Operation Highwire (Closed, Excalibur Only)

[The Tiger Kingdom]

December 29th, 1940
Portsmouth Dock #117
1949 Hours

Portsmouth - the biggest naval port the Royal Navy had on the Channel coast, as well as the oldest. With a debated history going back to the 6th Century (at least), the city had played host to many of the most important events in Britain's military history. The world's first drydock was built inside the roadstead of Portsmouth Harbor, the harbor itself was the prime departure point for the endless waves of troopships leaving to the far corners of the Earth to conquer and secure the British colonial empire, it was Nelson's final port of call before he and his fleet had their rendezvous with destiny at Trafalgar, and had been the home of the Channel fleets that secured Britain's southern ocean borders against the French Marin during the Napoleonic Wars and against German raiders and U-Boats during the Great War. Now, with Britain neck-deep in another world war, the port was busier than it ever had been, the city itself shrouded beneath the silhouettes of barrage balloons and battered by repeated bombing raids.

Despite the Luftwaffe's repeated and vehement attempts to smash the place since the war had begun, Portsmouth was still as busy as it ever had been. Under a leaden, foreboding, and swiftly darkening winter sky, an observer could, if he had good eyes, pick out the distinctive forms of the old dreadnaughts stationed there, as well as no shortage of smaller cruisers, destroyers, and submarines. Despite the risk of being stationed there, the merchant navy was well represented as well, with numerous freighters, cargo vessels, tankers, and other varieties of merchant vessel clogging the docks and waterways.

There were also plenty of less dramatic and glamorous vessels tucked away in the depths of the harbor. In one particularly forlorn corner of the naval yards, one ugly duckling of a vessel was moored entirely by itself - the naval yacht HMS Mistral III. It was the general tendency to assume one was talking about a fairly classic and basically stylish-looking vessel when one referred to a "yacht", but looking at the Mistral III, one was quickly and surely made aware that the appellation was a blanket term for any requisitioned nonmilitary vessel of a certain size. It was essentially a tugboat, or the unarmed equivalent of a minesweeper, all artless lines and nondescript functionality. One could easily be forgiven for assuming it was a humble utility vessel for shunting larger, more important ships around the yards.

However, appearances were deceiving, and the Mistral III had a far more interesting role of its own to play in the war. It had come into His Majesty's service under the name Bystander for the beginning of the Dunkirk evacuations, and had managed to rescue several dozen soldiers off of the mole from the burning town, and had managed to save several more from a ship that had been holed by a Stuka bomb and was sinking. Despite its good fortune there, it had immediately run into a spate of bad luck - its mooring lines had come undone in the night about a week after the end of the Dynamo evacuations, and it had drifted off and beached itself, doing no small amount of damage to its hull.

In this sorry state, a new unit had sprung to take the wreck off of the Navy's hands. The vessel was repaired, refloated, and quietly moved off of the sandbank it had drifted onto. It was then repainted, renamed, and refitted with a multitude of new goodies. These included a pair of mounts in the sides for Vickers guns, minelaying equipment, smokescreening equipment, grappling hook launchers (very experimental and new), dedicated crew quarters, a nominal amount of armor plate to protect from light strafing runs, and powerful new engines that could functionally double the craft's top speed. Numerous modifications then had to be made to the frame to prevent the whole vessel from breaking apart if such a speed was ever actually reached. And then, all of these nifty modifications and additions had to be covered up by another, more innocuous coat of paint and several tarps in order to masquerade as a French civilian vessel. It had become one of the first of a small fleet of vessels handed over for the use of the Commandos - "Churchill's Tigers", men striking at Occupied Europe from the seas and from the air.

And in this respect, the passengers that the Mistral would be carrying weren't at all dissimilar from the small crew of Commandos who were running her. As Flight Lieutenant Alix Noble, rifle slung over her shoulder, led the 14-strong Excalibur team (the squadron plus a mechanic and one of the SOE's irregulars - a demolitions expert of a relatively advanced age whom Alix was assured would be of use in their upcoming mission) through the docks and towards the Mistral, she couldn't help but ask herself:
Couldn't they have found us something a little more...confidence-inspiring?
She tried to be more optimistic. Well, at least it probably won't draw anybody's attention.
Adjusting the heavy pack as best she could on her back, she called out a hesitant greeting.
"Hello? Anybody there?"
God, I hope they're actually here. Lugging around all of this...stuff...is very tiring. And if they're late...

After a moment, a man's green-bereted head surreptitiously poked out of one of the portholes. He eyeballed the group dismissively, and turned his head up towards the deck.
"OI! LIEUTENANT! PASSENGERS LOOK LIKE THEY'RE HERE!"

This yell was followed by another Commando making himself visible on the deck. He slowly swaggered up to the rail, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He was a hard-looking man, with with a deeply lined and scarred face, which was set off by a fairly formidable mustache. He took a puff off of his cigarette, and didn't say anything. He just looked down at the group.

Taken aback by his silence, Alix fumbled for the right words. "...Is this the Mistral?"
The Commando nodded slowly. "Aye."
"Erm...well then...Permission to come aboard?"
He removed his cigarette and ashed it over the side.
"Permission granted, I suppose."

With those words, the squadron began to move up the gangplank. As she stepped onboard and the team began to disperse around, Alix extended her hand to the stoic Lieutenant.
"Flight Lieutenant Alix Noble, 319th Squadron. Good to meet you."
He slowly returned it. "Lieutenant Eugene Stanley, Number 1 Commando."

He shifted his gaze to the rest of Excalibur, who were scattered all over the deck at this point. "WE DEPART IN FIVE MINUTES! GET YOURSELVES READY!"

[The balkens]

Joshua stepped aboard, a few running boards creeked beneath his feet. It reminded him of the junker of a vessel he was brought here on over a year ago.
It ain't the queen Mary, but it will do.

The cold winter air nipped at his exposed cheeks as he looked around, M1 rifle slung over his shoulder.
"I assume there's quarters below deck?"

[Goram]

Stanford raised an eyebrow at the sight of the HMS Mistral III. The yacht was, give or take, eighty feet long and seemed to be quite well armed with pair of .303 calibre machine guns, in open mountings on the port and starboard sides, and what appeared to be a 40mm gun mounted on what passed for a forecastle. Doubtless, the yacht had other surprises hidden below. However, her semi-respectable size and armament did not alter her questionable first appearances. The vessel looked grimy and battered to the point that Stanford nearly questioned her seaworthiness. Stanford had not been expecting the KGV, but something a little more confidence inspiring would have been nice.

With something of an internal sigh, Stanford resigned himself to the fact that he would most likely be swimming within the hour. He adjusted the sling of his weapon on his shoulder and limped forward. Gingerly he stepped down onto the quarterdeck of the Mistral III, before shuffling across the wooden planked deck and going below. To say the ship was cramped below decks was an understatement. The yacht had undergone a serious conversion, to improve the engines, that had encroached on the living quarters somewhat. Fortunately, the Swords would be aboard the vessel for very long, certainly not long enough to have to sleep.

[Len Hyet]

Benjamin Silva slung the BAR Pouch across his chest, and began to mutter a Hail Mary. He paused just as he was about to step forward onto the ship and crossed himself, something that the normally less-than-religious Silva never did. His Hail Mary finished he began with one of his favorite, those that he knew, Psalms. Twenty Three to be exact. It was a favorite of many soldiers, those that were religious at least.

The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul; He guides me in the paths of righteousness For His name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You have anointed my head with oil; My cup overflows. Surely goodness and loving kindness will follow me all the days of my life, And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

It had stuck with him in part because it was deeply comforting, and in part because the badass factor of Twenty Three Four wasn't something that was easily forgotten. The American quickly made his way to the exact middle of the compartment in which Excalibur would be staying, and took out his shiny new knife. It had been only just made, and hadn't even been issued to front line units yet, but was available for civilian purchase. Silva had decided it was a worthy investment. He unsheathed his Collins 18, and clasped it between his hands in a manner very similar to a kneeling priest who had clasped his hands in prayer. So Silva began praying wholeheartedly to god for deliverance from the icy blue hell of the ocean.

[Monfrox]

Samantha sighed, guessing that the Commandos would probably be giving the squadron some shit about them being pilots and not even regular frontline infantry, she decided that it'd be a nice time to head down and either scrounge up some food or clean her SMG. She went with the latter and borrowed some cleaning supplies from one of the commandos. She sat on the floor and tended to her Thompson like it was a fine instrument, which to her, it surely was. She kept quiet while she recited the omertà she had been taught by her father in her head. A teaching and code she had applied to include her fellow squadron members when she joined in and felt like she'd been accepted among the group.

[Morrdh]

Charlie wandered onboard with a cigarette in mouth, the Thompson that had seen him through Operation Cambyses slung over one shoulder, his kit bag over the other and a brodie helmet at an angle on his head. Here was a chance to make up for missing out on Taurus, though he found himself questioning his luck after getting shot down over France and now a boat that was of questionable seaworthiness. He was half tempted to start a few begs whether the boat would spring a leak and sink at its mornings or run aground on some unexpected sand bank in the middle of the channel.

Kaya came aboard and made straight for the engine room, if anything to find out what she had to work with as soon as possible.

"Ah say lassie." Said Higgins as he sought Alix. "Wee bit o' a strong breeze wouldn't ya say?"

[Lancearc]

"Doesn't seem like they gave us too good a chance at actually makin' it ta tha fuckin' destination with this thing." Monroe muttered to no one in particular as he followed the rest of the members of Excalibur onto the vessel in the late hour. It wasn't anything that hadn't been voiced already by his fellows' earlier statements, though. The commandos didn't seem all too enthusiastic to have them aboard either, though he could have been misreading them for all he knew. Whatever the case of their feelings towards them was, it didn't concern him so much as simply waiting out the ride to their destination on the coast, do what they had to do and leave, just as the plan was. Of course, he didn't expect it to go so smoothly, but they'd improvise if they had to. He took up a position leaning against the railing of the vessel's deck, gazing down into the dark waters with a yawn. The weapon at his side wasn't familiar to him, though he hoped he'd be impressed by it, the Americans' Thompson SMG, a good enough weapon for the task and a bit of variety he supposed. He let it dangle at his side without a care, simply awaiting their departure eagerly.

[United Kingdom of Poland]

Polanski boarded the craft, more then a little worried about the true seaworthiness of the boat. There was no way that the craft was designed to bear the wait of the group and their supplies let alone the armament and grappling hook guns. Shit, forgot about that part of the plan. Matt, loaded down with his Vickers K and ammo, wasn't exactly prepared for the climb. Well if Pa....Silva with his BAR can handle I don't see why. I wonder what Pat's going to think now that someone took his spot as the not quite machine gunner guy. Hope fully this mission would end with end with them finding their friends but they had to take care of this first.

[Kouralia]

As the others trooped on to the ship and headed immediately to their quarters, Smythe instead walked slowly to the front where he stood and gazed out over the waters toward France. He was traveling reasonably light for this mission, since there wasn't any reason for them to be in... France... for longer than a few hours. Thus he only had his SMLE, his Browning, and his knives. Well, saying 'only', he also had ammunition, an entrenching tool, grenades, fire lighters, matches, a tin to hold and boil water in, a tin mug, some water, two teabags and some powdered milk. Unlike before in Africa, though, he was wearing just the dress shirt, and despite its well pressed creases it made him look a great deal more unkempt than normal, with the jacket and all that on too. However, the removal of his jacket also made it easier to spot the somewhat jury-rigged sheath on his wrist for one of the multitude of knives on his person.

Eventually, after a while gazing out to sea, he followed the rest of the unit down to their cabin where he found a chair, took off his harness and sat down to apply another thin layer of oil to the working parts of his beloved SMLE. After a few moments of intense concentration, he glanced up and spotted that silly American Officer, the one who'd been arrested, doing like-wise to her weapon. Standing up, he took off the bolt and walked over toward her, stopping to glance down at the weapon from a few metres away. "A very interesting weapon that, ma'am, it's good to see someone paying the right bit of attention to their equipment. Might I enquire as to her story?"

[Monfrox]

"She's my Violin, and she plays wonderful music...even put her in a violin case once...ah, but I'm just rambling..." She said, making sure she wasn't giving anything away that she knew of. She shot a sideways glance to Alix, half wondering if she had told them in the time she in the brig, and half wondering if she should tell the squadron her rather colorful history now, or later. She wouldn't know how they'd react at first, and what kind of lasting effects it would have. She wouldn't put it past them to give up on her and leave her behind, given she WAS technically a wanted murderer.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Charlie wandered onboard with a cigarette in mouth, the Thompson that had seen him through Operation Cambyses slung over one shoulder, his kit bag over the other and a brodie helmet at an angle on his head. Here was a chance to make up for missing out on Taurus, though he found himself questioning his luck after getting shot down over France and now a boat that was of questionable seaworthiness. He was half tempted to start a few begs whether the boat would spring a leak and sink at its mornings or run aground on some unexpected sand bank in the middle of the channel.

Kaya came aboard and made straight for the engine room, if anything to find out what she had to work with as soon as possible.

"Ah say lassie." Said Higgins as he sought Alix. "Wee bit o' a strong breeze wouldn't ya say?"

Alix nodded absentmindedly, leaning against the railing, watching as the squadron spread themselves out from the corner of her eye. She wasn't too familiar with Higgins - he was a bit of an odd presence with Excalibur, almost more of an adviser than an actual member of the team (he was also significantly older than all the rest of them), but his skills would no doubt come in handy for their egress.
"Yes, it is," she muttered. "...Let's hope that won't make too much of a difference during the mission."

She couldn't help but notice Samantha chatting with Smythe, their eyes focused on her ridiculously shiny Thompson. Can't stop thinking about their weapons for a second, those two..., she scoffed to herself. For all the drama that stupid gun's caused, it'd better prove its weight once we get over those cliffs. Same goes to you, Samantha.

Stanley was as good as his word -a few minutes later, the ropes were cast off and the ugly little ship's engines were fired up. With a rather surprising quickness and agility, the Mistral III darted out of the dock and into the harbor proper. As they sailed on, out of the crowded and congested waters of the harbor and into the Channel itself, the sky and water turned totally black as night decisively fell. The wind kicked up, and a cold rain began to fall as well. The Commando crew on board looked totally unphased by the less-than pleasant conditions, as they occupied themselves by quickly but carefully concealing the vessel's military equipment. Tarps were lashed to cover up the Vickers weaponry, as well as several other pieces of irregular looking equipment mounted to the deck and sides of the ship.

Looking for a way to get out of the wind, Alix decided to take a look around the cabin of the vessel. Climbing the stairs up, careful of her footing as the ship pitched in the waves, she opened the door to see Stanley bent over a table covered in maps, with the same Commando that had first spotted the group working the ship's wheel. Stanley looked up as she walked in, and stared at her for a second. For a moment, Alix thought she was about to be chewed out for going somewhere she shouldn't have, but the Lieutenant merely nodded and went back to his maps. She closed the door behind her and awkwardly waited for somebody to say something. But the only sounds were the rain hitting the bank of windows surrounding the cabin, the wind, and the sea washing against the sides.

After a minute or so, she broke the silence. "Are we on course, Lieutenant?"
He nodded again. "Looks like it. Assuming all goes as planned, should be at the target destination in about an hour."
"Good, that's good. Erm...Your men will be accompanying us on this little raid, right?"
"Right." He stood up. "and seeing as such, I suppose I'd better introduce you. That one at the wheel is Corporal Vincent."
The other Commando gave a little wave.
"And if you look out the front window there, you should see Corporals Singer and Thayer covering up the port and starboard gun positions, respectively."
Alix took a quick look, squinting through the darkness, trying to get a good look at their features so she could remember them. "And there are more below decks, right?"
"Indeed. Sergeant Simmons and Corporal Carr are working the engines. By the way, I heard via the intercom that one of yours, some Aussie lass, is down there helping them."
Alix grinned slightly. "That's Corporal Waddock. Can't keep her away from machinery."
He shrugged. "Seems to be not getting in the way, anyway. For the raid, two of us - Vincent and Simmons - are staying behind with the boat, to man the guns. The rest are coming with."

Alix thought about her own team for a minute. "I think Corporal Waddock will be staying back here as well, if that's all right - she's a mechanic, not a fighter. Also, we have a Flying Officer who's a bit banged up, I think he'll be looking to make himself useful here too."
He raised his eyebrows. "You're dragging a wounded man around?"
"It's an important mission," she said defensively, "and...one that's a bit personal for us. He was fairly determined."
He shrugged again. "Your funeral, I guess. As long as he doesn't get in the way."

The ship sailed on, towards Occupied France...

[The balkens]

Joshua went into the passenger quarters and set his equipment down.
He leaned his M1 at the edge of the bed and placed the spare ammo simply on the mattress.
A bit cramped, still better then nothing though.

Joshua went up on deck and headed for the front. Resting his arms on the front, he watched for the northern french coast. His breath showed in the cold air, it indicated that His breathing slowly but steadily.
It feels so strange, being here. Am I destined to baby sit my little brother forever?

He laughed to himself as he thought back to his younger years. Whenever dome bully was making fun of Michael, he always fought him off. Whenever Michael got lost or scarred, he always found him.
I'll find you, Michael. I won't lose you like mother or father. Just hang on a little longer, I'll be there. I promise.

[Goram]

Stanford dumped his kit bag down on the bed, next to Joshua. Although Stanford had not know Michael for very long or very well, despite the fact that they were in the same flight, he could see the resemblance between the two brothers. It was almost uncanny. Stanford sighed as he propped his rifle, a SMLE Mk.III, (he had trained with and carried a M1928 submachine gun in the last operation, and would have done again, but he feared that he would not be able to control the recoil of fully automatic fire in his weakened condition) against the bulkhead and produced his well worn pipe from his battledress pocket. Barely out of Portsmouth, he was already on edge, but his pipe had never failed to calm his nerves before and he was sure it would not fail him now.

The contents of the kit back were meagre to say the least. Stanford had turned up at Tempsford with two sets of RAF uniform and his flying kit only. All the civilian clothes he had, which had been provided to him aboard HMS Newcastle, had been taken from him in the operating theatre of HMS Illustrious. Thus, he carried only what could be scrounged from the quartermaster and armourers at Tempsford. Thus he wore British Army issue boots, trousers and vest, topped off with what looked suspiciously like a cricketers white jumper. Despite the impracticality of the garment, Stanford had not been in a position to argue and he had taken the jumper gladly. Still, that had left him with virtually no kit for the operation and once again, the quartermasters had surprisingly come through for him. The provided him with a full set of webbing and pouches, that were standard issue to the infantry. Gingerly, he managed to pull the webbing over his shoulders and fastened the belt around his waist. The only other item he carried in the bag, other than a smaller bag containing a dozen or so five round chargers for the rifle, was a battered holster with a Browning Hi-Power stuffed into it. The sight of the holster caused him a twitch of pain. This was one of only two things he had retained from Illustrious. The other was his pipe. The holster was brown leather, though some of it was considerably darker, stained by the extraordinary amount of blood Stanford had left in a Spanish ditch, in the rear cockpit of a Fairey Fulmar and all over Corporal Waddock, to whom he had been told he owed his life. The sight of his own blood, soaked into the leather brought back those fragments of memories that Stanford retained from the incident and he would have been happy to forget them. Stanford belted the holster onto his left hip, where he could easily draw the side arm with his right hand, distributed ammunition into his pouches and retrieved his rifle before heading back up on deck.

As he climbed the rusted steel stairs from the belly of the vessel to its deck, the noise of the engines was deafening. Thankfully, once topside the wooden deck provided some sort of insulation. Stanford stood next to one of the Vickers mountings, with his rifle slung over his shoulder. He stared out to sea, wondering what the next few hours would bring, his face being lit up periodically with a barely noticeable,dull, red glow as the smouldering tobacco in his pipe flared as he slowly smoked.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Alix decided to linger a bit longer up in the cabin - it definitely did beat standing around in the wind and rain. Off on the deck below, she could see the dim glow of Stanford smoking his pipe on the port side, the smoke wafting into the dark, rainy air, and quickly dissipating in the wind. As they sailed onwards, now looking for all the world like some dilapidated fishing vessel, Alix could feel the familiar excitement running through her like a current. It was the same excitement she'd felt in Excalibur's insane dash through Paris, the same excitement as her first dogfight over Tempsford, the same excitement as when they'd headed into the desert to find the wreckage of the LZ-106.

She knew it was silly and immature, but it wasn't something she could really control. The thrill of danger, of actually getting out where the action was was still a new and gratifying thing to her. Actually getting to make this level of a difference in the world wasn't even something she dared dream of when she was still being groomed by the tutors her father hired to follow in his footsteps as a foreign envoy, even while Europe and much of the rest of the world descended into a decidedly undiplomatic morass of conflict and fighting. She knew how lucky she was to be in the position she was, but even so, she dreamed of actually Her right leg restlessly vibrated as she kept a tense watch over the expanse of the sea in front of them. The coast wasn't visible yet - understandable, given the weather and light conditions.

Her vigil was interrupted after a few minutes by Stanley's voice again.
"So, Flight Lieutenant..."
She didn't turn around, still keeping her vigil. "Yes?"
"Not to put too fine a point on it or be out of line, but... well, you're a woman. In a combat unit. You see some strange things in this line of work, but I've never seen that. Much less a woman in command of a group like this."

She sighed. She hated having to do this explanation every time. Maybe I should start wearing my service history around my neck on a sandwich board or something...
"It's a long story, The SOE put this squadron together from a very wide pool of candidates. I was involved in its assembly from the very beginning when I was still in the WRAF, and they thought I could do a lot of good within the squadron as well. So, they trained me. Over time, I got the XO post, and when our CO...went MIA..., I stepped in temporarily, until he gets back."

He scoffed slightly. "You seem very confident of that."
She looked down for a moment, seeing Nils taking a position on deck near Doug. "That's why we're here, after all."
"Really. I won't inquire too deeply into that, above my pay grade, but I guess that makes a kind of sense."

After a moment, he chuckled quietly. "I'll admit, though, you actually look the part. We were watching your team walking up to the boat, and I just thought you were a scrawny, remarkably girly-looking bloke until I heard you talk. No offense meant."
She laughed a little too. "None taken. I'd hope I'd look official, it took them long enough for them to get me an actual uniform that wasn't about three sizes too big."

It was true: they didn't typically make RAF flight jackets, or indeed, any other part of an actual RAF flyer's uniform, for anything resembling a woman's size. For a while, she'd had to mix and match based on what she could scrounge up - unthinkable in most squadrons, but with Excalibur's considerably more rough-and-ready ethos, and given the lack of alternatives, it had been marginally more acceptable. Eventually, she'd gotten a working flyer's wardrobe together. For this particular op, she'd decided to keep the RAF flight jacket (for warmth as well as protection) vest, and undershirt, augmenting Army-style combat boots and trousers, and an Army combat helmet she was keeping in her pack she'd left down on deck at the moment (she'd always hated helmets, they never felt like they fit right, even with her hair newly cut practically short). As to her armament, she was quickly establishing a standard loadout based on practicality: a Mk. III Lee-Enfield rifle, her trusty Colt (even if it got sniffy looks from Smythe, it was still the best pistol she'd ever shot with, to say nothing of the heaviness factor), and a single combat knife. She'd discovered the hard way on the range that even with her best efforts, she really just didn't have the frame for the Thompson or much of anything heavier than that - the recoil got in the way too much. The Sten was a possible alternative, but she'd decided to become as good a shooter with the Enfield as she could, instead. As to the knife, hopefully, she wouldn't be forced to use it (again, in contrast to Smythe, who seemed to see his extensive bayonet and knife collection as something akin to family).

"So you've been doing this for a while?" he asked, looking back down to his maps.
She nodded. "I've been in active combat operations for about six months now. Before that, I was - "
She suddenly stood bolt upright, staring out the window.
"- oh, bugger."
Stanley looked up quizzically. "Sorry?"

Alix pointed out the window, her eyes wide and unblinking. "I think I see a periscope."
"At this, Stanley stood up so fast he sent the chair toppling behind him, and Vincent immediately shifted his attention from the wheel to the focus of her pointing. Stanley rushed up to see what she was pointing at, grabbing a pair of binoculars hanging off the cabin wall as he did so. He quickly put them to his face, and focused in on the patch of ocean.
"You see, there? there's definitely something moving strangely in the water there -"
"I see it."
He exhaled a rueful sigh, and put the glasses down as he sat back at his table "That's not a periscope."

Alix was confused by his sudden nonchalance. "But-but there's definitely something in the water over there! What the hell is it?"

He looked up, his face drawn. "Flight Lieutenant, that is the Clan McAlister. We were actually warned to keep an eye on it before we set off to guide you on this little jaunt. It's a shipwreck."
Alix squinted, trying to get a better look at it. After a moment, she could see that the lines of the particular anomaly in the water were much bigger than a periscope - almost looking like the upper remnants of a ship's superstructure. "On the surface?"
"Yes. It's a big ship, and the water's relatively shallow there."
She looked back at Stanley. "What happened to it?"

It took him a moment to respond. "it was one of the bigger transport ships trying to get to Dunkirk to relieve the BEF back in May. It managed to pick up a lot of men off the mole, but when it was on its way back, the Stukas showed up. It took evasive action, sending it zigzagging over half the channel...but it didn't work. It took them a little longer than usual, but it didn't make any ultimate difference. They sent the Clan to the bottom."

He stood up again, hands folded tightly behind his back, looking out to sea as he spoke.
"Fortunately for some of the boys onboard, as you saw, it actually sank with some of the superstructure above water, so they had something to cling to while they waited for rescue. It took a bloody long time, but eventually, some ships came by to pick them up after the Stukas had left. The Germans kept hitting it even after the men had been evacuated - either they thought it was somehow still afloat, or there were still men on it, or who knows. Hence, why it looks like hell."

Alix could only imagine how horrible it must be to be on a ship like that under a withering Stuka attack like the one it must've faced. She hadn't been at Dunkirk with Excalibur, but she'd seen the reports and talked with the rest of the squadron about it, and it had sounded like utter hell.
"Were you at Dunkirk, Lieutenant?"
Stanley straightened his shoulders. "Yes. I was there with the rest of the infantry from 8RTR, that's Eighth Royal Tank Regiment."
"Did...did you see this happen?"
He shook his head. "No. I got on a later boat. But one of the boys who was on the Clan was an 8RTR fellow who I was actually friends with. He told me the story that way."
As the boat cruised around the remnants of the wrecked transport, Alix felt like it symbolized something. She couldn't help remembering how many uncounted trips she'd taken across the Channel to and from Britain and Europe since she was a child, and it had always seemed so safe and peaceful, so utterly harmless and benign. Now, with a ship that greatly resembled the ships she'd made the crossing over on, it was...sobering. Suddenly, she felt rather guilty for her earlier excitement.

Time passed by, and eventually, she could begin to see the French shore coming into view. She could see the far beaches, looking dark, forbidding, and totally abandoned. And in the distance...yes, she could see the cliffs where the communications station was almost certainly mounted. She couldn't definitively see it, though.
"Ten minutes out," Vincent sang out.

Stanley stood up once more. "Best get your men ready Flight Lieutenant. I'll get mine. Oh, and one last thing."
He dug in his pocket for a moment, and came up with a small, circular metal tin. He tossed it to her, and she caught it one-handed.
"It's boot polish. Might be a good idea, in the dark and all. Makes you a bit harder to pick out, and if they do see you, they might just piss themselves. Not the kind of makeup you're probably used to, but it's worth the sacrifice, I think."
She pocketed it. "Thanks, Lieutenant, great idea. You think there's enough here for everybody?"
"Assuming they don't hog it. A little goes a long way, really. Best get down there and get ready."

She nodded, heading for the door. I'll see you boys out there when it's time, then."
Heading back down the stairs, she climbed down to the crew quarters and motioned the group out towards the side of the vessel where the concealed grapple launchers were, trying to keep as quiet as possible as they neared the cliffs.

[Len Hyet]

Silva noticed Alix motioning the crew over to the side of the boat and all the blood suddenly drained from his face, leaving him white as a sheet. Seriously, it was kind of embarrassing for the pilot. He was six foot one, had made it through enemy lines in Spain on foot after being downed and captured, held the record for most years served as a combat pilot out of anyone in Excalibur, but god forbid he were anywhere near the water.

The American half-crawled over to Alix and then firmly planted his back against the gunwale, his mouth compressed into a single tiny pink line.

[Kouralia]

"She's my Violin, and she plays wonderful music...even put her in a violin case once...ah, but I'm just rambling..." She said, making sure she wasn't giving anything away that she knew of. She shot a sideways glance to Alix, half wondering if she had told them in the time she in the brig, and half wondering if she should tell the squadron her rather colorful history now, or later. She wouldn't know how they'd react at first, and what kind of lasting effects it would have. She wouldn't put it past them to give up on her and leave her behind, given she WAS technically a wanted murderer.

"Ah..." Smythe nodded, appearing to understand. "Poetic... Not something I usually go for, myself." He chuckled slightly, leaning against the gently rocking wall. "It's a beautiful weapon though, as I said, and... not exactly standard issue. A personal weapon then? I mean, those are common." He talked, pulling the bayonet out of its sheath and taking the tin of black boot polish from his pack. As he continued, he popped the lid of and gently, practically lovingly, smeared the polish onto the surface. However, while he was diligent to ruin its obvious shine, his face showed what he thought of the, for him, distasteful act. "I've got one, well, two... four. There's the Browning I took from a coward's hands in Spain, used on him courtesy of me. There's my Puukko, carved the handle myself in Afghanistan with a good bloke from up near Finland. The Straight razor... is mine, and I've had it since I was a child... Then the Stiletto I took off someone at seventeen..." He paused, glancing at his work.

"How'd you come across that then, if you don't mind me asking, ma'am?"

EDIT:

If you could end your post with Alix calling us out, that would be great, so we're not left behind everyone else

[Morrdh]

Charlie double checked his Thompson and made sure his battle-bowler was securely fastened, whatever protection the wide-brimmed helmet gave he certainly wasn't going to take it for granted. As a wee lad he'd heard tales of the trenches of the Great War from both his father who'd served as a medic and his uncle who'd been gassed and spent his last few years slowly coughing himself to death. He knew it was better to play it safe than sorry, though he felt a twinge of pain from recently healed ribs at the prospect of cliff climbing.

As he packed explosives into a backpack, Captain Higgins was like a child on Christmas Morning.

[Monfrox]

"It's completely custom made. My father has connections with some gunsmiths and what-not. She doesn't jam as long as she's kept clean, she handles a lot nicer than the standard issue M1928's, not to mention has less recoil as well. She can outperform them all and rather easily a well." She put her 'violin' back together and looked at Smythe. Seemed to be a man appreciative enough of knives, so she took out her one of a kind switchblade and flicked it open."Here's my knife. Not big, but that's where it's strength lies. I can keep this hidden pretty much anywhere, and still be able to kill with it." She looked to Alix, who was getting the others to follow her. "I think we've been summoned." She said, packing up and heading topside.

[Britcan]

Out of the corner of his eye Matthias noticed Noble motioning for them over to the side of the boat. He moved over to where the rest of the squadron was beginning to assemble. He remained silent as he joined them, his eyes flicked between his squadmates, trying to get a feel for how they were doing. A number of them were still carrying injuries from the previous mission and were hardly in the best shape. However, the bigger concern to him was the new members, at least he knew what the injured people were like. Ashwing seemed to be in the right mindset at the very least but Zilorski seemed to be even more of a loose canon than his brother. Matthias frowned slightly, he hoped that the actions of these two wouldn't cause another failure.

[The balkens]

Joshua folded his arms as he walked towards noble, he leaned against the railing and got ready to listen.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

As the vessel neared the cliffs, the squadron quickly assembled on the port side of the vessel. Kaya, Carr, and Simmons also made their entrance from the bowels of the ship, the engine slowly sputtering to a stop as Vincent and Stanley guided the vessel to its final mooring point just a few meters off of the cliffs. Slowing to a stop, the anchor was released and the ship drifted to a halt only a few meters away from the cliff edge. The communications tower that they'd seen on the recon photographs was now visible, standing out against the night. While the squadron assembled, Alix cracked open the tin of boot polish, and (with only a negligible amount of hesitation) scooped out some and blackened her face with it. After a minute or so, she felt that she'd gotten pretty much everywhere.

Quietly, Stanley crept over to one of the tarped-over pieces of equipment on deck, revealing a pair of gleaming-new grappling-hook launchers.
"You sure those won't give us away?" she hissed.
Stanley shook his head. "Doubt it. Most of these things use actual explosives, but we've got some fancy new ones. Compressed air. Won't make anything more than a puff."
"Assuming they work," Vincent added, a sarcastic tinge in his voice, as he grasped the handles of the other one. "Something to be said for explosives, after all."
Stanley rolled his eyes and wheeled his grapple into position. "Cut the chatter and pick your target."

While they squabbled, Alix turned back to the Excalibur team, lowering her voice to an intent whisper.
"Not much to say here, beyond what you already know. We don't anticipate serious opposition on-site, but that could change the second they know we're here. Bray, Silva, keep your sections on a tight leash, I don't want us losing track of people up there. Keep things as quiet as you can for as long as you can as well. Finally, I don't want us using names up there- "

Her lecture was was rudely interrupted by a pair of odd pffft noises coming from the launchers. Clearly, Vincent had been a pessimist - the assembled group watched as the hooks sailed dramatically sixty feet in the air, hooking into the cliff face at the very top with aplomb. The Commando officer gave both the ropes a firm tug to verify their purchase in the rock face, then nodded to Alix.

She turned back to the group. "Like I was saying, no names. Use ranks and squadron numbers instead. Oh, and I almost forgot -" She held up the boot polish.
" -boot polish, if you feel like looking marginally more fearsome up there. Anybody need it?"
One of the commandos - possibly Thayer - held up his hand, and Alix tossed it to him. "Pass it around, if you please, Corporal, if anyone else feels like using it. Don't hog it, it's denser than it looks. You should only need a little. I'll just warn you in advance, it feels disgusting, but I've been assured it's worth the discomfort."

While they passed it around, Alix turned back to Stanley. "What's your plan here?"
He pulled out his Sten gun, doing one last check as he spoke. "My boys follow me, and I'm following you. However, I think my boys have more direct experience with this sort of thing that you might. I'd recommend you let us go first up the ropes."
She nodded. "All right, seems reasonable."

Looking up at the cliffs above, she took a deep breath and tried to steel herself for what was coming. When she turned back to the team, she felt she was ready.
"And remember, try to nab one of the Kraut bastards if you think you can get one alive. Ideally, try for an officer, but don't get yourself killed in the process. the main target is whatever you can find in the main communications building. Grab anything that looks important and that you can carry. Might be a good idea to make some room in your pack, if you're carrying. Everyone ready? All right, Lieutenant, lead us off."

Flexing his fingers, Stanley, followed quickly by Vincent, took positions grasping their ropes from the pair of launchers. Slowly, they began the long climb.
"White flight, take the left side", Alix whispered, watching them intently. "Blue, take the right. Red, hang back with me for a moment."

She looked to Doug and Kaya, off slightly away from the rest of the combat group.
"Both of you - assuming you're not up to rope-climbing at the moment, Doug - I want you staying down here and helping to secure the vessel. We don't know what might be out here, and I don't want some Stuka or E-Boat sneaking up on us. Got it?"

[Len Hyet]

Silva breathed deeply for the first time in hours, and blood returned to his face. He was overjoyed by the prospect of getting off the damned boat, and even more importantly far away from the water. He wasn't all together sure that he'd be able to convince himself to get back on the boat when the time came. He whistled sharply to get Blue Flight's attention, taking the extra second to make sure that Samantha had disengaged herself from her conversation and was paying attention. Assured that she was, the American whispered quietly to them all.

"From here on out we use hand signals first, whispers second. Order up the rope is Me, Charles, Nils, Samantha. Stick by your wingman at all times. Everybody stay tight on me. Good hunting everyone."

Done with his own little speech, Silva grabbed the rope off to the right and started to climb up it, hand over hand, using his knees to shimmy up it in a rather efficient manner. Soon his head poked over the edge of the cliff and rolled over the top, pulling his BAR out from underneath his body as he did so, and taking a firing stance behind the commandos as he waited for the rest of his flight.

[Morrdh]

"Right oh Skipper." Charlie replied, nodding at Silva before mumbling to himself. "Once more for King, Country and a couple of bob."

~

"Yes mam." Kaya replied in her Australian accent before adding with a grin. "Don't worry, I'll keep Doug out o' trouble."

~

Meanwhile Higgins was busy shuffling over backpacks heavily laden with explosives.

[The balkens]

Joshua applied the polish and retrieved his weapons. he pulled the charging handle back as he quietly awaited his turn. when the time came for his climb up the cliff, he started out slowly, occasionally looking down at the coast but gained speed.
what a fucking view this is....shame that a wars going on
he reached the top of the cliff a moment later and steadied his M1 in his hands.

[Monfrox]

"Here, let me see it, Lieutenant." Samantha said, taking the boot polish politely after Joshua was done with it. She laid out a thin layer along her four fingers and then drew her hand down her face at a left diagonal angle, making thick streaks. It made great war paint, and she was careful not to use too much and end up on a high because of it. She gave the polish back and took her position. "Callsigns, eh? I guess this is some special secret kind of deal. Makes me feel almost like...." She stopped, picking her next words carefully. "Like we've got a one-up on these Krauts."