You pressed your foot on the rudder, fighting back tears, and pulled the stick to send the plane into a rapid turn, away from their direction of travel. You followed them the whole time, never looking away from them, sure at any moment they'd turn and give chase. You felt woozy in your seat and were certain given its speed it would catch you easily, but by God, you'd not go quietly. Not if you could help it.
They flew steadily on, and you could just see a figure in the rear of the plane standing up as if craning his head to follow you.
It took you long moments to realize it wasn't the same plane, of course it wasn't. It was an observer with a rear seat, the sort you were originally out here to hunt, and it obviously wasn't going to try and pick a fight with a scout over enemy territory. They had delicate camera plates aboard and they probably just wanted to get home.
You briefly considered turning back to try and chase it down, that was your mission after all, but it was already hundreds of metres above you and climbing on, just a tiny dot now. You'd missed your chance, but you'd avoided its gun in any case. Besides, you weren't sure if you were going to remain awake long enough to fight. You put yourself into the gentlest turn you could, trying not to put any pressure on the rudder, until the compass swung back around and you were once again pointed at the aerodrome.
Not far now. Not far. You could see it, the little clearing near the trees, the row of houses lovely farmhouses, the tents. This would be your first landing there, somewhere. You circled the field to check the windsock, hanging limp in the meagre breeze, and decided to simply line up on your next turn and put down. No point in delaying the inevitable.
At this point, you didn't care if you were discovered. You just didn't want to die.
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Time to land. Roll 2d10-2. This doesn't count as Ditching, so you count as Skilled.
