You glance anxiously at the oil pressure gauge again, its needle wavering at the edge of the red line. Your faithful Arado has taken hits from the British destroyer's ack-ack guns during your attack run. The engine is sputtering, black smoke trailing behind your floatplane.

Only the blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea stretch endlessly below and around you as you head north towards Sicily. Little food or water remains aboard after the long patrol flight from Sardinia, and your radio is dead. If the engine seizes up now, you will have to land on the open sea and pray for rescue.

Somewhere out there were the Tommy air patrols, searching for any sign of you. But you know your duty: return to base if at all possible, and report on the convoy's position. The Reich needs that intelligence to intercept the critical supplies bound for Malta.

You cringe as a loud bang shakes the entire plane - the engine has finally given out. Black smoke pours from the cowling as the propeller grinds to a stop, wind resistance instantly pulling the plane off course.

"Wunderbar!"

Helga, aka Blondie, shouts over the wind from the gunner seat behind you.

"Now we can go for a swim, ja?"