//------------------------------//
// Discovery  
// Story: For Whom The Bell Tolls 
// by The Shtebbie 
//------------------------------//

February 23rd, 1945

Abe Hansen banked his P-51 Mustang fighter as he crossed the border into Germany. His job was to collect information. Enemy troop movements, positions, supply lines, anything that the Allies could use against the Germans. But so far, all he had seen was snow and trees. A lot of snow and trees. It was getting very tedious. He checked his watch and then glanced at the sun to make sure his watch was somewhat correct. He sighed, then shivered. The cold was biting even with his flight jacket. He swore he could feel it slowly freezing his bones. As he mentally complained about his woes, he glanced at a road barely visible behind the trees. He did a double take. He could see something moving down there, what looked like whitewashed vehicles. He passed it, then came around for another pass, this time with his binoculars. This time there was no mistaking it; there were vehicles down there. At least a dozen half-tracks. The two in the middle of the column had tarps pulled over them. On the hood of one of them, he glimpsed something that clicked in his mind. There was a flag tied to the front of the vehicle. It was blood-red, and it had a small white circle in the middle. He couldn't make out the symbol in the circle, but he already knew.

It was a swastika.

He mentally noted the location and direction of the convoy, and what it consisted of. Then he immediately broke off and flew towards his home airfield, wishing he had enough fuel for at least one strafe.

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Lieutenant Friedrich Keppler was in a panic. No one outside of his division or the Führer himself was supposed to know of his convoy's existence. They had been moving at a steady clip for the past half-hour, and had made good time. His cargo was secured, and well-protected from the elements. But he didn't realize the sound of his engine was drowning out the sound of the American plane. When he saw it above, he ordered his group to scatter. They did so, but they were either unlucky or just not fast enough. As they were moving under the tree canopy the plane did a second pass. That was when Keppler lost any hope of secrecy, and ordered the convoy to make full speed to their destination. But one thing bothered him. The plane was obviously a fighter, and the pilot had spotted them. But it hadn't strafed them. If it had, the parts in cargo would have been shredded to pieces, even with the lead lining. Either way, they had to make it to die Fazilität soon, before more American planes appeared.

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"So you're sure these were German vehicles?"
"Yes sir, as plain as looking down at a blooming sunflower patch."
"I see."
Captain Henderson stood looking at the point on the map where Hansen had viewed the German column. 
"What doesn't make sense, Lieutenant, is that there are no Wehrmacht bases in the area that we know of. And that column you saw sounds like it wasn't even a full company. There is no reason a German halftrack group would be randomly wandering the wilderness."
"Respectfully sir, but when desperate, who cares about authority? Maybe they're deserters banded together trying to reach home."
"No, German soldiers rarely abandon their posts, and never in those numbers." Henderson tapped the map while Hansen watched. Henderson thought for a moment, then turned to Hansen. "Lieutenant, how long have you been flying?"
"Er, since I was about fif-"
"No, I mean recently. How many recon missions have you flown?"
"In hours or flights?"
"Hours."
"Um, about forty."
Henderson nodded at that. "That explains it. You are probably suffering from fatigue. Also, the snow probably threw you off. I'm going to get you sent back to England for a while for R&R."
"But sir, I can still fly!"
"Not after two days' time of flying. Go pack your things."
Defeated, Hansen slumped and walked out of the building to his barracks.