Operation Highwire (Closed, Excalibur Only)

[United Kingdom of Poland]

"Well I guess I wa right about every German fighter in France wanting a piece of us." Matt put his fighter into a steeep dive. He wouldn't be able to stop the first fighter before it fired but he could make it pay for its attack. He watched as Samantha flew her plane through the hail of lead. He breifly considered going to help her, but kept gunning for the lead fighter, She can hold her own, the best thing to do is get the bastards attacking our guys. Lining up his shot he put out a 5 second stream of fire that the German pilot would fly right through.

[Grenartia]

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.

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?"

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Alix quickly ripped the radio headset from his hands, and switched it to the squadron frequency, the German pilot cowering in fear.
"This is Sword Lead. We have seized the transport and are steering back for home. Everyone, give us as much cover as possible, I think the Germans will be catching on fairly quickly and I can see 109s inbound from here."
Removing the headset, she turned back to her prisoner, rage gleaming in her eyes. "Now, to deal with you."

---

After Alix's reply, Page pulled himself off of the wall and carefully bent over, wary of just toppling over in pain. Slowly, he picked up the cords he had been bound with. It was sturdy, heavy stuff - it had left marks all over his arms and legs, so he knew how it could bite. He rubbed it between his fingers, getting a feel for it. Yes, there was no doubt it would suit the purpose.

Suddenly, engine noise rose in his ear, approaching from the starboard side. His reflexes kicked in, and he threw himself to the ground as the chatter of machine-gun fire ripped through the air and bullets punched a cluster of holes through the walls. One of the four engines audibly ground to a halt. The plane shook, but stayed together. He kept walking.

Then, rope in hands, he began to edge closer and closer to the cockpit, where Alix was now embroiled in a rather heated dispute with their German pilot who needed to be taught a decisive lesson. The rest of the squadron, bracing themselves for what would surely be a hot flight back home, were not shy in offering advice as to how to deal with their recalcitrant Luftwaffe man.

"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."

Alix pointed to Joshua without looking.
"That's you again Zilorski - sorry, Flying Officer Zilorski. I'm not letting this fucker get even close to the radio again. Get up here and - oh, God. Yeah, you're going to have to move a body here. But anyway, get up here and tell Excalibur we've got control of the plane, and then just start jabbering in German across whatever frequencies they were on originally."

"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."

"I remember it. There should be cloud cover, but I can't say exactly when we'll hit it...it should start right about over the Channel, though. If that's the case, it can't be too much longer before we can lose ourselves in there."

"And lastly, probably an idea that we offload our German guest...least we don't get any more trouble from the bugger."

Alix gripped her Colt so hard it hurt. The German, reacting a bit slowly, looked petrified.
<<Are...are you talking about...no! You can't kill me! How the hell are you going to land the plane without me? You need me! I->>
<<Be that as it may,>> Alix growled, <<You and I are going to have a talk. Luckily for you, I've got to go and judge the damage back there from that last run, so it'll be postponed a minute or two.>>

She looked outside, and saw Page, who immediately struck a more casual pose than he sneaky one of a moment before.
"Captain, could you watch over our little rascal here for me for a moment? I'll be back as soon as possible. Just make sure he doesn't bloody touch anything he doesn't have to. Especially the radio. If you think he's a threat...do what it takes to stop him."
Page nodded and tried not to grin. "Of course."
"Thanks very much."

She dashed past him, and Page stepped into the cockpit. He ran his eyes coldly and analytically over all the dials, gauges, and switches. Yes, this certainly was a Junkers aircraft...the controls were very familiar. Even though they were much modernized (and the number of engine inputs doubled), the controls were not at all dissimilar from the good old Junkers JU 52 he'd trained on (and totaled, although that was debatably his fault, gear couplings being as finicky when hit by .50 cal rounds as they were). Admittedly, he didn't quite know the finer points of operating the aircraft, but he could adapt quickly enough to put it down. No, he had little doubt - he could fly this thing.

Indeed, he was quite bullishly confident about it. Fir a second, he idly wondered if his mind was working properly. Since he'd been freed and realized what was going on, his emotions had been more haywire than the electrics of a French-made airplane, and now, he was almost sublimely confident and upbeat about his prospects. This was helped by a small dose of nihilism; as he was still not quite sure this wasn't some kind of dream. But that hardly mattered either way, now.

As Page slowly and quietly stepped into the cockpit with the rope, Pat noticed him.

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?"

"Oh no, don't worry," Page whispered as he passed, crouched below and behind the pilot's seat as he focused at the controls, "I've got him."
A German sitting unawares right in front of me? It's almost like it's Christmas.

With that, Page stood up, looped the rope over the chair and around the German's neck, crossed the ends, and pulled back with every single bit of force his weakened frame he could muster, as the partisans had taught him all those years ago (but that he'd never before actually had to use in combat). The whole motion, beginning to end, took about a second.

The German, already reeling from Alix's blow to his head, didn't even stand a chance. Maybe, if he wasn't already semi-concussed, he would have been able to fight off the scraggly, emaciated, wild-eyed prisoner strangling him to death from behind, but not today. His tongue hung out of his mouth as he convulsed mightily and gurgled in a futile attempt to breathe, his hands crazily trying to attack Page, but the impacts on the Captain's face and shoulders (for that was all that the German could reach) were weak and getting weaker every second. His face turned redder and redder, eyes bugging out of his head obscenely. Page could feel what must have been his windpipe going-

Then the German stopped struggling. Like all that, the life had been choked out of him. His tongue hung lifelessly out of his blue face, and his hands fell off of the controls like wet ropes.

Acting quickly, Page unbuckled the German and shoved him out onto the floor, then quickly hopped into the pilot's seat. As he took the controls, another massive wave of good feeling ran over him like a warm shower. He was flying again - at the controls of a foreign, new aircraft, true, but flying! It was like a part of his brain that had been cut away had been restored. His muscle memory came back to him, and his dim recollections of the layout of a Junkers cockpit flooded back into his mind as though they had been carved into his gray matter anew. Below, he could see the green countryside, and on the far distance, what could only have been the English Channel.

Oh, there was no doubt - he was back, and in his element. A cracked, worn smile tugged at his lips as he went about shutting down the damaged engine the instruments were telling him was about to blow itself up, and turned the other three to their utmost speed.

At the edge of his perception, he heard Alix's voice.
"Captain, is...Oh God, what happened? He's...and you're...I..."
Page turned to her, removing his probably-fairly-disturbing grin.
"Well, I judged him to be a threat, and I did what it took to stop him. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing."
He turned back to the controls. "...I'm sure."

[Calizorinstan]

Pat watched this gruesome scene with wide eyes, but then realized the Captain knew what he was doing and that war was a miserable business, and that he was sure many other gruesome scenes would be coming along before long. He then waited with his hand on his 1911, to see if he needed to grab a machine gun to defend the transport. He was just getting back into it and he asked the Captain "Do you think they are sending planes after us? Should I grab a machine gun and fire out the windows at them if they do come after?"

[Monfrox]

Samantha coughed. "Aww...damn it...." She muttered to herself as she checked the cockpit. There were holes in the instrument panel and she could hear sparking, but the smoke from the engine was keeping her from seeing. "Just my fuckin' luck..." She said. She tried slowing down, but before she even touched the throttle, fire poured out from the engine. She had no way of knowing how high she was, or if her radio was working, or if she was even level. She tried to open the canopy, but it wouldn't budge. The wounded Spitfire flew back lazily over the French countryside she had been tangled up over for so long. She couldn't tell where the others were, but she figured that at the very least the ground was coming up fast. Her Spitfire burned brightly as it came in low and crashed into a small forest patch. About half a minute later, it's engine exploded along with the ammunition it was carrying.

[Morrdh]

Onboard the damaged Wellington, Kaya hesitated for a moment after she'd strapped on a parachute. She hurried over to the radio set and tapped out SOS in Morse code three times to at least alert somebody that the aircraft was in trouble, then she scrambled for a hatch to bail out from the stricken bomber. After free-falling for a moment her parachute opened and she watched the Whimpy fly on towards the nearby airfield as she gently floated back down to earth.

---

"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.

[Calizorinstan]

Pat piped in "But that's just not the Cap's style Charlie. He seems to go for whatever will get that poor Kraut out of our way, so that he won't be any more trouble." He shrugged as he finally relaxed for the first time since escaping the prison camp. He didn't care about medals any more, just getting back to Tempsford. "I'll buy you a pint when we get back to Tempsford Charlie." Pat added, smiling for the first time in ages, at the thought of a cold one..

[The Tiger Kingdom]

"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.

Page twisted around in his seat to stare right in Charlie's face, the beginnings of a patronizing sneer tugging at his lip.
"Getting a bleeding heart for Hitler's boys, are we?"
He turned back to the instruments before Fodder could respond.

"Yeah, we could've wasted a perfectly good parachute on him after he tried to trick us into thinking he surrendered so he could backstab us, I guess. Hell, maybe we should've given him a gun too, so he could feel nice and safe while he jumped. Kind of a security blanket thing. But I think my way was a bit more expeditious."

Alix's voice dropped in dismay at Page's evidently less than reassuring response. For a second, she took a deep breath and buried her face in her hands. Then, pulling herself together, she responded in a positively funereal tone.
"Let me make sure I understand this, Captain. I know you outrank me and all that, but I am Sword Lead for this operation, and I would really appreciate it if you could clear some things up for me."
"My pleasure. Fire away."
"You've killed our pilot."
Page winced. "Erm...well, he...that's a very harsh...I mean...yes."
"For God's sake, why?"

Page took a moment to answer. Why? Because...because...I hated him more than I could say after looking at him for all of three seconds? Because I felt like I would explode if I didn't tear him apart or choke him? Because he had it coming? Because if his people are willing to kill my friends, unarmed, at gunpoint, they shouldn't expect any different from me?
He mentally snapped himself out of it. No. I've got to get control of myself here.
"Why? Because he was dangerous. He was clearly willing to risk his life to tip off his buddies out there-" he gestured to the windscreen, "and I didn't feel very comfy leaving our lives in his hands all the way home."
Another deep sigh. "I...don't know about that. But that does bring me conveniently to the next point. Do you know how to fly this plane?"

Page looked dead at her. "No. I'm just pulling levers at random."

Utter horror.

"...That was a joke, Alix. Of course, I'll admit I haven't flown one of these things before, but the controls are...really, very similar to the old 52 we had back at Manston. It's doubled up for the engines, but other than that, it's all very familiar. I may be out of practice, but I think I can put us down somewhere friendly, assuming these clouds hold and the rest of Excalibur covers us."

"What about the engine we just lost? And all the fuselage damage this thing's taken?"
He grimaced, glancing over the bank of gauges that seemed to indicate some fairly severe problems in that area. "Yes, that is the fly in the ointment at the moment. It looks worse than it is, though, I'm sure we can make it through-"

As if to mock his undeserved hubris, another 109 made a diving run at the 89, guns and nose-cannon happily plinking away at the undefended and increasingly immobile transport. With a screech and a bang, followed by an explosion of smoke, another engine (on the same side as the other blown one) went dead. Page wrestled with the controls, trying to keep the plane from losing power and falling into a spin. He had to yell to make himself heard over the grinding and sputtering of the failing plane's innards.
"All right, maybe I spoke too soon. Just out of curiosity, how many chutes does this thing have?"
"No idea!" Alix yelled, bracing herself as best she could against the seat. "But we've got chutes already; we were wearing them when we came in-"
"Well, I'm honestly very glad for you, and not to be selfish or anything, but that doesn't really help us jailbirds out, does it?"
"Oh! Right! Sorry..."

She began to fumble around under the seats. Luckily enough, that was where the Germans had decided to stash their parachutes.
"I count one for the pilot...one for the copilot...and what looks like a spare one here, maybe for the flight navigator or something."
"And that's all?"
"Looks like it."
Page swore very loudly. "So we've got seven chutes for eight people?"
Her voice came back very faintly. "Oh, bugger."

[Kouralia]

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."

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."

[Jamessonia]

Hans' eyes widened with shock as he heard a Scandinavian language similar to his own spoken for the first time in weeks. He listened in silence to the American come on the line and introduced himself.

Well, they were off into combat, the three, no four! The other American was behind him, off his left wing. The four of them were zooming through the clouds, mostly silently. Hans couldn't believe how good it felt to hear someone speaking Swedish, a language very similar to his beloved. Norwegian. Should I say something back? What a silly thing to be worrying about at a time like this...

All of a sudden, the radio burst into action. Hans snapped out of his daydream and listened for the message. The Swede, who seemed to have taken de facto leadership, began to speak:

"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 . . ."

As Hans finished listening to this latest broadcast, the Channel burst into sight, behind it laying Fortress Europa. The green and grey mass of earth under the white clouds ominously beckoned to the lone flyers. He sighed at the thought of being back to Europe proper, even if it wasn't quite the vacation he'd expected. This is the first time I'm back in Nazi territory, he suddenly realized. A wave of aggression coursed through his veins, remembering his homeland and it's occupation. With the emotions of a patriot far from home running in his blood, he spoke into the radio.

"The Channel certainly is in sight, Sword 15. I am listening for your instructions, and here's to showing those bastards a thing or two, regards from Scandinavia! Sverd 17 ut."

[Gibberan]

Over the English Channel
Flying Officer Carter marveled at the brilliant flashing blue water below them. The coast was behind them, and they were speeding quickly. The Swede's voice came over the radio. "Well, I suppose that we're all in this together. 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 . . ." As he spoke, Carters eyes wandered to the white clouds ahead, and below them, occupied France. Although it looked exactly the same, under German control, it felt...well, darker.

Carter was surprised that there were no antiaircraft puffs around them, but then again, they were lucky. As a small group of small fighters high up in the air, they were unlikely to be seen or even heard. But what he was really surprised at that the Germans hadn't even scrambled fighters. Carter had exceptional eyesight, and was able to pick up a tiny speck of an aircraft a mile away and focus on it, even when his fellow squadron mates couldn't. He scanned the sky, but saw nothing. He spoke into the radio

"Keep your eyes open, guys, they'll show up any minute now."

[Calizorinstan]

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.

[Grenartia]

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.

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?"

Several seconds had gone by, and Jimmy assumed the radio operator had bailed. Just then, a transmission came over the radio.

"This is Royal Navy Air Station Lee-On-Solent, unidentified aircraft, please identify yourselves."

"RNAS Lee-On-Solent, this is Flight Sergeant Jimmy Thibodeaux, No. 319 Squadron. I'm babysitting this Wellington back home. At least, I was supposed to, but we got chewed up by flak on the way home. The Wellington worse than I. Its a wonder its still flying. It's crew is bailing out, and I believe the radio operator is one of them, so you won't get any response from them. Requesting that you prepare your people to receive the crew, and possibly to handle a crash landing, in addition for permission for me to land."

"Flight Sergeant, you're clear to land."

With that, Jimmy proceeded to land.

[Goram]

Stanford glanced back over his shoulder, just in time to see Kaya disappear out of the emergency escape hatch on the starboard side. With a sigh, Stanford got down to business and began going over the habitual pre-landing checks. He caught himself seconds later, realising that there was simply no point. On one wing, the flaps had been burnt away, on the other the hydraulics were shot and most of the cockpit instruments were U/S anyway. Simply, there was nothing to check. All that Stanford could do was to jockey the throttle and pray that the wind didn't suddenly veer or pick up, as he would be almost completely powerless to correct his course. Stanford glanced down and checked his harness was done up, before disconnecting his oxygen and communication leads from the aircraft. This wasn't going to be a landing so much as a barely controlled decent into the ground. The possibility of fire was very real and Stanford, if he survived the impact, wouldn't want to be hanging around inside the aircraft for very long.

Stanford did his best to aim a third of the way down the strip, knowing that the bomber would likely veer left or right off the surface on impact, he wouldn't be needing the full length. As Jimmy vacated the runway, much faster than usual, Stanford gritted his teeth. This was, as the phrase went, it. The altimeter was non-operational, but Stanford had been flying long enough to judge his altitude with a degree of accuracy.

"50 feet"

He began counting mentally

"40 feet"

The Wellington stumbled across the runway threshold, in a manner similar to a drunkard leaving the pub after last call

"30...20...10...brace for impact!"

Stanford had expected that the impact would be bumpy, indeed, he'd had his share of heavy landing before. However, this was more than anything he could have anticipated. The blow was monumental and noise deafening as the bomber hit the ground at about 75 knots and slid, jarring as it did so. To Stanford, the world appeared to be in the midst of an earthquake, the like of which history had never seen before. This, however, lasted barely a few seconds as one of the harness belts snapped and Stanford pitched forward, his forehead smacking into the dashboard in front of him. He felt no pain, but the blackness descended on his vision and he slipped out of consciousness.

Stanford awoke to a remarkably serene situation. Half of his face was coated in something warm and wet, he didn't know why, and it appeared that the shaking had stopped. He felt no heat, heard no flames and smelt no smoke. Indeed, he was remarkably comfortable in written off Wimpey, except for the fact that he seemed to have rather a dull headache. The Wellington had lost the damaged port wing in landing and had skidded off the runway, only seconds after touch down. From across the airfield, Stanford could see the emergency vehicles racing towards him.

With more ease than he expected, the Flying Officer disentangled himself from his harnesses and parachute, before clambering out of the bomber's pilot seat. As he got up, he noticed drops of something red dripping down onto his bright yellow life jacket. He put his hand to his face and withdrew it to find his fingertips covered in blood.

"Well"

He thought dryly to himself

"That explains a lot"

All in all, he was feeling quite positive. He'd brought the impossibly damaged aircraft down and lived to tell the tale with no more than a bump on the head to show for it. Then, however, he saw the corpse of the wireless operator, lying the navigator's position, where he had been thrown in the crash. Stanford's somewhat jovial mood was immediately brought down, as he remembered that two of his crew were dead and the rest of the squadron were probably still over France somewhere.

"Come on, old boy..."

He muttered at the dead man,

"I can't leave you here"

Stanford stooped down and, with no slight difficultly picked the body up in his arms. Lifting the weight of the man caused serious pain to his old and still not entirely healed wounds, as he edged through the wrecked fuselage. Progress was difficult to come by, but eventually he managed to step through the main door and out onto English soil again. Slowly he trudged, body in his arms, towards the small procession of ambulances and fire engines that were racing across the grass towards the ruined Wellington.

[Kassaran]

The British Coastline
Jonah had almost lost consciousness twelve times on the way across the channel, the length of the flight, though short in terms of relativity, where he'd been on longer flights in his past, had nothing to the pain and drowsiness that washed over him. He looked out his cracked windscreen, the light seeming to begin to bend once again, as his visual processing centers inside his mind began to suffer from a lack of blood, he knew he was suffering from shock. He was now shuddering uncontrollably and his craft did the same, both seeming to be struck by the same intangible chill. Hazarding a glance at his altimeter, it read off at an astounding one-hundred and three feet above the waves, and even more so his speed was at just under one hundred and fifty miles per hour. He sighed, with the British coastline beginning to loom up before him, he was flying excessively low and dangerously so with his current condition.

If only there were such a thing as second chances in life he thought to himself. He had made a fool of himself with this first mission, he'd only been trying to show off, but he'd lost so many. He didn't even know if the mission had been successful or whom had made it back. He thought back on the people he hadn't even known for two weeks, those he had looked forward to calling family, but now he might never see again. It saddened him greatly to think even further now upon how he'd never have the chance (more than likely) to get home again and see his old dog, his sister, or his childhood sweetheart Molly. Even more so, he thought on old acquaintances that he'd never be able to pursue, old hobbies he'd never finish, new endeavors he'd never embark upon. It was all wasted, because of those damn German bastards.

Anger, hate, heat, energy, he looked up, his vision clearing slightly through his bitter tears and rage. He wasn't going out like this, not on his life he'd allow for such cowardice. To die was easy, he'd simply have to work hard to make sure he didn't go out like his friends before him. he'd seen the enemy now, he'd tasted blood, and he'd liked it, deciding whether or not to spare a pilot that had bailed. To play God with the fate of others, he licked his lips, and straightened himself in his seat. He was landing, whether or not it was with his wheels down or not. Angling to the north, he looked down and noted a small port below, the townspeople scattering about like little ants waving up at him as they recognized him as one of their own. The ground began to surge up and around him as the land rose up out of the Channel and he pulled back on the stick, lifting the needle on his altimeter up enough to avoid the same fate as the German he'd out-flown earlier.

The dried blood that had caked along his face began to fall off in tiny flakes as he began to mouth silently his landing checks. Pushing the stick gently to the right, he watched as his ailerons responded somewhat beautifully. Anything now was beautiful, below him he could see farmers rushing out and pointing up at him, children were stopping their activities and waving, but something was wrong, and he saw it on the faces of several who noticed it. Smoke was now beginning to billow out in large wafts from his engine and the cockpit was beginning to flood with the fumes of the burning materials. Disconnecting his oxygen hose and trying to take smaller breaths, Jonah watched in horror as he began to loose further control over his craft.

One by one, the gauges began to drop and become unresponsive as the sensitive instruments began to loose connection with their cockpit counterparts. The flames that had previously been small and unnoticed began to slip out from the various bullet-holes that perforated the skin of the Spitfire's engine cowling and a loud noise that sounded like shoes in a rock tumbler began to reverberate throughout the craft. Below, country roads began to drop in the speed and frequency with which they passed the windscreen and details that should of remained unnoticed began to shift into focus as the plane began to lose what precious little altitude it had.

In the distance, to his left, Jonah noted a town, small and quaint, but lacking in an airfield. In light of this, he flipped the gear controls into the "Down" position and dropped his flaps as he began to close in on his target. A small field, perhaps four hundred feet in length and just under that in width, less than two miles away. Throttling down his engine, Jonah checked over his instruments once again, watching as the plane began to die on him. Smoke now poured into the cockpit from holes under the instruments panel, and flames licked at the windscreen of the stricken craft. It was now or never as Jonah jockeyed into position for his approach. He wouldn't get the chance to correct if he didn't get the timing right, but having been a bush pilot for just over a year, he'd gotten the hang of short landings. Jamming his foot down on the left rudder pedal and pulling his stick to the right, Jonah performed a maneuver he'd learned about from an older pilot called a "slip". The nose began to pull right, out of the flow of air, yet the rudder kept the craft going on mostly the same trajectory.

Releasing the pressure with gentle alleviations of power, Jonah smiled. It was the first time in the last thirty minutes that he'd done so, and it hurt. As he began to close in on the final hundred feet leading up to the field, Jonah began to mentally calculate the distance to impact. He figured it wasn't to be his best landing, but it'd be better than his worst. Bracing within his seat and tightening the straps as far as they'd go on his harness, he waited. 500 feet, 450 feet, 300 feet, 325 feet, 250 feet the feeling that he'd forgotten something filled his mind, but he couldn't remember what it was, 200 feet, 100 feet, 50 feet; and there it was, in the last moments before he was to hit the ground, he looked and noted that he hadn't cut power to his engine. Reaching out, he flipped the engine power setting to Off and then set the propeller blades to feather. The ground rushed up before him and pulling back on the stick, Jonah braced as the plane slammed into the field.

It hurt, a lot. that's what Jonah remembered about the crash. It had knocked the snot and common sense right out of him, leaving him dazed, tired, and confused. He could feel his right arm, but his left hung uselessly down at his side. Flames licked his feet yet there was only a warm sensation there. Then the adrenaline began to fade and the heat began to grow in magnitude as the fire from the engine began to melt the soles of his boots and the protective layer over his toes. Struggling to move them up, he felt the newly forming bruises on his shoulders, thighs, and chest respond with a frantic and dizzying reply of pain in and of themselves. It was excruciating, yet exhilarating at the same time. Breathing in at the pain, Jonah only felt more pain as several cracked ribs were pushed by his inflating lungs. Moving quickly, and thinking against the pain of the fire, Jonah reached his hand towards the flames and began to undo the straps that held him fast.

A few seconds must of passed, but soon his hands were joined with another pair, and when the straps came loose, another pair grabbed at his shoulders and began to pull him up out of his craft. Strong, burly hands they were, and grimacing in light of the massive amounts of pain, he welcomed them and their support. The sound of dirt hitting metal rang in the background as the flames in his engine died out. Looking towards the source, he could see his plane, now several yards away, smoking, but in mostly one piece, sitting at the end of a rather longish tract of farmland, two young men armed with spades were now shoveling dirt onto the exposed engine block, smothering the flames almost completely, though some were stubborn and still lit up along the back of the engine, yet were unable to ignite the fuel stores. The field, Jonah now realized the resting point of his craft, and looking up, he saw the eyes of his savior, an older gentleman, with blazing blue eyes, seemingly invigorated by Jonah's unexpected, and rather uninvited, appearance on his property.

The rugged farmer was now pulling him backwards towards a small stone building, and once safely on the other side of the shelter, the man spoke," What's yer name there son?"

"Jonah, I'm Flight Sergeant Jonah Mackenzie sir." The dazed pilot spoke, it startled him that his voice sounded so gravelly and harsh, but given the circumstances, it probably was acceptable. On a lighter note, it seemed to also startle the farmer, but he kept up the line of questioning.

"Where'r ye from Mack?" the farmer queried, his brogue highlighting the r's in use. In the distance, the sounds of an ambulance's siren began to come through.

"RAF Tempsford, I'm stationed with a fighter squadron there. The Three-One-nine. I-I'm not sure if they made it back. I have to go back and check for-" as Jonah began to try to sit up properly, the farmer's heavy hand weighted itself upon his right shoulder, and cemented him to his slumped position against the cobblestone wall of the tool-shed. A young woman with bright blonde hair walked up, a small cup of water in one hand and a bucket in the other. Taking the cup, the farmer held it up to Jonah's mouth for him to drink," thank you, but I really need to-"

"Lemme stop ya there. You've landed on ma property here and I've got no honor as an Englishman if I dun treat my guests to a drink before they leave. It's the least I can do. As fer yer squadron, I'll see if I can get a holds of them, tell them where ya are, but ya need to rest and save yer strength." With that, the voice of the farmer began to sink into an unintelligible drone and his face faded into a darkness, warmth surged around him and Jonah began to drift off on a wave of warmth and sleep, having now effectively lost consciousness.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

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."

Page laughed. "Yeah, I guess war isn't very polite, Flight Sergeant - hey, what are you doing with that parachute?"

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."

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.

"No," Alix insisted angrily, "our whole objective was to get you four out. And I'm not about to let any of you leave yourself behind on this thing after all the shit we went through to get you back."
She too quickly began to shuck her parachute off of her back.
"Here. I'll stay on this stupid thing, and that's final - that's my prerogative as CO here. When it comes down to something as crazy as this, I'm not about to pawn it off on somebody else. Even if-" she raised a hand to cut off Smythe, "- that would technically be the proper thing to do here. I can try to put the thing down in the water and escape out that way. I know it's a long shot, but it's better than nothing."

Over at the controls, Page was genuinely impressed with all of them, and as always, was a little bit blown away by how much Alix was willing to take the punch for the rest of them (maybe there was a bit of a lump in his throat. Maybe).
But hopefully, that wouldn't be necessary.
"I think there's one thing you people are forgetting," he said, quietly enough to almost be inaudible over the sound of the dying engines.
"What?" Alix said, turning.

"Of all of you, I have the most experience flying things like this. If we're short one parachute, doesn't it stand to reason to leave the most experienced pilot behind? In theory, I have the best shot of anybody to actually bring this thing down in friendly territory. If it's somebody else, our chances of all getting out of this alive and free go down considerably-"
He was rudely interrupted by a shard of propeller actually breaking off one of the engines and streaking off into the wind, screeching against the metal wing as it did so.
"-well, in theory, anyways. We might explode any second, honestly. But those are just my thoughts."

"Didn't you hear what I said?" Alix yelled, her voice revealing an almost painful sounding level of stress and strain. "I went through all of this to get you people out. We went through all of this. People have fucking died to put this together and get us to this point where we could get you out, and now you want me to leave you in a literally burning plane? No way in hell. If one of us is going to stay, it's going to be me."

Page was stunned by her outburst. He thought what he was offering was a logical way to cut through all the competitive hero BS here and offer the most sensible option, but apparently, there was really something deeper going on with the Flight Lieutenant. Turning back to look at her, he could see (through the goggles, still on) and hear that she was practically on the edge of tears. For the first time, it hit him that even though he'd been going through concentrated hell for the last few weeks, what Alix had been going through was probably ridiculously difficult as well. He wondered what had gone into this operation whose sole purpose was to rescue him and his jailed comrades. It occurred to him he was probably happier not knowing. Alix didn't really have that luxury. all of her effort for a month and a half had led up to this moment, and now, he was risking throwing it all away.

Since getting cut out and back on his feet, he'd been feeling pretty sanguine and upbeat for somebody who could barely walk, as the euphoria of freedom mixed with the nihilistic fear that all of this was another dream; just another escape fantasy as he hurtled towards death. But now, looking at Alix, and looking back on all that had transpired over the last hour or so, he knew this couldn't be a dream. It felt real - not all gauzy and shallow and strange like dreams did (for a second, an odd, contextless image flashed into his mind of him walking in mist with a strange figure. It vanished as quickly as it arrived).

He could feel his sort of upbeat happiness fading away in that second that he looked at Alix and saw what was going on. He felt horrible about it - awful.
But he knew it was the right decision.

"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."

[Le-Quebec]

1340 Hours
Northern English Channel

As the dark navy mass that was the English Channel finally came into view, a flight of four Supermarine Spitfires soared above ragged flocks of white seagulls that easily stuck out against the crisp background of the sea. Dark brown and gray with their distinctive red and blue roundels of the RAF, each of the Mark I and II's built by the hands at Castle Bromwich possessed a 1,030 horsepower engine enough to drive twelve army Universal Carriers, a top speed of 363 miles per hour that combined the strengths of three 1940 Indianapolis 500 racecars, a armament of eight .303 Browning heavy machines guns capable of the firepower of a company of infantry, and not to mention the 2,800 cartridges of ammunition needed to deliver said firepower to whoever was unfortunate enough to be on the wrong end of it. Originally conceived by a devil determined designer who was dying of cancer as he took up the drawing board, the image of these Spitfires had since come to be one of the most iconic pieces of work in aviation history, quite literally shooting down the credit of the more prevalent and common role of the Hurricane aircraft as it came into mind anytime one mentioned the RAF in its purest form.

Now, this band of veteran pieces of history were embarking on an apparent rescue mission - several of them again for the second time in their lives - to the French coast, or preferably, the area surrounding it. Their pilots, a Swede, a Norwegian, and two Americans, were already coming to terms that fate was granting them a rather dire welcoming experience into their new unit, the members of whom they now had to save, when a particular voice came calling on the chatterbox.

"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 . . ."

Vegesack continued, "First of all, we're too close together; spread out into a finger-four, that is you know what one is - go for an easy linear formation instead of the damned triangular one that the British taught you in school; not only do you have more space to maneuver, but "

He paused for a moment to allow his wingmen to do so, "Climb steadily to as many angels as you can, 'Height gives you the Initiative' my friends; you'll need it if you want to dance with a Messer, who can out dive but not out turn us."

His voice hesitated, "Well, at least for most of us. Our friend in the Hurricane, err, is going to have some issues; he's simply out put in every field by both the enemy and ourselves. We cannot fight as a Spitfire unit, because he will only lag behind and struggle to keep up in his slower and less maneuverable aircraft - and I'm sure that we've all already seen that happen once."

He took a deep breath, his eyes gazing far into the French horizon only kilometers ahead, "It is a German tradition that fighter pilots be measured in their worth by their "score", you know, the number of punkts that they receive for each of us that they bring down; it helps calm down the nerves and reduces the psychological impact of - killing, for lack of a better word. It apparently works, given the fact that they've been at it like that ever since the days of the Richtofen and his Flying Circus. Now that being said, Messer pilots will be certainly happy to see our Hurricane in the skies rather than us; and unsurprisingly, they'd rather go for an opponent who can't engage them very well in a turning fight than one that can."

Vegesack turned serious, as if highlighting the vitality of each phrase by hissing directly into the microphone, "Our plan will be thus to allow our gentleman in the Hurricane to lead the assault upon being engaged, with all of the rest of us Spitfires laying in ambush amongst cover in the clouds. To the Germans, he's simply going to be the easiest scored punkt of the day. Once a couple of the enemy takes the bait, we will spring in from above and engage the Messers in a turning fight that will favor us - kapeesh, my friends? Sword 15 out."

He pulled the yoke backwards as if motioning for his companions to follow suite, his aircraft gently tilting upwards against the rough breeze of the sea and into the dense patchwork of flat clouds. Thousands of feet below was the Atlantic tide of the English Channel, its waves black and platinum white as the sun's rays sharply reflected off the massive and moving liquid prism.

A voice suddenly entered the radio feeds, "Sword Gold, this is Stagfoot; do you copy?"

Vegesack swore that his eyes had nearly popped out of their sockets upon his ears receiving that familiar call-sign - coincidentally, the one that he had just been forced to give up only minutes before. He just couldn't believe it - had his exact former unit been dispatched to their aide?

He shuddered as he responded, "Solid copy, Stagfoot. We're - err- short on . . . numbers you see, we'd appreciate any assistance."

"How much have you got? Over."

"Four kites - three Spits, one Hurri."

There was a dead silence as the radio ruptured with static and what seemed to be either chuckles or angry mutters. After several seconds, there was a surprisingly light hearted response.

"You're going to need a lot more than that if you're going to France mate. Stagfoot 7, we're right on besides you. Coming in from your east. Stagfoot Leader out, it's great to see you again Vegs."

For the next full minute, Vegesack wasn't sure whether it was his or Allistor's laugh that corrupted the feeds; the latter's Chester accent being music to the former's ears as they exchanged several words of meet and greet. Otherwise, they remained standing on their duties.

"So how far out are they? What and when are they coming in? See I didn't get me and my people's arses out here to buy it in France alright?" uttered Allistor, "You got visual on us yet?"

Vegesack turned his head to the east in response, noticing a steady rising stream of black ants in the far off horizon climbing a great white hill of marine layer.

"I see you loud and clear, Stagfoot! You're not saying you brought the -"
"Half of the squadron along? There's eight of us, making our total in this fight twelve. Hey, it wasn't anything of our choice - you know the rules Vegs: tower say, pilot do."

"So what's your plan Tom?" sighed Vegesack, "You've got the rank and the numbers. Your call."

"What's yours?" scoffed Allistor, "You've got the age buddy. I'd find it funny for you not to know what to do in a moment like this. "

The Swede chuckled as he relayed his plan to the 610 Squadron officer, whose voice felt as if the two friends were sitting alongside one other despite the current distance in between them.

---

RAF Tempsford
Sandy, England, United Kingdom

In the meantime, the flight controller back at 319's home nucleus had nerves that were tenser than ever. In the miniscule operations room of the already small structure that was the base's control tower, the booming voices of frantic telephone operators gibbered and jabbered with new sightings and reports of the action going on at the moment. He adjusted his peaked cap, which was the standard "Air Force blue" so signature of RAF uniforms and symbolism. Glancing down at a pair of female WRAF officers slide a certain white pin downwards from central France and onto the Channel in the direction of England, the flight controller turned to one of his many aides.

"Have the Big Wings leant their assistance yet?"

"Yes sir! 610's deployed two sections that just flew out of Westhampnett. Gold flight is en route to rendezvous with them across the Channel; they may have already established radio contact as we speak."

"Have you notified the rest of the Swords?"

The aide's face turned pale, "Well sir, a number of the task force's call signs have since . . . gone cold. Whimpey Two and Morgana are gone for sure. Sword 12 is reported downed with no chutes seen, while Sword 11 and Whimpey One have just touched down with casualties and battle damage at RNAS Lee-on-Solent. Sword 4 is reported to have taken damage and crash landed somewhere along the coastline."

The controller sighed in pity as the aide relayed the casualties, stroking his finger across his mustache in solemn thought.

That WAAF lieutenant was out of her mind for sure. Can't say whether all that she has done was worth it or not; she was truly a dedicated fellow. A mother to her squadron if you'd ask me.

The aide suddenly chirped, "However, we're currently tracking an unknown element rapidly headed towards our way, with even more Jerries following it or something. I suppose if Sword Leader had succeeded, then they may have -"

"Patch me through to them, now."

"But sir, they're not operating on our standard frequencies! We'd have no idea if they'd even -"

"Then forward it to the general one that the ones that we actually know are using!"

About half a minute later, the husky flight controller was talking sternly into the microphone, hoping that 319 Squadron, or at least what remained of it, would pick up the message. Given the fact that they were currently stuck up in enemy airspace with an armful of German fighters running to intercept them, it would give them such much wanted hope to push on and return home.

"All Swords, All Swords! Priority Recipient - Sword Leader! This is Tempsford! Say again, this is Tempsford! You must report your status and location now if you people want to see home again. Fighter assets Sword Gold and Stagfoot have been scrambled to assist you and are making their way across the Channel now - but they'll be looking for needles if they've got no idea to where they're supposed to be! Reinforcements are inbound, Sword! You must hold on for a little longer! Do copy, over!"

[Gibberan]

Carter listened intently as Vegesack relayed the plan to all of them, still scanning the skies. He knew his Hurricane might be a problem, but it had been more successful in the Battle of Britain, and most of the Allies's top aces, such as Bader, McKellan, and Lacey, had been made in this very type of aircraft, so he didn't have much reason to worry. At least, he hoped not, anyway.

Vegesack, still flying steadily in front of him, continued. "Our friend in the Hurricane, err, is going to have some issues; he's simply out put in every field by both the enemy and ourselves. We cannot fight as a Spitfire unit, because he will only lag behind and struggle to keep up in his slower and less maneuverable aircraft - and I'm sure that we've all already seen that happen once." Carter rolled his eyes. It was known that the Hurri he was in had been already damaged, but he said nothing.

He thought he saw a few specks in the distance (which turned out to be a flock of seagulls), and his mind wandered off. Vegesack. "Now that being said, Messer pilots will be certainly happy to see our Hurricane in the skies rather than us; and unsurprisingly, they'd rather go for an opponent who can't engage them very well in a turning fight than one that can." He froze.

"Our plan will be thus to allow our gentleman in the Hurricane to lead the assault upon being engaged, with all of the rest of us Spitfires laying in ambush amongst cover in the clouds. To the Germans, he's simply going to be the easiest scored punkt of the day. Once a couple of the enemy takes the bait, we will spring in from above and engage the Messers in a turning fight that will favor us - kapeesh, my friends? Sword 15 out.", and the radio went silent

So I'm the bait, thought Carter. He grinned. Ingenious. As the other flight of planes came up along them, which Vegesack seemed to have had known, he began thinking hard. How would he be able to keep the Jerries off of him until the rest of the flight could pounce on them from above? A Four Fingers manuever was impossible, he'd need a wingman; a scissors manuever, maybe? It would be hard to execute in the Hurricane, made for robustness, not speed or manueverability. A barrel roll might work, but it was unlikely for the enemy to overshoot the slow Hurricane. Carter put this out of his mind, however. He would concentrate on battle tactic during the battle, not before. For now, he had to concentrate on finding it.

[Calizorinstan]

Pat nodded to Alix and the Captain "As usual, I defer to you Captain. It was only a suggestion anyway." He didn't like to think about the fact that he would have to leave the Captain, but would do so if they really had to. He looked at the parachutes with a grim look and sighed. He didn't have anything more to say, so he stared out of the cockpit windows with a distant look on his face, recalling the hell he had gone through in the internment camps.

[Kouralia]

"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."

Smythe glanced between Captain page and Flight Lieutenant Noble momentarily, before shrugging and pulling his parachute on. "Sir, with all due respect, and I mean this in the most respectful manner possible, but you aren't in any fashion in an appropriate state to issue orders. You've demonstrated a lack of clarity overview by..." He paused momentarily and gestured out of the window, "Well, murdering a prisoner of war, while he flies the plane we're all on and acts as the resident expert for flying said plane. Not only that but Flight Lieutenant Noble is Sword Lead at the moment and under the circumstances, despite your rank, I can't countermand her lawful orders with your own."

"Ma'am?" He said, half turning to Alix, "Your decision?"

[The balkens]

The rounds slammed into dietrichs Heinkel. Instinctively he dived but some of the .303 rounds impacted into his cockpit.
"DAMN!" his stick was barely responsive. He could barely get it to roll and turn. The engine was leaking oil and aviation fuel.
He could not go on any longer, Dietrich needed to withdraw.

[Le-Quebec]

"It's a sound plan, 15. In fact, back when old Kay was in charge, we actually pulled off something like that over Dunkirk some days before you arrived." Allistor replied, his respective birds from 610 Squadron gradually edging closer to the Gold Swords, "But there's something I ought to bring up; I mean, Jerry is going to be expecting a lot more than just one Hurricane, especially if we're bothering to come all the way across the Channel to say hi to him. You don't think that they'd be able to smell out the trap?"

Vegesack silently nodded as his old friend brought up McEwan, the grizzled commanding officer of Stagfoot before his chosen lieutenant Allistor filled in his place.

"You do have a point Tom, now that I think of it." said Vegesack, "Perhaps the better way, now that we have you and your people helping us, is to have you people tackle the enemy head on while -"

"You and your friends play bodyguard with the bloke in the Hurri. Sounds good to me. Let's start now before Jerry arrives for the party shall we? Stagfoot out."

With that, the loose formation of the Spitfires from 610 Squadron rapidly dispersed and dissipated into the pillow white of the clouds above. Vegesack could only take a deep breath and hope for the best as he switched the frequency to that of his own wingmen.

"Sword 15 to all Gold Swords, there's been a change of plans for the better fortune of our Hurricane friend: upon making contact with the enemy, we will let Stagfoot go forth first and tire out at least most of the Messers coming up against us. While the Germans are occupied with their Spits, they'll be less focused on simply ganging up on 16, and from there on it's the original set up. Do copy over."

[Morrdh]

He's gone mad. Charlie thought to himself, the German pilot could've been knocked out at least rather than brutally strangled and thus creating the rather urgent need for a replacement pilot. With the plane so badly damaged it was looking to be a one way ticket for anyone who took the controls, being a 'chute short didn't help matters either. Either way they would reach the Channel so-....Thats it!"

"Ye know," Charlie said out loud. "We could still double up on one of the 'chutes."

"Go with the lightest buggers we have and then have 'em bail out over the Channel, the water should provide a relatively soft landing but tis still risky. But it would leave a 'chute fer whoever stays at the controls to bail out after everyone else has."

---

Kaya didn't watch the Wellington all the way as Stanford brought the stricken plane down, she had other more pressing concerns to deal with. She might had left bailing out a tad too late as the ground was seemingly coming up a tad faster than she'd expected, the 'chute was slowing her down but it might had been opened at a lower altitude than was ideal. All she could do was braced herself as she came down towards the ground, her foot landing first followed by a crack and a sudden sharp pain in her ankle.

[The Two Jerseys]

Overhearing the discussion—nay, dust-up—in the cockpit, Talbot pulled himself to his feet and staggered to the cockpit door.

“I hate to interrupt your party,” he said, leaning on the bulkhead to prop himself up, “but if we’re picking who gets to be the odd man out, why don’t you look at some cold, hard facts. One, if I hit the silk solo, there’s no guarantee that I’ll be able to pop the chute with my left hand. Two, if I share a chute with someone, if it doesn’t work then both of us are dead. Three, regardless of what happens, if I land in the drink without a Mae West I’m finished. Face it, the odds just aren’t in my favor, so if it’s a sure thing that I’ll buy the farm then I might as well stay here and let the rest of you save yourselves. And maybe, just maybe, I might get lucky and put this thing down soft enough that it won’t kill me!”

[Goram]

Stanford sat in the back of the Austin K2 ambulance, as a nurse fussed over the deep gash in his forehead. She had given the pilot a less than concentrated dose of morphine, for the pain that was certain to be present whilst she went about her business with the needle and threat. Whilst the drug had certainly deadened the pain, it had deadened his mind as well.

The nurse attempted some idle conversation, as she tugged and pulled the thread through Stanford's rapidly closing wound, and the pilot replied in turn. However, his mind was not on the conversation. Rather, he couldn't take his eyes of the blanketed form of the wireless operator. He hadn't even had time to memorise the man's face, he barely knew his name. Yet, his death seemed to be hitting him harder than anyone else's. He supposed that this was the first time anyone under his direct command had been killed, and in a way he felt responsible. What if it had been Noble, or Charlie? What if had been Kaya? What if it was one of them lying under the white blanket, on a stretcher about to be carried by two AC1's to the station morgue?

Stanford tried desperately hard to get the thought out of his head. He supposed that the morphine had made his mind somewhat dull - he was usually so good at removing the prospect of death from his mind. He'd seen enough men, friends even, die and the prospect had not bothered him particularly. The concept was locked away in the recesses of his brain, never to be opened. Despite that, it seemed that the death of this completely inconsequential Sergeant was effecting him more than the bombing of his street. More even than the telegram that brought the news that David had been killed, all those months ago.

There you are, Flying Officer!

A voice, an overly happy voice he thought spoke by his ear, but he didn't register the words. They seemed to be nothing but a buzzing in his ear.

"Pardon?"

Stanford managed to mumble out, still in a half trance

I said: there you are, Flying Officer. Honestly, I don't know -

She fussed at him

You fly boys, always with your head in the clouds

Stanford shot an icy glare at her. He didn't know why but the jovial mood of the nurse was irritating him to the point of rage. The fog that seemed to be clouding his mind was rolling back, replaced only by anger. He gritted his teeth, balled his fist and thanked the nurse as kindly as he could, before hopping off the ambulance and striding across the airfield, in order to find a telephone. As he walked, the nurse yelled warnings after him. It was her professional opinion that he ought not to be walking anywhere in his "condition".

condition

Stanford chuckled inwardly. What did she know about his condition. What did anyone know about him? He concluded that no one at No. 319 knew very much about him. They didn't know about the deaths that surrounded him, they didn't know how he harboured a singular hatred for the Germans and they certainly didn't know the immense sense of revenge that killing the bastards gave him. Not that was a bad thing in his mind, far from it. The more his comrades in arms, particularly Kaya, knew the better. His mindset had alienated him at Hornchurch, by the time he left he hadn't a friend left on the squadron. Perhaps it would be the same by the time he left this unit.

As he walked, fuming, he took his pipe from his jacket pocket. The smoke always had a calming effect - he hoped it would now. Without even registering the process, he struck a match and lit the wooden pipe, smoking deeply as he did so. He placed one foot in front of the other on the soft ground. There had been a frost last night and though it hadn't rained, the water from the now melted ice had seeped into the soil. The light mud clung to Stanford's boots - just one more thing he'd have to worry about, but later, he thought. For now, he had to find a telephone.

He stepped into Ops and spoke a WAAF, who happened to be stepping out. He asked her where he might find a telephone, introducing himself as the fellow who'd had the audacity to crash land on their airbase. She chuckled at him, before directing him to follow her. She led him through the main building of the station, chatting idly as she did so, before showing him to a vacant office. On the desk, sat a black telephone.

Stanford picked up the receiver.

"Hello Operator? Could you please connect me to Tempsford three-three-three."

Connecting you now, sir

the voice came from the other end...