[b]November 22, 1956
RAF Gutersloh
Berlin
West Germany, Central Europe[/b]

John had been enjoying a pleasant dream, sparked out in his bunk in deep in the clutches of rest as the crashing jangle of alert sirens intruded on his slumber, blasting him mercilessly into being awake. 
Shocked and startled, he was bought back to his senses as the squadron leader hammered on the doors of the squadrons' pilots, yelling to them all that it [i]wasn't a drill,[/i] and to get their arses in the air double-quick.

Yanking on his flight suit in record time, John grabbed his flight gear in the press of bodies in the scramble to get out to the line of waiting F.6 Hunters outside. Already, engines were spooling up, the sound audible even above the chorus of sirens and shouting voices. 
In the run outside, he found himself alongside his squadron leader, and glancing over to him, he yelled, eyes wide in alarm.
"Sir, what the hell is going on? What's happening, is it the bloody Russians?"
"Looks like it, old son. We just got the order to scramble down from on high. Sounds like a lot of the front-line bases have been hit. So far-"
The pair paused as they reached the aircraft. The first of the Hunters had already gotten airborne, while others were on the taxi. On the horizon, further over the skies of Berlin, fires raged and the concussive rumbles of explosions could be heard. There was a sound like screeching air and ripping canvas, and then the corner of one of the bases' hangars exploded in a ball of fire. 
"Artillery!" remarked the squadron leader. "Go, hurry! They'll have the range of the runway or the aircraft soon!"
A second volley came in even as John began to haul himself up the ladder to this aircraft, this time finding the mark on one of the aircraft parked nearby. It brewed up in a tremendous explosion, taking the next in line along with it. Feeling frantic, John slapped the quick-start engine button, the ground crew having already removed all the jets' tags and covers. A quick glance at the instruments revealed he had barely a fighting load; just a handful of rounds for the 30mm cannons, no bombs or rockets. 
"Get in the air," came the squadron leaders' voice. "We've been caught off-guard. Anyone who can get airborne is being redirected West to form a composite squadron-"
His words died out as the Hunter was hit by another mortar shell. Cursing out loud, John inched the throttle forward, the Hunter picking up pace into a fast taxi. As soon as he hit the runway, he advanced the throttle to full military power, keeping the brakes on. The Avon engine spooled up to speed with an ear-splitting shriek and he blasted down the runway, feeling as though there were a crosshairs on his head with every second the fighter spent on the ground. The roar of the asphalt under the wheels underscored his heart hammering against his ribs, until the airspeed indicator read true, and he hauled the stick back to his stomach, the grey-green fighter leaping skyward with seemingly as much joy as its' pilot.
He quickly cleaned up the F.6 and gained as much altitude as he dared - and not a moment too soon, as another explosion blossomed over the runway.

Switching over to the air control frequency, he heard dozens of voices all clamouring for the same information. The sky over Berlin - and Germany - seemed to be crowded with people confused and disoriented as the sudden shocking assault had rolled in on them. Heading on a westward course, as per the CO's last orders and the overriding information on the channel, he tilted the Hunter F.6 into a bank to the west, still stunned by the ferocity of the assault below. It was too dark to see much, but the fires breaking out all over, and the sporadic flashes of gunfire and explosions told as much of a story as any he needed to see.
Disheartened, but feeling the spark of anger and the desire to hit back light inside him, Buchanon steered the Hunter to the west, checking his charts for reference. There was only one base that was a likely location. 

A little over half an hour later, the Hunter dropped out of the sky, landing lights ablaze as it straightened up on the runway centreline. Following a 'FOLLOW ME' vehicle, the Pilot looked on in amazement as his canopy opened during the taxi. A hodge-podge assortment of aircraft were parked almost haphazardly around the base, almost nose-to-tail. Some were damaged and being picked over by crews for spares, while others stood almost pristine and waiting for fuel or armaments. 
The truck left him, and a crewman waved him into an empty spot of apron, and he shut the jet down, unstrapping himself while the engine wound down and a crewman pulled up a ladder.

With no sign of any further orders, he headed for the crew lounge, getting directions from a handful of crewmen, who looked harassed and overworked by the scale of operations around them.
He entered the room quietly, and nodded to the other pilot there, sinking into a seat and setting his helmet down on a table nearby, before lighting up a slim cigarette. Taking a breath of the smoke, he rolled words around his mind, before looking over at the West German - by his insignia - pilot, and speaking quietly.
"Hell of a night, eh, old chum?"