If you ever get a bit bored, take a C.200 into a 5.0-6.0br match and try your hardest to be a pest… or at least a minor nuisance.
Yes granted you’re a bit slow but bless its dear little Italian heart with enough room it can actually dive to 500mph. The climb rate leaves a little to be desired but its horizontal and vertical manoeuvrability is excellent if you know how to sweet talk it into behaving.
Due to the absolutely broken mess that is War Thunder those historically piddly .50’s actually annihilate anything in front of you. In my experience thus far I’ve ripped wings clean off P-63’s with tiny bursts, completely dissected Spitfires (I’m talking both wings-poof!-gone) and as for the AI bombers how does exploding 4x of them sound with around 300 pieces of uncooked spaghetti to spare? Bear in mind I tend to shoot like an American as well.
It’s all fun and games until you need to land and the little Saetta goes from cute and cuddly to Charles Manson. You will die, your death is written with a permanent marker.
For starters in typical Italian engineering fashion some things just don’t work, the first annoyance is you’ll notice the speedometer doesn’t work… luckily our expert Italian friends knew one could fail so they gave us two! However this is War Thunder so that doesn’t work neither. So if like me you fly HUDless you’ll need to use some guesswork.
So you come down and deploy flaps and somehow you aren’t slowing down. The aircraft has become so hateful of your existence that it’s breaking the laws of physics and is willing to murder itself just to put you under ground. So you kick the rudder and skid and begrudgingly it finally starts to slow down.
So you lower the landing gear, make a nice and soft touch down and you’re practically smelling the spaghetti you’ll be enjoying that’ll no doubt be just like mama used to make. The only odd thing is that the sauce is oddly metallic tasting and did you always eat it upside down with your head by your feet?
It turns out that in one final act of pure hatred you died shortly after you finally managed to touch down because you dared to touch the brakes. The Saetta translated that as you wanted it to dig its nose into the runway like a pig hunting for truffles, it then proceeds to flop over snapping your neck with its belly in the air like it’s looking for “good boy” scratches. It is so dedicated to ending your existence it’ll kill itself to do it.
It’s quite possibly the most fun, cuddly, challenging, most hateful little twat in the entire game.