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by United Kingdom of Poland » Mon Dec 23, 2013 9:39 pm
by Grenartia » Tue Dec 24, 2013 5:59 am
GOram wrote:An hour or so later
Navigator to pilot. Stokes here Skip. By my calculations, we ought to be out over the French coast in roughly ten minutes.
The voice of the young navigator echoed out of the speakers in Stanford's thin leather helmet. The communications gear that was forced upon all air crew by necessity was vital, but Stanford hated it. The cloth oxygen mask was the same one that had seen him through the Battle of Britain and that he had somehow managed to retain through Operation: TAURUS. In the back of his mind, he knew he should put in for a new one. This one was old, worn and still had dark brown spots, where his dried blood had soaked into the fabric. The worst of it, by far, was the smell. It smelt of sweat, of fear and above all, it reminded him that death was always just a shot away. Death was a combat pilot's constant companion and Stanford had leant, during the first days of combat over Dunkirk, to switch off emotion when it came to the death of comrades. They weren't dead, they'd simply bought it or got the chop. No one ever used the word "dead". However, he'd never been able to shake off the feeling that his own demise could be seconds away. The events of the previous operation had brought that home to him in spades.
The navigator's words were echoed almost immediately by the Chief Technicians familiar voice, that came from the nose turret.
Nose gunner to pilot. Stokes is right, I can see the coast Skip.
Stanford steeled himself for what was almost certainly coming soon. The bomber had dropped down to roughly 5,000 feet, after having to dump all unnecessary weight. The low flying and slow target would make for the dream target for a German gunner, who's monotonous job probably involved nothing more than sitting in the gun emplacement, smoking, talking about the local French girls and longing for the day that an RAF aircraft filled the sights of his weapon.
Glory be
A voice came over the air, Stanford recognised it to be the tail gunner
Almost home now lads, and not soon en-
An almighty bang filled the aircraft as the sky filled up with puffs of black smoke, as flak floated up at them. Stanford tested the rudders and got no response. Presumably, something had hit the tail of the bomber.
"Pilot to tail gunner, you all right back there?"
No reply came back across the intercom
"Pilot to tail gunner, you all right back there?"
He repeated, a little more tersely, a few seconds later.
"Stokes, go and check he's all right."
Oh Jesus Christ...
The words floated quietly across the intercom. That could mean only one thing and the entire remaining crew knew it.
He's gone Skip. Lofty...he's just gone
Stanford couldn't see what the navigator was looking at, but by the tone of the man's voice, that was no bad thing. The bomber had taken a direct hit from a 37 millimetre, high explosive round. The shell, travelling at roughly 2,500 feet per second had impacted the underside of the rear turret and exploded. The resultant blast and heat wave had obliterated the turret. All that remained were the double doors, now completely jammed open, of the Nash & Thomas FN-10 turret and half the breech of a browning machine gun, that had somehow managed to remain in the remnants of it's mounting. The remains of the gunner were horrific beyond belief. Pieces of what once had been a living, breathing man had been blow back through the open doors into the aircraft and virtually all of the remaining surface had been covered in the dead man's blood. Perhaps more importantly, for the survival prospects of the remaining crew, was that the shrapnel from the bursting shell had shredded the tail to the point where the rudder was virtually useless.
Flak of varying calibres continued to float up at them, thick and fast, but by the grace of God the Wellington was spared any more serious damage. The airframe shook violently as Stanford took it out over the English Channel. The lumbering aircraft was almost home, almost safe, but it still had many miles of open water to go before it flew again over England's green and pleasant land.
GOram wrote:The flight across the channel was as quiet an affair as can be expected in a crippled aeroplane. In the distance, and closing slowly, Stanford could see the Isle of Wight. He had not expected to have drifted so far East, but with the damaged sustained and virtually all of the cockpit instruments U/S, it was hardly surprising. The sight of the Island was welcome, however, for more reasons than one. Firstly, it was heart warming to see the English coast hove into view. Secondly, Stanford knew of an airstrip in the area.
Royal Navy Air Station Lee-On-Solent had been established in 1917, as an offshoot of the seaplane installation on the Calshot spit. Lying slightly to the west of Portsmouth, the station was home to the the Headquarters of the Flag Officer Air and was currently known, in Navy service, as HMS Daedelus. All of this, however, was elementary to the heavily damaged bomber. All that mattered to them was that the station had a runway that was just over 1,400 yards long. It was a somewhat shorter than the strip at Tempsford, but it would have to suffice.
As the Wellington made land fall over the Isle, Stanford reached for the gear switch. He operated the switch, moving it from "UP" to "DOWN". He waited several painful seconds, expecting something to happen, but nothing did. Stanford desperately flipped the switch again, first up and then down, praying that the hydraulic system would kick in. What Stanford couldn't know was that a stamp sized piece of shrapnel had cut through the hydraulic lines, making the powered turrets and undercarriage completely inoperable. The only reason they had not found this out before, was one gun position had been completely destroyed and the gunner in the other had not tried to operate his weapons. If he had, he would have found that the turret failed to traverse even a single degree.
This latest disaster left Stanford with a dilemma. Ordinarily, a hand crank would be used to lower the wheels. However, this would take some time and the bomber was coming up fast on the field. He closed his eyes momentarily, deciding on a course of action, before keying the intercom.
"Pilot to crew, abandon the aircraft. We cannot lower the gear and I'm going to try to take her in...I'm going to attempt a crash landing. No sense you chaps being here for that."
The bomber was still over the Isle of Wight and Stanford knew that gave the remnants of his crew a chance. More to the point, it gave Kaya a chance. In crash landing the bomber, he ran great personal risk. If he bailed out now, he would surely live but he knew that was impossible. If he took his hands of the controls, the bomber would roll. He'd never make it to the escape hatch, the centrifugal forces inside the rolling, and eventually diving, aircraft would see to that. Besides, he was the pilot. It was his duty to stay with the aircraft and give the others a chance to escape. He could not simply abandon them in an effort to save himself. No. He must stay with the aircraft to the bitter end, regardless of what that was.
by The Tiger Kingdom » Wed Dec 25, 2013 5:07 am
Morrdh wrote:"OK, OK." Muttered Charlie as he got back to his feet. "Got an idea or two 'bouts how the heck we're gonna get outta this mess."
"First, need somebody who speaks German to get on the radio and ask fer emergency landing clearance. Shoot a line 'bouts how you've regained control of the aircraft or something, keep Jerry guessing 'bouts what the hell is actually going on."
Morrdh wrote:"Secondly, does anyone remember the Met report from the briefing? If there is enough cloud cover we could use that and then belt it to the Channel."
Morrdh wrote:"And lastly, probably an idea that we offload our German guest...least we don't get any more trouble from the bugger."
Calizorinstan wrote:He then heard shouting in the front of the cockpit and hurried up front and panted. "Sorry Cap, I was out like a lightbulb. Do you need any help tying up the prisoner?"
by Calizorinstan » Wed Dec 25, 2013 11:10 am
by Monfrox » Wed Dec 25, 2013 11:31 am
Xing wrote:Yeah but you also are the best at roleplay. (yay Space Core references) I'm pretty sure a four man tank crew is no problem for someone that had 27 different RP characters going at one time.
The Grey Wolf wrote:Froxy knows how to use a whip, I speak from experience.
by Morrdh » Wed Dec 25, 2013 2:45 pm
by Calizorinstan » Wed Dec 25, 2013 2:56 pm
by The Tiger Kingdom » Thu Dec 26, 2013 5:14 am
Morrdh wrote:"Ye know, we could've given the bugger a 'chute and booted him out the door." Said Charlie after Page had struggled the German pilot to death.
by Kouralia » Thu Dec 26, 2013 10:53 am
by Jamessonia » Thu Dec 26, 2013 4:45 pm
by Gibberan » Thu Dec 26, 2013 4:56 pm
Kassaran wrote:NSG, the one place where your opinion is the wrong one if it aint liberal enough for them... unless you're me, I'm well known for generally just despising human rights and the whole idea of entitlement.
Timothia wrote:My bad, I should have known better than to challenge the unchanging hive-mind of NSG. Won't happen again any time soon.
by Calizorinstan » Thu Dec 26, 2013 5:14 pm
by Grenartia » Fri Dec 27, 2013 1:03 am
Grenartia wrote:GOram wrote:An hour or so later
Navigator to pilot. Stokes here Skip. By my calculations, we ought to be out over the French coast in roughly ten minutes.
The voice of the young navigator echoed out of the speakers in Stanford's thin leather helmet. The communications gear that was forced upon all air crew by necessity was vital, but Stanford hated it. The cloth oxygen mask was the same one that had seen him through the Battle of Britain and that he had somehow managed to retain through Operation: TAURUS. In the back of his mind, he knew he should put in for a new one. This one was old, worn and still had dark brown spots, where his dried blood had soaked into the fabric. The worst of it, by far, was the smell. It smelt of sweat, of fear and above all, it reminded him that death was always just a shot away. Death was a combat pilot's constant companion and Stanford had leant, during the first days of combat over Dunkirk, to switch off emotion when it came to the death of comrades. They weren't dead, they'd simply bought it or got the chop. No one ever used the word "dead". However, he'd never been able to shake off the feeling that his own demise could be seconds away. The events of the previous operation had brought that home to him in spades.
The navigator's words were echoed almost immediately by the Chief Technicians familiar voice, that came from the nose turret.
Nose gunner to pilot. Stokes is right, I can see the coast Skip.
Stanford steeled himself for what was almost certainly coming soon. The bomber had dropped down to roughly 5,000 feet, after having to dump all unnecessary weight. The low flying and slow target would make for the dream target for a German gunner, who's monotonous job probably involved nothing more than sitting in the gun emplacement, smoking, talking about the local French girls and longing for the day that an RAF aircraft filled the sights of his weapon.
Glory be
A voice came over the air, Stanford recognised it to be the tail gunner
Almost home now lads, and not soon en-
An almighty bang filled the aircraft as the sky filled up with puffs of black smoke, as flak floated up at them. Stanford tested the rudders and got no response. Presumably, something had hit the tail of the bomber.
"Pilot to tail gunner, you all right back there?"
No reply came back across the intercom
"Pilot to tail gunner, you all right back there?"
He repeated, a little more tersely, a few seconds later.
"Stokes, go and check he's all right."
Oh Jesus Christ...
The words floated quietly across the intercom. That could mean only one thing and the entire remaining crew knew it.
He's gone Skip. Lofty...he's just gone
Stanford couldn't see what the navigator was looking at, but by the tone of the man's voice, that was no bad thing. The bomber had taken a direct hit from a 37 millimetre, high explosive round. The shell, travelling at roughly 2,500 feet per second had impacted the underside of the rear turret and exploded. The resultant blast and heat wave had obliterated the turret. All that remained were the double doors, now completely jammed open, of the Nash & Thomas FN-10 turret and half the breech of a browning machine gun, that had somehow managed to remain in the remnants of it's mounting. The remains of the gunner were horrific beyond belief. Pieces of what once had been a living, breathing man had been blow back through the open doors into the aircraft and virtually all of the remaining surface had been covered in the dead man's blood. Perhaps more importantly, for the survival prospects of the remaining crew, was that the shrapnel from the bursting shell had shredded the tail to the point where the rudder was virtually useless.
Flak of varying calibres continued to float up at them, thick and fast, but by the grace of God the Wellington was spared any more serious damage. The airframe shook violently as Stanford took it out over the English Channel. The lumbering aircraft was almost home, almost safe, but it still had many miles of open water to go before it flew again over England's green and pleasant land.
Jimmy had been flying above the Wellington when it took the flak shell that had killed its tailgunner, and thus didn't see it. He had, however, seen the other flak rounds that had been aimed at them. It burned him up, that he was escorting them back, and yet couldn't protect them from the flak. Sure, he could strafe the emplacements, but that would only put him at more risk, and then if a Jerry plane came along, the Wellington would be fucked.GOram wrote:The flight across the channel was as quiet an affair as can be expected in a crippled aeroplane. In the distance, and closing slowly, Stanford could see the Isle of Wight. He had not expected to have drifted so far East, but with the damaged sustained and virtually all of the cockpit instruments U/S, it was hardly surprising. The sight of the Island was welcome, however, for more reasons than one. Firstly, it was heart warming to see the English coast hove into view. Secondly, Stanford knew of an airstrip in the area.
Royal Navy Air Station Lee-On-Solent had been established in 1917, as an offshoot of the seaplane installation on the Calshot spit. Lying slightly to the west of Portsmouth, the station was home to the the Headquarters of the Flag Officer Air and was currently known, in Navy service, as HMS Daedelus. All of this, however, was elementary to the heavily damaged bomber. All that mattered to them was that the station had a runway that was just over 1,400 yards long. It was a somewhat shorter than the strip at Tempsford, but it would have to suffice.
As the Wellington made land fall over the Isle, Stanford reached for the gear switch. He operated the switch, moving it from "UP" to "DOWN". He waited several painful seconds, expecting something to happen, but nothing did. Stanford desperately flipped the switch again, first up and then down, praying that the hydraulic system would kick in. What Stanford couldn't know was that a stamp sized piece of shrapnel had cut through the hydraulic lines, making the powered turrets and undercarriage completely inoperable. The only reason they had not found this out before, was one gun position had been completely destroyed and the gunner in the other had not tried to operate his weapons. If he had, he would have found that the turret failed to traverse even a single degree.
This latest disaster left Stanford with a dilemma. Ordinarily, a hand crank would be used to lower the wheels. However, this would take some time and the bomber was coming up fast on the field. He closed his eyes momentarily, deciding on a course of action, before keying the intercom.
"Pilot to crew, abandon the aircraft. We cannot lower the gear and I'm going to try to take her in...I'm going to attempt a crash landing. No sense you chaps being here for that."
The bomber was still over the Isle of Wight and Stanford knew that gave the remnants of his crew a chance. More to the point, it gave Kaya a chance. In crash landing the bomber, he ran great personal risk. If he bailed out now, he would surely live but he knew that was impossible. If he took his hands of the controls, the bomber would roll. He'd never make it to the escape hatch, the centrifugal forces inside the rolling, and eventually diving, aircraft would see to that. Besides, he was the pilot. It was his duty to stay with the aircraft and give the others a chance to escape. He could not simply abandon them in an effort to save himself. No. He must stay with the aircraft to the bitter end, regardless of what that was.
By this point, Jimmy had allowed his plane to lag behind the Wellington, as the main threat would now be coming from behind. From this view, he could see that a flak round had wiped out the tail gunner's position. He could even see inside, and noticed blood.
"Poor bastard." Jimmy thought. "I hope it was at least quick and painless."
After this brief reflection, Jimmy had seen the isle and, as they were over it, had also seen its airstrip, and instinctively looked at his bird's fuel gauge. It wasn't empty, but it was close. He'd have enough juice to stay in the air until the Wellington landed and the runway was clear, but not for much longer. Looking back up, he'd noticed the crew bailing out of the plane.
"Oh shit. Its worse than I thought."
Quickly, Jimmy thought to radio the Wellington.
"This is Sword 11 to Wimpey 1. I noticed your crew is bailing out. What's wrong?"
by Goram » Fri Dec 27, 2013 7:30 pm
by Kassaran » Fri Dec 27, 2013 8:48 pm
Zarkenis Ultima wrote:Tristan noticed footsteps behind him and looked there, only to see Eric approaching and then pointing his sword at the girl. He just blinked a few times at this before speaking.
"Put that down, Mr. Eric." He said. "She's obviously not a chicken."
by The Tiger Kingdom » Sat Dec 28, 2013 5:22 am
Kouralia wrote:Smythe had been further to the rear of the plane while the drama had gone on further to the front, but that hadn't prevented him arriving to the fore to catch the tail end of the discussion between the Officers. He stood staring for a moment as the situation began to be elaborated, and the trouble they were in dawned on everyone on the plane. "With respect, sir..." Smythe said, glancing pointedly at the Captain, "That's not especially a polite thing to do to a person like that."
Kouralia wrote:He sighed and hit the release button across his chest and began to pull the parachute's harness off as he continued. "I know I'm only an enlisted soldier, compared to your Commissioned selves, however I'm going to have to register complaint. I would normally suggest that I try extraordinarily hard to forget I heard, saw or thought anything, however..." Smythe finished struggling with the parachute and pulled it off before holding out for a Prisoner to take, "What with there being Eight-Minus-One parachutes, I'm not entirely sure that will be necessary. Though it's odd the four guards didn't anticipate needing chutes."
Calizorinstan wrote:Pat spoke up "Should the worst happen, I will try to fly, you all go. I will stay with the airplane." He began searching around, and found a POH for the airplane. "I learned a tad bit of German in high school and college. If you need help Cap, I can fly." Pat volunteered.
by Le-Quebec » Sat Dec 28, 2013 8:18 am
"Well, I suppose that we're all in this together." uttered Vegesack into the radio, "Alright friends; the Channel's coming up soon - we're apparently going to be outnumbered and outgunned in this unfortunate scenario, so I need you listen tight . . ."
by Gibberan » Sat Dec 28, 2013 9:00 am
Kassaran wrote:NSG, the one place where your opinion is the wrong one if it aint liberal enough for them... unless you're me, I'm well known for generally just despising human rights and the whole idea of entitlement.
Timothia wrote:My bad, I should have known better than to challenge the unchanging hive-mind of NSG. Won't happen again any time soon.
by Calizorinstan » Sat Dec 28, 2013 11:32 am
by Kouralia » Sat Dec 28, 2013 3:31 pm
The Tiger Kingdom wrote:"Flight Lieutenant," he uttered, his voice as set and clear as he could be under the circumstances, "I, as Squadron Leader of 319 Squadron, am ordering you, and everyone else on this plane, to parachute out on my order. I will hold this plane above parachute altitude as long as I can in order to get us above friendly territory and make sure you've got the best chance possible of landing safely. I will then endeavor to land this plane as best I can. This is a direct order, and is not going to be countermanded. Staff Sergeant Smythe, see that it is carried out."
by The balkens » Sat Dec 28, 2013 9:24 pm
by Le-Quebec » Sat Dec 28, 2013 10:25 pm
by Morrdh » Sun Dec 29, 2013 6:31 am
by The Two Jerseys » Sun Dec 29, 2013 1:24 pm
by Goram » Sun Dec 29, 2013 10:53 pm
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