bullet-rent Sky of France, Belgium and other Whereabouts, N00b now wrapped in potent Warplane forgot much of his earlier Lessons, such as Humans are known to do. Among the first of these to yield was the Urge to resist Holy Altitude, second to that the Joy of hunting lone Infantrymen ‘round the oh-so-flat Terrain, third of these the Unflexibility of Unobtanium Trees, thus ending his Escapades in predictable Misery.

But what of Separation Thee ask? Of what Earthly use is that, particularly since Distance is a Commodity of which one has either too much or too little, surely it is nothing to bother oneself with? So didst the N00b ask the Gods, and wearily didst they Sigh and shake their Gold-lock’d Heads at this Brazen Incompetence.

“N00b! Foolish Unknowing N00b! Unlearned art Thee! Hast Thou nothing seen, nothing gleaned through this Year of Furballing? Knoweth Thee not the Abysmal Dread of being played for the Sucker? Hast Thou never closeth on an enemy without being able to bear Thine Guns effectively upon He? Hast Thou never felt like Ham or Cheese inbetwixt two Loaves of Bread? That oh Pitiful N00b is the wondrous Realm of Separation working to smite Thee!” So boometh the Gods to the cowering N00b, and he begun to see that it might be good.

This was the Golden Age of the Run-Oh-Nine, the Uberific One-Oh-Nine, the Era of the Unbeknownst Tri-Oh-Nine, the Age of sordidly Open’d-Canopies-o-Gamey-Vision, the Dark Age of WWIIOL when hordes of yellow-nos’d Bastards dived down and blasted sadly Handicapp’d Opponents from their pockmark’d Runways, the futile Hammering of Cross-Eyed Ottos notwithstanding. This too was the Age when many an Opponent slipped quietly away or circumspectly donned greyish Garb instead. Verily didst the Bastards laugh merrily at this and much Posturing and Crowing was noted in Pleiskul and Elsewhere on account of their wholesale smiting of hapless Victims.

So didst the N00b eventually learn the Golden Rule of Separation, though in manners none to pleasant. For verily didst he sucker himself to be the Ham or Cheese, or even Cold Turkey for those so inclin’d, by vainly following zooming Bastards while Buddies above came booming with Nose-Guns a-twinkle. By the same Token didst he finally grasp, through many a false Start, that slavishly and over-zealously following his Winged Man in his Attack yielded little Opportunity of his own.

Quite by Chance and certainly not by Design didst he one Day delay, perhaps of Fatigue or maybe merely General Sloppiness, his pursuit of Winged Man. Lo and behold! As Winged Man made his bid, and missed, the Quarry, stunned but not cowed, recover’d and took Chase! By then our N00b was just in firing Range, and quite steadily and comfortably so. The evil enemy thus bracket’d, he smote him with little Effort. Loudly didst the N00b exult: “Wheee-Ha! Man, did you see that! Now art I surely a proper Fighter Puke!” Cutting across his Leader’s curve, such as he previously had learn’d, and formatting on his anxious Six, he awaited the Gods Retort: “Nay, a Fighter Puke nor Shit Hot art Thee not, Thee art nothing but a Lucky Puke – but decent Promise do Thee show.”

Yet Separation is an elusive Craft not easily master’d! On this Occasion N00b was doubly graced, for his Winged Man was known and feared as a Stern Disciplinarian. “N00b! Where art Thou? I cannot see Thee!” said he, and yet N00b was no more than a Stone’s throw away! Surely must he know that N00b clung to his Tail like the Blue Blazes! “I am here Master, following Thee as Thou has instructed and as the Gods themselves have ordain’d!” the N00b hasten’d to utter. “F00l! Damned N00b! When Thou flyeth right behind me I cannot see Thee, fly Thou on my Wing instead, and promptly so! FFS!” Thus didst the N00b finally understand what Winged Men and Separation had in common, and that was incredibly good.

One Day in WWIIOL, possibly a Tuesday, a most Almighty gnashing of Teeth arose from the grey-clad Camp, and a most awesomely thundering “Yahooo!” and “w0000t!” from the opposite Leaguer. For on this Day the Gods unleash’d a most conspicious and heretofore nearly extinct Species, on the unsuspecting Masses – the Spitdweeb! Previously confined to a Barren and much Remote Island, a good 20 minutes distant from the closest whiff of Cordite, the Spitfire could now be had on Continental Fields. While certain hardy Souls didst brave their Boredom and fly this outrageous Distance for their 20 seconds of Six-Gun Glory, from now on most everyone could go aloft on Elliptical Wings. Thus the Spitdweeb wert born. And it was good.

Now facing a Foe most unrelentless and capable of running at Equal Speeds, verily quite able to turn inside and perform most wicked Stunts on the poor helpless Run-oh-Nines, the Yellow-Nosed ones grit their Teeth and fled to the Dirty South. There didst they find much easier Prey, oftenmost pathetically slow Curtiss Jobs, and so did their crowing not abate. “Farking Spitdweebs! Cheating Sons of Britches art Thee! No one and nothing can our Equal be, so therefore leaveth we Thee to Thine own Devices and jump all over these Frigging Frogs, Tee-Hee!” sayeth they. And high in their Abode didst the Gods snicker and snort.


This file was written by bmbm and first published on the forums.