Warning: My English is as much of a flying disaster as the Sky Panther II itself. I’ve bravely outsourced the translation to the mysterious forces of the internet – enjoy the chaos in another language! Some days, you just think: Today, I die. And sometimes… that’s okay. Because before that happens, you can do something truly stupid. Like sending two men, a steam engine, and a hot-air-filled linen sausage into the sky—probably one-way. I’m not sure whether alcohol was involved or just a cocktail of delusions of grandeur, boredom, and a substance no doctor with a dark sense of humor would prescribe. The morning begins like many historic disasters: with fanfare, applause, and a machine that looks like an oversized sheet-metal subscription on cocaine. It’s early. Too early for flying experiments. Too early for optimism. And definitely too early for two explosive devices bolted to the undercarriage of a patched-together tea-cart Zeppelin from another dimension. Our Zeppelin proudly bears the name “Sky Panther II.” “Sky Panther I” had already suffered from some “technical shortcomings” during construction. They say you can still hear the technicians screaming today. Ugly propaganda, apparently. Sky Panther II is officially a patrol airship. The term “airship” is used very optimistically here—the thing looks like a broken wine barrel tied to an old rug with shoelaces. The gondola is half wood, half hope. And somewhere in between: a steam boiler that resembles a blown-up espresso machine. I—Lieutenant Horst van der Cylinder, test pilot by misfortune and paperwork—step in front of the audience in uniform, pull on my goggles, and look like an angry beekeeper with conspiracy theories. Next to me is my co-pilot, Sergeant Alfred “Stormpotato” Klein. The man has the navigational sense of a newborn mole and the mechanical understanding to match. He had already “accidentally” dismantled three different aircraft during basic training. One of them was a bicycle. I still don’t know how that’s possible, but if anyone can turn a two-wheeled vehicle into an explosion, it’s Alfred. He remains in service because he’s somehow related to the General, though rumor has it the General hates relatives. Probably ugly propaganda, I tell myself. The mission was simple: “Test flight. New trim. Check flight behavior, stability, weapons, panoramic view.” What wasn’t mentioned: – The trim was adjusted last night under poor lighting by a man whose actual job is cooking sausages in the canteen. – The armament consisted of a jammed machine gun and two bombs that somehow vibrated, even though they weren’t supposed to be armed yet. “Not armed” is a very flexible term for Alfred. 07:45 The sky is blue, the grass is green, and our Zeppelin stands there like a nervous elephant on a trampoline: full of gas, slightly sweaty, and wondering if this was really a good idea. Alfred checks the bomb mount for the fifth time. I stop asking if he knows what he’s doing—I already know. He doesn’t. 08:00 – Pre-flight We climb aboard via a wobbly aluminum ladder that creaks in the wind like an offended xylophonist. The Zeppelin hangs over the field like a tired pumpkin on strings. The technician shouts: “Don’t touch anything red!” Alfred nods enthusiastically and immediately puts both hands on a big red lever. I temporarily exile him to the coffee boiler. 08:12 – Takeoff Official launch. Salute shots. The propellers groan like an old carousel with back problems. The Zeppelin rises. Slowly. Creaking. Like an elderly man trying to remember how to do a push-up. It tilts dangerously immediately. Reason: Alfred tied his thermos to the right side. It contained stew. For three weeks. Weight: roughly a pony. We throw it off. Later, a doctor says it was a breakthrough—through the latrine, the Major sitting there, and the chain of command. 08:18 – In the air It’s… quiet. Too quiet. Suspicious, because the boiler usually makes noises like it’s either about to fly off or explode. Alfred rhythmically taps it with a wrench and claims it’s normal. I believe him, because I have no choice. Steam hisses from a spot where I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t. Alfred calls it the “balance cube.” I suspect he means the pressure valve, but can’t be sure. Nobody is ever sure about Alfred. I observe Alfred. He makes noises. Not concrete ones—more a mix of humming, growling, and “uff.” Meanwhile, he’s repairing… or dismantling something. The line is blurry. 08:24 – Enemy contact First enemy: a seagull. It flies backward past us, presumably out of contempt. Then loops purely to mock us, and poops on the rudder. Precision that inspires fear. Alfred notes it as a “possible air attack.” 08:40 – First flight phase We reach roughly 150 meters. The wind carries us gently. The Zeppelin wheezes like it has asthma and unpaid debts. I correct course. Clouds. Wind. Freedom. And the sudden realization that our steering relies on three things: hope, a wire, and Alfred’s gut instinct. Unfortunately, his gut is hungry, and his instinct says: turn right! We drift south, toward the garrison. Toward the canteen. And toward the main road, directly beneath us. A dog barks. A mailman flees. An old lady crosses herself. The Zeppelin tilts like a hammock for emotionally fragile flying squirrels. Cliffhanger – End of Part 1: Alfred spots a tower on the horizon. “Enemy lookout! Possible spy camp!” he shouts. I squint: “That’s… the latrine on the training field.” Alfred frowns. “Maybe that’s the disguise!” Suddenly, a warning light flickers. Steam hisses violently. The Zeppelin shudders. I clutch the controls. Alfred grins: “Ready for the next test?” And there they hang—chaos waiting, bombs untested, disaster imminent.