Excalibur Squadron OOC Thread

[The balkens]

Yea next part of my back story is inbound. Expect it tomorrow.
(when Michael met Alexis... )

[The Two Jerseys]

Jesus, you work pretty fast, Talbot. I'm still about halfway through the first part of the Page Saga. Hopefully, I can get it posted tonight.
And if FI doesn't respond by tomorrow, I'm just going to assume everything's A-OK and move the plot along. We've been effectively stalled for 2 whole days now.

These were all originally from the Tempsford and Mordred threads, I'm just reposting them here since it's a broad story arc and we'll be seeing a lot more of some of these characters in the future.

[Altito Asmoro]

Edward was in the airfield, that night, when he saw 6 drunken criminals he frequently saw on newspapers approached him. Before long, they fight Edward, and managed to beat him.

However, as soon as Edward broker free, he pulled out his hidden pistol, and shot the men, killed them. Fear for court-martial, he dumped the bodies into the river, along with the pistol.

6 weeks later, Edward saw a newspaper with headline:

"6 Criminals killed, 1 confirmed to be the wanted criminal and mercenary, Howard Jameson. Rumored to be under the command of Akbar Al Imran."

Edward knew, that this was turning into a family business, with his former mercenary squad...

1 Year before his transfer to the Excalibur Squadron

TK, have you check this yet? This is the first side story that will cover up from this incident, to the destruction of the bar.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Edward was in the airfield, that night, when he saw 6 drunken criminals he frequently saw on newspapers approached him. Before long, they fight Edward, and managed to beat him.

However, as soon as Edward broker free, he pulled out his hidden pistol, and shot the men, killed them. Fear for court-martial, he dumped the bodies into the river, along with the pistol.

6 weeks later, Edward saw a newspaper with headline:

"6 Criminals killed, 1 confirmed to be the wanted criminal and mercenary, Howard Jameson. Rumored to be under the command of Akbar Al Imran."

Edward knew, that this was turning into a family business, with his former mercenary squad...

1 Year before his transfer to the Excalibur Squadron

TK, have you check this yet? This is the first side story that will cover up from this incident, to the destruction of the bar.

Must've not seen it in the shuffle.
I thought Abdullah was the mercenary one?
Also, this is still not very illuminating to this whole conflict if it's meant to be an origin story.
I'll put it up with mine and TJ's tomorrow.

Jesus, you work pretty fast, Talbot. I'm still about halfway through the first part of the Page Saga. Hopefully, I can get it posted tonight.
And if FI doesn't respond by tomorrow, I'm just going to assume everything's A-OK and move the plot along. We've been effectively stalled for 2 whole days now.

These were all originally from the Tempsford and Mordred threads, I'm just reposting them here since it's a broad story arc and we'll be seeing a lot more of some of these characters in the future.

Right, I remember quite a few of these. But am I wrong, or are you modifying them a little bit? they seem kinda different.

Anyway, here's a story for ya!

(LINK)
January 6th, 1937
Aboard the SS Gleneagle
Near the Eastern Spanish Coast
1831 hours Local Time

After days of uncomfortable, confined, cramped travel, it was always a reliable relief for a ship's crew and passengers to sight their destination inbound on the horizon. And the Gleneagle's accommodations were fairly spartan, even by the standard of improvised troopships, amplifying the anticipation of leaving for many. It was an ugly, rusting old boat - a tramp steamer that had clearly been kept in service for far too long, its engines wheezing and creaking, and its machinery clearly on its last legs, the sunset doing nothing to make it look any more . To send it on such a potentially dangerous mission verged on utter folly - aside from the real possibility of a serious breakdown, it was, after all, being sent into a warzone.

For the Gleneagle's mission was delivery of a group of volunteers to the embattled city of Valencia. These volunteers were fighting men, who were slated to join the Republican side of the conflict against the Nationalists, led by Franco and supported by international fascism. They were a diverse lot, to a point. They spoke English with many accents, but the commonality was that they all came from various corners of the British Empire. Englishmen, Scotsmen, Irish, Canadians, Afrikaners, Aussies...the list went on. Many were leftists, a considerable number of those were Communists. Some were effectively mercenaries, looking to make money doing the one thing they knew how best to do. And some were just...looking for adventure.

In the cramped holds, filled to the bursting point with men, their bags, and bunks, the men were more restless than ever. They knew that they were getting close to the end of their journey (and closer to combat), and tensions were running high. Many of the men worked this off by pacing relentlessly, constant gambling, or occasional fights, making the hold not exactly dissimilar to the classic conception of a rowdy dockside bar.

One man stood apart from the rest, next to one of the few open portholes in the hold, staring out at the approaching landscape. He didn't look quite like the rest - he was clearly no veteran, with scruffy, longish light-brown hair, several days' worth of stubble, and a youthful face that clearly hadn't seen war before. He was wiry rather than muscled, and wore a faded RAF dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the insignias removed.

He was also absolutely terrified.

He'd quit the RAF several months prior - well, not really quit, but deliberately let his enlistment run out for the specific purpose of joining the Republicans. He didn't do it because he was a Communist (which he wasn't), or because he had some pressing ideological need to fight, or even because he liked killing or anything like that. He'd decided to join because...why, again?

Fascism had to be stopped? Spain was where the fight was? It was better than sitting around at Duxford while the bomber boys mocked us for being antiques? Nothing was holding him down at home?

He wasn't sure. All those explanations melded together in his mind into a confused mass of bitterness at the inactivity and slowness of the RAF, and fear of missing out on something important. And now, he had drifted into a real, honest-to-God war, with nothing but his wits to aid him. No RAF backing him up. No home to go back to. Not so much "quality equipment" so much as "whatever equipment was there to use". Surrounded by fighters who were from almost every country imaginable, each often part of sub-movements or supra-movements with their own agendas that could come apart at the seams seemingly at any minute. And fighting for a side composed almost entirely of those individual movements with little to hold them together, beyond that they were against the Fascists. Was that enough to win, really?

He was reminded of the holster chafing his leg as he sat down, and smiled slightly. Well, not just my wits. The one real piece of useful equipment he'd managed to sneak along with him, the old family revolver, a Webley MK.IV. He'd never actually fired it in action before, but he had plenty of ammo for it in his bag, and was sure he'd be ready if he ever got into actual close shooting combat with the enemy. He remembered his father pressing it on him when he went to enlist in the RAF. He'd managed to keep it ever since then.

"Oi. You there."

The man spun, coming face-to-chest with a towering man with a huge red beard and sideburns, his eyes bloodshot and his breath reeking of alcohol.
"You're one of the pilots, ain't ye?"

The man hurriedly saluted. "Y-yes, sir."

The other man held up his hand. "No need to call me sir. We're all equal here, Comrade, at least until we get our arses on land." He let out a laugh at that. "However, the Captain - there's real rank for you, eh? - wants to see you up top, at the stern. Ye pilots are leaving separate from us ground-pounders."

"Understood. Thank you, Mr...?"
The huge man grinned, revealing browned, crooked teeth. "Grant, flyboy. Call me Grant."
"Thank you, Mr. Grant. You can call me Page."
The man mimed tipping a nonexistent hat. "Best get up there then, Page."

Former RAF Lieutenant Robert John Page grabbed his duffel bag (already packed at his feet), and carefully navigated his way through the hold. He staggered up the ramp, swaying with the ship, and finally emerged, nearly toppling over, onto the deck. He made his way to the stern, noting how beautiful it was outside: the sun was going down, framing Valencia to their west in glowing rays of light, making the water look like fire. He saw a line of men standing at the rear of the boat - that must be them - and as the boat made its final approach into the harbor and to dock, Page nonchalantly slotted himself into the group.

The man at the front, wearing a Spanish Army uniform with a Captain's insignia, looked him up and down.

"You must be Lieutenant Page. Very well, then we can begin."

He cleared his throat. Page noticed he seemed as Anglo as them in speech and looks - certainly an International Brigade officer. As he spoke, he paced in front of the line of men.

"Boys, I'm Captain Henry Wallace, of the British Battalion of the Republican International Brigades, under the auspices of the Popular Front. More specifically, the Captain of the First Squadron of the British Battalion's organic air support. And you men are to be the First Squadron."

He paused dramatically, as each of the men, Page included, tried to size up the men on their sides.

"I know you men come from every corner of the Empire. I know many of you fight for nothing more than money. I know you all have different training and experience in terms of flight and flight combat. I know that in all likelihood, those of you who are fighting for ideology are probably not fighting for the same ideology as the man next to you. Regardless, you're here now. You have volunteered to be a part of something greater than yourselves, and regardless of your ideology or intent, you will have come to safeguard the Spanish people from fascism and tyranny. That, at least, is laudable.

"I will not lie to you. The path ahead will be difficult. The Nationalists enjoy great support from Italy and Germany. Their planes may be better, on average. They may have more planes, on average. They may hold more ground than we do. No matter. We will simply be better pilots. We must triumph over the fascists in our training, if we can't triumph in numbers or equipment. I intend to train you to your utmost, but this must also come from you as well. You must trust in the man next to you, to have faith in him, and to defend him and count on that he will defend you as well. Only through this esprit de corps can we hope to be the best we can be."

The boat pulled into the harbor. As Wallace spoke, bosuns moved besides the group, throwing over ropes and beginning to set out the gangplanks.
"We will speak more on this when we arrive at our air station. Until then-"
He was cut off by the BOOM of the metal gangplank striking down on the pier. Wallace moved to the gangplank entryway, motioning for the men to follow him. He led the way down, and when he reached the pier, he turned to face the men behind him, and saluted.
"-welcome to the war, boys. Follow me, our transport is close by."
Page, stuck near the back of the group, shook his head. What have I gotten myself into?

[The Two Jerseys]

Right, I remember quite a few of these. But am I wrong, or are you modifying them a little bit? they seem kinda different.

It's probably because I'm dividing the originals into smaller parts; for example, Parts 6-8 were originally one post.

Speaking of Part 8...

The Talbot Files, Part VIII: Just a Few Angry Words

18 August 1940
RAF Hospital Uxbridge
0600 hours

“What is the meaning of this!”
The shrill yell woke Talbot with a jolt, and he heard the sound of something falling and a chair sliding across the floor. He looked to the side of the bed and realized what happened: Goggles Gibson, the night nurse, had fallen asleep in the chair next to his bed and had now fallen out of the chair due to this sudden rude awakening. He heard Goggles whispering to him: “What the devil? You were supposed to wake me!”

“I fell asleep! Those painkillers must have made my drowsy!”

Goggles got up. “Matron, I can explain…”

“I don’t want your excuses!” roared the Matron. “Get back to your quarters, I’ll deal with you later!”

“Yes, Matron,” she replied; grabbing her glasses from the desk, she whispered, “She’s really angry now, go do your thing,” to Talbot, who nodded back in acknowledgement. As Goggles cleared out, the Matron turned her wrath on Talbot. “You’ve outdone yourself this time! How dare you compel my nurses to neglect their duties! I don’t even want to know what was going on in here last night!” She glared at Goggles. “I knew this one was untrustworthy to begin with, but to find out she has whorish tendencies as well!”

Talbot flipped out. “You listen to me!” he yelled. “I have no problem putting up with your bullshit! Hell, the way I’ve been behaving around here I deserve it! But the way you treat Miss Gibson is completely out of line! Trust me, she told me the whole story! Now you go calling her a whore? Well, let me tell you something: you can call her a whore all you want, but that doesn’t change the fact that you are thirty-two, short, fat, and ugly! Face it, no man will ever love you, and you will die alone and unloved! Now I have had it with your attitude, so just fuck off!”

The Matron, at a loss for a comeback, simply slammed the door on him. Talbot hopped out of bed and got dressed, making certain his .38 Special was within easy reach; he was getting out of this hospital one way or another.

The door opened, and a doctor entered followed by a nurse with a wheelchair. “Mister Talbot,” he said, “I understand you’re anxious to get back to fighting the Jerries. If you just give us a few minutes to check your leg and take a few x-rays, we can have you back with your squadron this afternoon.”

Talbot hobbled over to the bed. “Make it quick, doc!” he said.

And that's all, folks...for now.

[The balkens]

2 days after arrival, Dover, england.

"where did you find him?" michael could hear voices nearby.
"i found him on the beach, he was just lying there."a young voice replied
"hes most likely a survivor of a shipwreck, royal navy found a lot of wreckage and bodies along the shoreline. nurse Macgregor?" the doctor turned to his assistant.
"yes, doctor?"
"keep an eye on him, i have to attend to another patient."
the nurse nodded and the doctor as well as the boy left.
michael opened his left eye to see what the nurse looked like.
"hello" he said quietly.
macgregor was startled by him being awake suddenly.
"sorry, i didn't mean to scare you." Michael sat up in his bed and put is hands behind his head.
"it's alright, may i get your name?" Alexis had a paper and clipboard in hand.
"Micheal Foulke Zilorski. i'm guessing you want my birth date, nationality, and rank?"
"uh, rank? you're in the military?" alexis was confused.
"polish air force, i got out of there after the Germans bombed Warsaw to pieces." Michael looked down as he remembered the events of the past 3 weeks.
"i'm so sorry, can i get your birth date?" Alexis asked politely
"sure, August eleventh, 1919." Michael was struck by how beautiful she was.
"can i get your name?" he smiled as he looked up at her.
"Alexis Macgregor."
"Scottish?"
"why yes, i used to have the accent but i lived down here for most of my life, so i guess i lost it." the both of them snickered as alexis sat down in a chair.
"so Alexis, how beat up was i?" michael relaxed as he lied back down.
"you weren't the worst shipwreck survivor I've seen but you were torn up, what happened?"
"some u-boat attacked i reckon. the ship, i guess it was flying a British or a french flag. i guess my luck ran out." michael smiled at her to show that he was harmless.
"i guess your still lucky, apparently you're the only one living out of the whole thing. you speak English perfectly, did anyone teach you over there?" she was surprised by his grammar, immigrants often don't speak this well of the language.
"my mother's Irish, she taught me so i could speak to my aunt Clara, she lives in Dublin." Michael decided not to mention the fact she passed away.
the two talked for hours, when Alexis's shift came to an end, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.
"good night, see you tomorrow."
as she walked out, michael cocked his head to get a good look at her back side.
"i think me and Britain are gonna get along great."
he closed his eyes and slowly drifted to sleep.

not really "bloodstained" i know but hey.....everyone has to lighten up right?

[The Tiger Kingdom]

OK, think I finally got caught up with everyone's stories. I'm aiming to make Forging the Sword a 10 or 12-parter, so keep an eye out for it.

[Calizorinstan]

Hey Tiger, great job. I don't mea to be picky, but you haven't linked Pats dossier yet.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Hey Tiger, great job. I don't mea to be picky, but you haven't linked Pats dossier yet.

That's the weird thing: I was looking for it, but I couldn't find it on here for some reason. I KNEW you made one, though.
Guess I better look through again.
EDIT: Found it, linking now.

[Calizorinstan]

I guess we just skip things over a bit, thanks Tiger.. I'm trying fto figure out how I am going to handle the Pat-David shuffle when Pat transfers. Then I'll have to make up another dossier, sigh... Then I will make another love interest for David I suppose...

[The Tiger Kingdom]

And...I have a midterm tomorrow. Shit.
Well, I probably won't be posting tonight, but TOMORROW NIGHT, I SWEAR, WE WILL MOVE INTO THE DESERT!

[The balkens]

krebs "mein führer.....Steiner......"
Jodl "Steiner reports that tiger will likely not post tonight. He has mid-terms tomorrow."
(hitler takes off glasses)
Hitler "those who don't enjoy Excalibur squadron, leave the room."
(all but jodl, keitel, krebs and burgdoff leave the the room. Hitler looks around."
Hitler " I can't believe my ears! How dare that college make him delay another post! I am just as outraged as I was when micheal set fire to the bunker.
I just had Enough of these delays! If there is one more delay, i don't know what I will do!"
Burgdoff "mien führer, I think a mid-term is much more important then an RP."
Hitler "shut your boozing mouth! I love excalibur squadron!"
Burgdoff "mein führer, tigers education is very important."
Hitler "that damned college of his Is the bane of my existence!
(slams pencil on table) what an epic failure of a school!"
(hitler sits back down)
"I can't believe this. Excalibur RPs are of top quality, they should be in the NS hall of fame.
Unlike that stupid super hero high crap! And what is this elven bullshit! I'd rather write an twilight RP then be a part of that!"

(DISCLAIMER that rant parody does not represent my views on tigers school, good luck man!)

[Lancearc]

I actually have some time in the near future.

Will probably try to finish up the dossier (or at least what I can) and write a story of the exploits of little 10 year old Monroe

[Lancearc]

I present the first Monroe story, Origins.
Spelling errors and shorter than originally intended, but I did this on a phone.

Bray family farm
February 2, 1927
Outside of Dublin, Ireland

The dirt strip in between fields of potatoes that served as the runway for a young Monroe Bray's uncle's crop duster biplane was loud with the noise of the plabe's engine. Monroe and his visiting cousin, Jeremy, sat on the edge of the runway, watching as the machine rumbled down the strip of dirt and into the air, above the fields. It was a relatively new practice, crop dusting, having come from the United States. Planes were used though, and that was enough to catch a young aspiring pilot's eye. His uncle also used his craft for aerial courier duties, and often spoke to his nephew about flying. He was promised that as soon as he was old enough, he would be allowed to fly.

"Uncle O'Conor said that he would let me fly 'is plane when I was old enough!" Monroe boasted with a grin, the far too large pilot's cap falling over his eyes, covered with the goggles that were attached. He pushed the leather cap back over his brow, still grinning widely.

"You don't know how'ta fly it!" Jeremy countered, shaking his head as they watched the machine overhead. "You can't even drive'a wagon, how'd'ya know how'ta fly a flyin' plane?" Jeremy asked.

"You wanna bet I can't fly 'is plane?" Monroe said, a cocky tone in his voice. "They don't call me the Red Baron f'r nothin'!" Monroe boasted once again.

"Who's they?" Jeremy shot back.

"Oh, shut up!" Monroe said, pushing Jeremy and laughing as he dashed off, his cousin pursuing him towards the farm house.

---

The next day, the crop dusting plane sat on the end of the runway. It wasn't going to fly, but Uncle O'Conor always kept it there just in case. Monroe and Jeremy crouched in the fields, looking at it from afar. "I'll show you who c'n fly a flyin' plane..." Monroe muttered, glancing at Jeremy. The two children shot forward, racing towards the aircraft. They both scampered u the wings, falling over themselves to get into the cockpit. Monroe landed upside down on his head in the pilot's seat, righting himsf quickly and pulling the goggles of his pilot's ca over his eyes. The layout of the early aircraft was simple, and Monroe had seen his uncle do it before.

Monroe started the engine, the propellor beginning to turn slowly. Jeremy sat in the back, looking over the seat into the cockpit. "What're you doin'?" Jeremy asked, somewhat worried. "I'm gonna fly up into the air!" Monroe announced excitedly. The plane began to roll forward, down the dirt strip. It was bumpy, but Monroe had seen his uncle fly. He throttled up and pulled backwards on the controls, Jeremy in the back gaping in amazement. This excitement lasted for about seven minutes, Monroe having the time of his life, before Jeremy pointed something out on the ground.

"I think I can see your mum!" Jeremy shouted. Mine or froze, sweat beading his face and worry in his voice.

"Uh...okay, don't worry... I'll...I'll just land.." he said, chuckling nervously. "Do you know how to land a plane?" Monroe asked. Jeremy was scared out if his mind.

"You don't know how'ta land?! We'll fly forever, we'll never get in the ground again, what do we do?!"

"I don't know!" Monroe replied, similar worry leaking into his voice. "Uh..I'll just slow down, and then...I'll just think of something!" Monroe said. He used the throttle controls his uncle had shown him to slow the plane, until it was just barely gliding. He continued to fly in circles above his home, before he realized they were losing altitude.

"We're gonna crash, find the runway!" Jeremy shouted. "I'm tryin'!" Monroe shouted. It seemed no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't steer the plane in the direction if the runway. "I...I...we're gonna crash in Mr. McCelon's field!" Monroe worriedly said. The plane was now gliding downwards, slowly. It glided down, and when it touched the ground and bounced back up, the children began screaming. It came back down, the propellor still spinning slowly. It continued rolling through the field, before it came to a stop after bumping into a grove of trees. The impacted dented the plane, but due to the low speed glide landing the boys seemed unharmed. The landing had frightened many sheep, and their cries faded as they ran away.

Mr. McCelon came running out into his field, shouting. "What the bloody 'ell is going on!" the sheep farmer shouted. Monroe peaked over the cockpit.

"Um...h..hi, Mr. McCelon" Monroe said, nervously.

"I'm getting your family out here right now, ya lil' trouble maker!" Mr. McCelon shouted, before running back to his house.

Monroe shrunk back into the cockpit, pulling his pilot's cap over his eyes. "Oh no..." he said, shaking his head.

[Felkland]

June 14th 1921
Rotterdam, Netherlands

"Watch out!" Robin spun round in an instant to see a rather large lorry barrelling down the street towards him. He leapt out of the way, landing hard on his shoulder. His yelp of pain was masked by the roar of the engine. On of the other boys he had been playing with, a boy named Ruud, came upto Robin as he lay on the ground.
"You were lucky there, Leopold!" Robin leapt to his feet, instantly angry.
"MY...NAME...IS...ROBIN!" He yelled, causing great mirth for his friends.
"Jeez, man, take a joke!" But Robin couldn't just take a joke like that. For all of his 7 years of life, Robin had been bombarded with slurs about his Belgian heritage. He had been called everything from Leopold to Poriot and everything in between. He looked up, and saw his friends run off in the opposite direction. He chased after them through the crowded city streets,eventually catching them at the docks. They disappeared behind a packing crate.mwe Robin looked round, there was no one there. Suddenly, Robin felt someone lift him into the air. He cried out, kicking and flailing his arms. Ruud had picked him up, and was carrying him to the railings. Below law the Bay of Rotterdam, and several rocks.
"Let's see if little Poldi can swim!" Robin caught Ruud with a swift kick to the testicles, and found himself fall. Ruud got up, angrier than Robin had ever seen him. He chased Robin for about a hundred yards before Robin realised he was no longer in danger. He turned around, and saw that Ruud had disappeared. A yell of "HELP!" Brought him over to the railings. Ruud had slipped,NAND was barely gripping onto the concrete. Robin stretched out a hand, but couldn't quite reach.
"Ruud, bring your hand up to meet mine!" Ruud did so. Suddenly, his other hand slipped. Robin tried to catch his other, but he missed by an inch. Ruud fell the 20 feet to the water and rocks below, screaming the whole way down. He hit his head, then disappeared beneath the water.

"He slipped. It was an accident." Robin repeated this to everyone: his friends, Ruuds parents, the police and his parents, even as they bundled him into the car and packed him off to his uncle's farm in Belgium.

He would never see his parents again.

[Altito Asmoro]

TK, have you check this yet? This is the first side story that will cover up from this incident, to the destruction of the bar.

Must've not seen it in the shuffle.
I thought Abdullah was the mercenary one?
Also, this is still not very illuminating to this whole conflict if it's meant to be an origin story.
I'll put it up with mine and TJ's tomorrow.

These were all originally from the Tempsford and Mordred threads, I'm just reposting them here since it's a broad story arc and we'll be seeing a lot more of some of these characters in the future.

Right, I remember quite a few of these. But am I wrong, or are you modifying them a little bit? they seem kinda different.

Anyway, here's a story for ya!

January 6th, 1937
Aboard the SS Gleneagle
Near the Eastern Spanish Coast
1831 hours Local Time

After days of uncomfortable, confined, cramped travel, it was always a reliable relief for a ship's crew and passengers to sight their destination inbound on the horizon. And the Gleneagle's accommodations were fairly spartan, even by the standard of improvised troopships, amplifying the anticipation of leaving for many. It was an ugly, rusting old boat - a tramp steamer that had clearly been kept in service for far too long, its engines wheezing and creaking, and its machinery clearly on its last legs, the sunset doing nothing to make it look any more . To send it on such a potentially dangerous mission verged on utter folly - aside from the real possibility of a serious breakdown, it was, after all, being sent into a warzone.

For the Gleneagle's mission was delivery of a group of volunteers to the embattled city of Valencia. These volunteers were fighting men, who were slated to join the Republican side of the conflict against the Nationalists, led by Franco and supported by international fascism. They were a diverse lot, to a point. They spoke English with many accents, but the commonality was that they all came from various corners of the British Empire. Englishmen, Scotsmen, Irish, Canadians, Afrikaners, Aussies...the list went on. Many were leftists, a considerable number of those were Communists. Some were effectively mercenaries, looking to make money doing the one thing they knew how best to do. And some were just...looking for adventure.

In the cramped holds, filled to the bursting point with men, their bags, and bunks, the men were more restless than ever. They knew that they were getting close to the end of their journey (and closer to combat), and tensions were running high. Many of the men worked this off by pacing relentlessly, constant gambling, or occasional fights, making the hold not exactly dissimilar to the classic conception of a rowdy dockside bar.

One man stood apart from the rest, next to one of the few open portholes in the hold, staring out at the approaching landscape. He didn't look quite like the rest - he was clearly no veteran, with scruffy, longish light-brown hair, several days' worth of stubble, and a youthful face that clearly hadn't seen war before. He was wiry rather than muscled, and wore a faded RAF dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the insignias removed.

He was also absolutely terrified.

He'd quit the RAF several months prior - well, not really quit, but deliberately let his enlistment run out for the specific purpose of joining the Republicans. He didn't do it because he was a Communist (which he wasn't), or because he had some pressing ideological need to fight, or even because he liked killing or anything like that. He'd decided to join because...why, again?

Fascism had to be stopped? Spain was where the fight was? It was better than sitting around at Duxford while the bomber boys mocked us for being antiques? Nothing was holding him down at home?

He wasn't sure. All those explanations melded together in his mind into a confused mass of bitterness at the inactivity and slowness of the RAF, and fear of missing out on something important. And now, he had drifted into a real, honest-to-God war, with nothing but his wits to aid him. No RAF backing him up. No home to go back to. Not so much "quality equipment" so much as "whatever equipment was there to use". Surrounded by fighters who were from almost every country imaginable, each often part of sub-movements or supra-movements with their own agendas that could come apart at the seams seemingly at any minute. And fighting for a side composed almost entirely of those individual movements with little to hold them together, beyond that they were against the Fascists. Was that enough to win, really?

He was reminded of the holster chafing his leg as he sat down, and smiled slightly. Well, not just my wits. The one real piece of useful equipment he'd managed to sneak along with him, the old family revolver, a Webley MK.IV. He'd never actually fired it in action before, but he had plenty of ammo for it in his bag, and was sure he'd be ready if he ever got into actual close shooting combat with the enemy. He remembered his father pressing it on him when he went to enlist in the RAF. He'd managed to keep it ever since then.

"Oi. You there."

The man spun, coming face-to-chest with a towering man with a huge red beard and sideburns, his eyes bloodshot and his breath reeking of alcohol.
"You're one of the pilots, ain't ye?"

The man hurriedly saluted. "Y-yes, sir."

The other man held up his hand. "No need to call me sir. We're all equal here, Comrade, at least until we get our arses on land." He let out a laugh at that. "However, the Captain - there's real rank for you, eh? - wants to see you up top, at the stern. Ye pilots are leaving separate from us ground-pounders."

"Understood. Thank you, Mr...?"
The huge man grinned, revealing browned, crooked teeth. "Grant, flyboy. Call me Grant."
"Thank you, Mr. Grant. You can call me Page."
The man mimed tipping a nonexistent hat. "Best get up there then, Page."

Former RAF Lieutenant Robert John Page grabbed his duffel bag (already packed at his feet), and carefully navigated his way through the hold. He staggered up the ramp, swaying with the ship, and finally emerged, nearly toppling over, onto the deck. He made his way to the stern, noting how beautiful it was outside: the sun was going down, framing Valencia to their west in glowing rays of light, making the water look like fire. He saw a line of men standing at the rear of the boat - that must be them - and as the boat made its final approach into the harbor and to dock, Page nonchalantly slotted himself into the group.

The man at the front, wearing a Spanish Army uniform with a Captain's insignia, looked him up and down.

"You must be Lieutenant Page. Very well, then we can begin."

He cleared his throat. Page noticed he seemed as Anglo as them in speech and looks - certainly an International Brigade officer. As he spoke, he paced in front of the line of men.

"Boys, I'm Captain Henry Wallace, of the British Battalion of the Republican International Brigades, under the auspices of the Popular Front. More specifically, the Captain of the First Squadron of the British Battalion's organic air support. And you men are to be the First Squadron."

He paused dramatically, as each of the men, Page included, tried to size up the men on their sides.

"I know you men come from every corner of the Empire. I know many of you fight for nothing more than money. I know you all have different training and experience in terms of flight and flight combat. I know that in all likelihood, those of you who are fighting for ideology are probably not fighting for the same ideology as the man next to you. Regardless, you're here now. You have volunteered to be a part of something greater than yourselves, and regardless of your ideology or intent, you will have come to safeguard the Spanish people from fascism and tyranny. That, at least, is laudable.

"I will not lie to you. The path ahead will be difficult. The Nationalists enjoy great support from Italy and Germany. Their planes may be better, on average. They may have more planes, on average. They may hold more ground than we do. No matter. We will simply be better pilots. We must triumph over the fascists in our training, if we can't triumph in numbers or equipment. I intend to train you to your utmost, but this must also come from you as well. You must trust in the man next to you, to have faith in him, and to defend him and count on that he will defend you as well. Only through this esprit de corps can we hope to be the best we can be."

The boat pulled into the harbor. As Wallace spoke, bosuns moved besides the group, throwing over ropes and beginning to set out the gangplanks.
"We will speak more on this when we arrive at our air station. Until then-"
He was cut off by the BOOM of the metal gangplank striking down on the pier. Wallace moved to the gangplank entryway, motioning for the men to follow him. He led the way down, and when he reached the pier, he turned to face the men behind him, and saluted.
"-welcome to the war, boys. Follow me, our transport is close by."
Page, stuck near the back of the group, shook his head. What have I gotten myself into?

It's one of the side stories. Edward was a former captain in the mercenary, the same mercenary group where Abdullah and his sworn brothers in.

[Altito Asmoro]

June 14th 1921
Rotterdam, Netherlands

"Watch out!" Robin spun round in an instant to see a rather large lorry barrelling down the street towards him. He leapt out of the way, landing hard on his shoulder. His yelp of pain was masked by the roar of the engine. On of the other boys he had been playing with, a boy named Ruud, came upto Robin as he lay on the ground.
"You were lucky there, Leopold!" Robin leapt to his feet, instantly angry.
"MY...NAME...IS...ROBIN!" He yelled, causing great mirth for his friends.
"Jeez, man, take a joke!" But Robin couldn't just take a joke like that. For all of his 7 years of life, Robin had been bombarded with slurs about his Belgian heritage. He had been called everything from Leopold to Poriot and everything in between. He looked up, and saw his friends run off in the opposite direction. He chased after them through the crowded city streets,eventually catching them at the docks. They disappeared behind a packing crate.mwe Robin looked round, there was no one there. Suddenly, Robin felt someone lift him into the air. He cried out, kicking and flailing his arms. Ruud had picked him up, and was carrying him to the railings. Below law the Bay of Rotterdam, and several rocks.
"Let's see if little Poldi can swim!" Robin caught Ruud with a swift kick to the testicles, and found himself fall. Ruud got up, angrier than Robin had ever seen him. He chased Robin for about a hundred yards before Robin realised he was no longer in danger. He turned around, and saw that Ruud had disappeared. A yell of "HELP!" Brought him over to the railings. Ruud had slipped,NAND was barely gripping onto the concrete. Robin stretched out a hand, but couldn't quite reach.
"Ruud, bring your hand up to meet mine!" Ruud did so. Suddenly, his other hand slipped. Robin tried to catch his other, but he missed by an inch. Ruud fell the 20 feet to the water and rocks below, screaming the whole way down. He hit his head, then disappeared beneath the water.

"He slipped. It was an accident." Robin repeated this to everyone: his friends, Ruuds parents, the police and his parents, even as they bundled him into the car and packed him off to his uncle's farm in Belgium.

He would never see his parents again.

Sad story, Cos.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

OKAY, finished midterms, homework, and getting everything ready for family shit this weekend.
So expect a new IC post tonight! Yay!
Also, working on Part 2 of Forging the Sword as well.

And that's some pretty heavy stuff, Cos(Felk?).

[Kouralia]

OKAY, finished midterms, homework, and getting everything ready for family shit this weekend.
So expect a new IC post tonight! Yay!
Also, working on Part 2 of Forging the Sword as well.

And that's some pretty heavy stuff, Cos(Felk?).

You better give me some bloody coffee reference: or I'm not writing part I of Smythe's back story tomorrow!

[The balkens]

OKAY, finished midterms, homework, and getting everything ready for family shit this weekend.
So expect a new IC post tonight! Yay!
Also, working on Part 2 of Forging the Sword as well.

And that's some pretty heavy stuff, Cos(Felk?).

yay!

[United Kingdom of Poland]

krebs "mein führer.....Steiner......"
Jodl "Steiner reports that tiger will likely not post tonight. He has mid-terms tomorrow."
(hitler takes off glasses)
Hitler "those who don't enjoy Excalibur squadron, leave the room."
(all but jodl, keitel, krebs and burgdoff leave the the room. Hitler looks around."
Hitler " I can't believe my ears! How dare that college make him delay another post! I am just as outraged as I was when micheal set fire to the bunker.
I just had Enough of these delays! If there is one more delay, i don't know what I will do!"
Burgdoff "mien führer, I think a mid-term is much more important then an RP."
Hitler "shut your boozing mouth! I love excalibur squadron!"
Burgdoff "mein führer, tigers education is very important."
Hitler "that damned college of his Is the bane of my existence!
(slams pencil on table) what an epic failure of a school!"
(hitler sits back down)
"I can't believe this. Excalibur RPs are of top quality, they should be in the NS hall of fame.
Unlike that stupid super hero high crap! And what is this elven bullshit! I'd rather write an twilight RP then be a part of that!"

(DISCLAIMER that rant parody does not represent my views on tigers school, good luck man!)

no one ever does that scene the way I want, probably because my version has a couple of russians walk in and hose the room down with their ppsh-41's.

[Kouralia]

krebs "mein führer.....Steiner......"
Jodl "Steiner reports that tiger will likely not post tonight. He has mid-terms tomorrow."
(hitler takes off glasses)
Hitler "those who don't enjoy Excalibur squadron, leave the room."
(all but jodl, keitel, krebs and burgdoff leave the the room. Hitler looks around."
Hitler " I can't believe my ears! How dare that college make him delay another post! I am just as outraged as I was when micheal set fire to the bunker.
I just had Enough of these delays! If there is one more delay, i don't know what I will do!"
Burgdoff "mien führer, I think a mid-term is much more important then an RP."
Hitler "shut your boozing mouth! I love excalibur squadron!"
Burgdoff "mein führer, tigers education is very important."
Hitler "that damned college of his Is the bane of my existence!
(slams pencil on table) what an epic failure of a school!"
(hitler sits back down)
"I can't believe this. Excalibur RPs are of top quality, they should be in the NS hall of fame.
Unlike that stupid super hero high crap! And what is this elven bullshit! I'd rather write an twilight RP then be a part of that!"

(DISCLAIMER that rant parody does not represent my views on tigers school, good luck man!)

no one ever does that scene the way I want, probably because my version has a couple of russians walk in and hose the room down with their ppsh-41's.

No one does it my way either. In my way a squad of SAS (one with an outrageous handle-bar 'tache) burst in and Lee ENfield/Sten/Bren the room down.

;-;

[United Kingdom of Poland]

no one ever does that scene the way I want, probably because my version has a couple of russians walk in and hose the room down with their ppsh-41's.

No one does it my way either. In my way a squad of SAS (one with an outrageous handle-bar 'tache) burst in and Lee ENfield/Sten/Bren the room down.

;-;

at least mine could have happened.
how about this an american, a brit, and a russian all walk in and hose the place with their respective SMg's (the thompson fitted with a 100rd drum mag of course)

[The Two Jerseys]

No one does it my way either. In my way a squad of SAS (one with an outrageous handle-bar 'tache) burst in and Lee ENfield/Sten/Bren the room down.

;-;

at least mine could have happened.
how about this an american, a brit, and a russian all walk in and hose the place with their respective SMg's (the thompson fitted with a 100rd drum mag of course)

Nah, the American entry would be Rambo carrying a water-cooled M1917 with 200-round belts and 2 dozen grenades slung over his shoulders and John McClane with an M16 and an Uzi head-butting the door down and beating everyone in the Fuhrerbunker to death in hand-to-hand combat, then walking away as the bunker explodes behind them, because it's Hollywood, fuck historical accuracy! 'MURRICA!

...Directed by Michael Bay.

[The balkens]

I think we just found the plot for inglorious bastards 2: hitler had a clone.