Excalibur Squadron OOC Thread

[Monfrox]

That's not even a relevant analogy, you idiot.

*Dr. Phil voice*
Hey now.

Let's all calm down. Nobody's an idiot. We just have differing opinions on nation puppetry.

And that's fine.

How about no?

[The Tiger Kingdom]

*Dr. Phil voice*
Hey now.

Let's all calm down. Nobody's an idiot. We just have differing opinions on nation puppetry.

And that's fine.

How about no?

Monfrox, you forget who you're speaking to.

In this place, I am God.

You will obey.

Or plagues come down.

So let's all take a chilly pill.

[Monfrox]

How about no?

Monfrox, you forget who you're speaking to.

In this place, I am God.

You will obey.

Or plagues come down.

So let's all take a chilly pill.

*curls up at feet*

But it's my special day...

*sad eyes*

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Monfrox, you forget who you're speaking to.

In this place, I am God.

You will obey.

Or plagues come down.

So let's all take a chilly pill.

*curls up at feet*

But it's my special day...

*sad eyes*

Monfrox, you forget.

Every day is a special day on my RP threads, which I created of my own flesh, blood, and typing fingers.

Reflect upon that.

Now, I gotta finish a damn one-shot.

[Monfrox]

*curls up at feet*

But it's my special day...

*sad eyes*

Monfrox, you forget.

Every day is a special day on my RP threads, which I created of my own flesh, blood, and typing fingers.

Reflect upon that.

Now, I gotta finish a damn one-shot.

Okay.....but I am 19 now, just so you know.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Monfrox, you forget.

Every day is a special day on my RP threads, which I created of my own flesh, blood, and typing fingers.

Reflect upon that.

Now, I gotta finish a damn one-shot.

Okay.....but I am 19 now, just so you know.

Ah, that is a special-er day than most! Happy birthday!
We're much closer in age than I thought.

[Britcan]

Yay! Birthday!

*fires party poppers*

[Morrdh]

Okay.....but I am 19 now, just so you know.

Happy Birthday and welcome to the first day of the rest of your life!

So...am I possibly the oldest (and baldest) round here at 27?

[Kherkov]

As for taking in part in this operation, I think I'll wait until the next one begins.

If that's what you want.

Yeah, I just want to be active, and exams are a week away. When the next one begins hopefully they'll be over or at least I will have gotten many out of the way.

[Kherkov]

Okay.....but I am 19 now, just so you know.

WOOOOOO!

[The Tiger Kingdom]

IC post tomorrow - had to get this done tonight instead, it's been hanging around my drafts page way, way too long.

And I've been quite a moron. I've reviewed all those old songs, looking for one that would fit for Page's theme, and it was staring me in the face the whole damn time - I quoted it in my nation's motto, FFS.
I think it fits.

21 April, 1937
2159 Hours
Somewhere in the Basque Country


They'd been observing the camp for several hours now, and Page was starting to feel the camp's layout was burned on his brain. The routines weren't that complex - a patrol passed into the base roughly every 45 minutes, with another departing in its place. The patrols seemed to be following the roads to the local hamlets and villages, keeping the paths clear on a route coming south to arrive at the HQ, then continuing south along the roadway after checking in. Each patrol included a barebones squad of eight armed soldiers, including an officer. The watchtower crews, each of them manning a machine-gun and a searchlight, switched out every two hours, with both the guns and the lights on mounted positions facing outwards. There was the central communications buildings, enlisted barracks, what were likely officer's barracks, a mess hall, and other outlying buildings that weren't so much in use. The base was staffed by a team of guards he'd estimate at around 24 strong at any given time. Occasionally, truck convoys rumbled through, carrying troops and supplies. The base also had a pair of AA guns, mounted in the east and west - German 88-millimeters, by the look of them. Clearly, they were almost unnecessary, as the Condor Legion 88s in the valley had successfully covered the main air approach route, hadn't they?

Page mentally shook himself away from thinking about the attack, the crash, and what had happened to him since. He could feel a sort of panicked haze at the edge of his mind, threatening to overwhelm his judgement in a blind, black shroud of fear. While he knew he couldn't let that happen, every few minutes a little bit of the haze irresistably crept into his mind. It formed a sum total of his reality that was nothing short of terrifying.

His friends probably thought he was dead. His family, with whom he'd barely managed to stay in contact with at all throughout the last few months, would no doubt soon come to see it that way too. Regardless of what he'd claimed in order to stay in action and be useful, he was barely walking, much less combat-capable. He was behind enemy lines with a team of partisans whose allegiances he couldn't be sure of. And he'd elected to choose the path of most resistance - assaulting the largest assemblage of Fascists in the area. He'd seen one of his friends, killed in front of his eyes, with another probably dead already. And he had no idea how to accomplish his mission.

His thoughts, despite his best efforts, drifted back to the horror of the execution. How Rawlinson had probably been pulled from the wreckage like an animal, brought in, and shot with even -

Wait...

An idea hit him like lightning. He shut his eyes as he tried to remember how the exact procedure happened of the pilot prisoners being dragged in. It was insane, impractical, probably simply impossible...but they had almost all the pieces right in front of them. And if it worked, they'd be in the heart of it - past the machine guns. He nearly laughed. As the minutes dragged on, he delved as deeply into the idea as he could, trying to plan it out and foresee any problems or weaknesses that might arise and found that despite a few hangups they'd have to deal with, the plan was basically sound. It even incorporated his injuries, so he could actually play to his strengths, such as they were.

After about a half-hour more of continued reconnaissance, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Seigner motioning him to pull back, behind the ridge from where they had come from. Wincing as he turned himself around, still flat on his belly, he crawled behind her until they were safely concealed from any potential observers in the enemy encampment below them. Seigner then rose into a crouched position, and crept forwards in a crouch (Page mirroring her movements), until they were safely behind the slope again. No cry rang out from below.

It was decidedly dark now, and Page had to be especially careful not to make a potentially dangerous misstep. This was complicated even further by the extent to which his mind was roiling as he mulled over his new plan even further. Perhaps he could volunteer his plan when they got back, if he got the opportunity.

A whisper emerged from in front of him. "So, what did you think?"
Page thought for a moment. "It looked like a pretty tough nut to crack."
"Certainement. I think if we make an attack on one central part of the fence, with some of us suppressing the towers, we might be able to get in with minimal losses." She sighed. "But we could easily all get mowed down if things go wrong."
"I think I may have a feasible alternative."
Another skeptical look. "Really."
"Yeah, I think that if we-"

She held up a hand to silence him. "Comrade, two things."
Page shut up obligingly.
"First, you have no ground combat experience. Second, you may very well have...well, for lack of a better word, banged your head up badly in your crash. It may be affecting your thinking."
She said it purely matter-of-factly, not underplaying it or making it insulting, but she was clearly not sanguine about the prospect of him strategizing their attack. Page was taken a bit aback, but wasn't really surprised. He halfheartedly chuckled to himself. "Is that all?"
"Yes."
He momentarily stumbled over a small hillock, nearly tripping. "Well, I can't say you don't have a point. I'll make you a deal: I won't annoy you with it right now, instead refining it further-" he tapped the side of his head, "-in here. But I will be running it by Captain Vasquez when we get back, just in case I've stumbled on something in my latent tactical genius."
She didn't smile. "The Captain does like crazy ideas. Very well, if you're so confident, I won't discourage you. Just try not to waste his time."
Page smiled gratefully. "Thanks. Really, I think it'll be worthwhile. You'll see."

Another interminable span of time passed. Several questions began to take root at the back of Page's mind, pushed forward by the awkwardness of the silence.
"So...how long have you been fighting? When did you meet Vasquez?"
It took her a moment to reply. "I've been fighting since July of last year, when the war broke out. We all have been - we've been planning this for years. And I met Vasquez...well, 20 years ago, now, technically."

Page's jaw dropped. "20...years...er...wow. Not to be rude, but exactly how old are you?"
He would've sworn she was about to smile. "24 years old."
"...Erm...longtime family friend, then?"
"He's my father."
Another jaw drop. "Wow. I...you two really don't resemble each other. And you have different names...?"
She sighed, as she spoke she sounded like it was a story she'd told often. "My parents weren't married when I was born. I was given my mother's name - my father didn't even know I existed until I was about four or so. And I look uncannily like my mother rather than my father, yes, but I'm told I'm very much like my father in temperament."
Page was still reeling a bit. "I suppose that makes sense. So when war broke out, you came back to join your father?"

She nodded. "He'd been planning for this for years - preparing me for the possibility, or, I suppose, the inevitability. When he realized that he had a daughter, he was very forceful in making sure I came to Spain frequently to be with him. As I got older, he taught me about Spain, its history, and how it was kept down by the church and the conservatives. He opened my eyes, and taught me to be ready for the war when it came. And so I was."
Page tried to process what that must've been like - a life split between France and Spain, perpetually readying yourself for war and simultaneously having to plan to leave your whole life behind at a moment's notice when it came. "That's pretty amazing, Lieutenant."
"It's just my life, comrade. It's nothing very special."
She glanced at him. "Any other questions? We're almost back."
Page welled up his courage. "Er, just one, out of curiosity. I was wondering-"

As he spoke, he stepped in a small mole-hole and with a gasp, his leg buckled in sudden pain. Before he could fall flat on his face, the Lieutenant grabbed his arm firmly in a lightning-quick motion, saving him from toppling.
"I knew that was going to happen sooner or later. Anyway, you were saying?"
Page was still trying to catch his breath. "That was...that was really impressive, thank you. Oh, right, and I was going to ask...erm...what's your first name? I never caught it."
Another icy blue-eyed stare. Then, she relented. "It's Isabelle."
"Ah. well, it's...it suits you perfectly, I think."
She didn't respond. Page's mind whirled desperately. Keep your eyes on the ground. Focus. Don't...don't...think about how...oh, God help me...

A few moments later, he dimly began to realize they were almost upon the camp. He shook himself out of his pleasant reverie and readied himself to lay out the plan...

[Monfrox]

Thanks guys. I'm having a party today so it's a good thing Samantha's taking a quick nap.

[The balkens]

happy B-day mon....

[Morrdh]

Now I remember why I prefer cider...

Anyway, who's actually curious about Charlie's fate in Sabres In The Night?

[The balkens]

me.

[Calizorinstan]

Happy Birthday!

[Goram]

IC post tomorrow - had to get this done tonight instead, it's been hanging around my drafts page way, way too long.

And I've been quite a moron. I've reviewed all those old songs, looking for one that would fit for Page's theme, and it was staring me in the face the whole damn time - I quoted it in my nation's motto, FFS.
I think it fits.

We busted out of class,
had to get away from those fools,
We learned more from a three minute record, baby than we ever learned in school

BRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCE.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

IC post tomorrow - had to get this done tonight instead, it's been hanging around my drafts page way, way too long.

And I've been quite a moron. I've reviewed all those old songs, looking for one that would fit for Page's theme, and it was staring me in the face the whole damn time - I quoted it in my nation's motto, FFS.
I think it fits.

We busted out of class,
had to get away from those fools,
We learned more from a three minute record, baby than we ever learned in school

BRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCE.

I think the lyrics work uncannily well, although they work best if you substitute "class" with "the relatively stuffy life of an RAF pilot in the early-to-mid thirties", and the "drums and guitars" part with "Spits and SMGs". Other small adjustments may also be necessary.
To say nothing of the fact that it's an amazing song on its own - but then again, it's The Boss, so that can almost be taken for granted.

[Britcan]

IC post tomorrow - had to get this done tonight instead, it's been hanging around my drafts page way, way too long.

And I've been quite a moron. I've reviewed all those old songs, looking for one that would fit for Page's theme, and it was staring me in the face the whole damn time - I quoted it in my nation's motto, FFS.
I think it fits.

I'm thinking of possibly making this Matthias's theme.

[Goram]

Snip.

[Goram]

I think the lyrics work uncannily well, although they work best if you substitute "class" with "the relatively stuffy life of an RAF pilot in the early-to-mid thirties", and the "drums and guitars" part with "Spits and SMGs". Other small adjustments may also be necessary.
To say nothing of the fact that it's an amazing song on its own - but then again, it's The Boss, so that can almost be taken for granted.

There's a war outside still raging,
You say it ain't ours anymore to win

If you're looking at it from a German perspective, then yes. Quite true.

Got tickets to see the ESB at Wembley in the summer and then the Rolling Stones at Hyde Park a few weeks later. If I can get tickets to the Duxford Airshow in September, Summer will have been class.

By the way, will we be able to launch off the deck of Illustrious when the Italians try to sink us?

[The Tiger Kingdom]

I think the lyrics work uncannily well, although they work best if you substitute "class" with "the relatively stuffy life of an RAF pilot in the early-to-mid thirties", and the "drums and guitars" part with "Spits and SMGs". Other small adjustments may also be necessary.
To say nothing of the fact that it's an amazing song on its own - but then again, it's The Boss, so that can almost be taken for granted.

There's a war outside still raging,
You say it ain't ours anymore to win

If you're looking at it from a German perspective, then yes. Quite true.

Got tickets to see the ESB at Wembley in the summer and then the Rolling Stones at Hyde Park a few weeks later. If I can get tickets to the Duxford Airshow in September, Summer will have been class.

By the way, will we be able to launch off the deck of Illustrious when the Italians try to sink us?

So very jealous. Bruce avoided our city for some stupid reason, and the Stones aren't coming here either. At least Paul will be showing up.

And well, it's funny you should ask that, because what will be happening is that *REDACTED*

[Goram]

May 28th 1940,
RAF Hornchurch

Stanford climbed out of his aircraft, for the fourth time that day. The evacuation of the British Expeditionary Force had begun and the overstretched RAF was attempting to give fighter cover, at the very edges of their range. It was barely 24 hours after Stanford had officially claimed a Bf.110C shot down, his first kill of the war, but he'd flown seven sorties over the channel and that godforsaken stretch of coast in Northern France. During these sorties the Luftwaffe had been relatively quiet, though Stanford had gotten his first glimpses of the infamous Bf.109. Earlier in the day, Stanford had sparred with the German fighter but after a few minutes, when neither pilot could gain a practical advantage over the other, the Messerschmitt had disengaged.

Stanford trudged across the grass, towards control. He flopped down into one of the chairs, splayed around control. The pilots looked a funny bunch, the famous leather jackets were absent. Most, if not all of the fighter pilots were wearing regular RAF uniform, minus the dark blue tunic; many even wore a tie. The only things to distinguish them as pilots was the bright yellow Mae West life jackets, that they all wore at all times when the unit was on standby, and leather flying boots. Between flights the pilots tended to sit around, smoking or sleeping. Some played chess whilst others read the day's paper. This is what Stanford did now, sitting in the sun whilst he smoked his pipe. He sat with his eyes closed, enjoying the warmth on his face.

"Pilot Officer Stanford?"

A voice disturbed him. He snapped his eyes open, to see a man in full uniform standing in front of him. The man, by his demeanour, was clearly not a pilot. Stanford nodded and without another word, the man handed over a yellow envelope and walked off. Stanford, turned the envelope over and his heat skipped a beat when he saw who had sent it. It was from the War Office and that could mean only one thing.

Two days previously, somewhere over the Ruhr Valley

David Stanford sat huddled at the navigators station of a Vickers Wellington. He glanced at his watch - the time was only minutes after midnight. The earlier briefing had stated that the aircraft ought to be over the target, a rail marshalling yard in Krefelt, and yet the crew had seen no flak, no fighters and no friendly aircraft. They had seen nothing to suggest they were anywhere near the target. They were, in a word, lost.

As Stanford stood up in the astrodome, in order to take a star shot, Oberleutnant Willi Bauers slid his Bf.110C underneath the RAF medium bomber. At a range of only 100 yards, he could see every detail of the Wellington that he'd been tracking for the last ten minutes. The night was clear and his gunner, a 19 year old from Hamburg, had exceptional eye sight. Willi had expertly slipped in underneath the Wellington.

Willi looked up and gauged his attack, jockeying the throttle to match the Wellington's speed perfectly.

"Katze-One to control; Kettledrums, Kettledrums."

He said, moments before he began his attack. Willi brought the nose up sharply, directing the 110's cannon towards the belly of the aircraft above. He squared the pipper on the bomb aimers position and, with the heavy fighter standing on the point of stall, squeezed the trigger. Willi kept the Wellington in his sights, depressing the nose as the bomber moved forward. The effect of this was to walk his cannon shells down the fuselage of the aircraft. Had the Wellington taken twenty rounds, it would have been rendered in capable of flight, but in a matter of only five and a half seconds, the Luftwaffe man pumped forty eight shells into the aircraft.

The first thing anybody aboard the bomber knew of the attack, was when the first shell passed inches from the bomb aimer and exploded on contact with the front turret. The bomb aimer was killed instantly, a combination of shrapnel from shell one and the blast of shells two and three ended his short life only milliseconds after the attack began. The aircraft lurched violently to port, staggering under the weight of the high explosive barrage. Shells twelve to eighteen penetrated the cockpit, blowing away the oxygen, control hydraulics and almost all of the pilots legs below both knees. The navigator and mid upper gunner died together. David Stanford, the 24 year old navigator on his fourth trip was peppered by shrapnel before being killed by the photoflash bomb, that had been blown into the fuselage by the force of an explosion on the bomb bay doors. The mid-upper gunner was also caught by the photoflash, which burnt and blinded him terribly, before he too was killed by an exploding round. Shell twenty-two broke the aircraft's back, allowing the tail of the stricken Wellington to swing wildly. As the tail section swung, the rear gunner was thrown violently around his turret. It was almost a blessing when he was killed by shell forty eight.

Willi watched as the now burning bomber began to plummet, as he increased power to avoid a stall. What he couldn't know was that the pilot was the only man left alive on board, as he pulled with all his strength on the useless controls.

I'm sorry chaps, I can't hold her, she's had it

He screamed into the useless radio, to men who couldn't hear him anyway. As Willi watched, the aircraft exploded at roughly 8,000 feet as the bomb load went up. The wreckage fell on the market town of Altgarten, barely five miles from the intended target; Krefelt.

Douglas Stanford, Hornchurch

Stanford stared at the paper in his hands, but it didn't see it. He was in state of total shock.

Sir,

It is my painful duty to inform you that a report this day has been received from the War Office notifying the death of your brother Flight Sergeant D. H. Stanford, 142 Squadron, which occurred on service on the 25th/26th May 1940 and I am to express to you the sympathy and regret of the Air Force Council for your loss. The cause of death was killed in action.

Any application you may wish to make regarding the late airman's affects should be addressed to "The Secretary, War Office, Whitehall, London, S. West".

I am, Sir, your obedient servant

Colonel R. Richards, Officer in charge of records.

[The balkens]

dover. april 1955

Michael and dietrich sat in a park while they watched young children play. it was a nice day out and Michael needed a break from MI6.
"do you think about what happend during the war?"

dietrich turned his head to michael, he knew what happend in its early months.

"no. why bother? its the past and im doing my best to bury it."

dietric raised an eyebrow.
"including excalibur? your former comrades?"

"not exactly, they were like my brothers and sisters to me. matt, pat, talbot and the others, id do anything to see them again."

michael took a sip of water from a bottle.
"did you here about dunham?"

dietrich was confused. dunham was a colleage in MI6.
"no. what happened?"

"some south american fuckers captured him, they want ransom money or some shit."

"and the director wants us to get him?

micheal smirked.
"quite. theyre still working on a plan to get him out. it involves an insertion and immediate recovery."

"what did you and excalibur fight for? a better world? a safer europe? or was it just for the sake of fighting?"

michael stood and looked up at the blue skies. memories took hold.
"a brighter future for all, a better life for us, dietrich. thats what we fought for. a brighter future and a better life...

O sacred love of the beloved Country,
Only good and true minds can experience you!
For thee, virulent poisons are savory;
For thee, chains and fetters are not an abuse.
Thou embellish cripples with scars of glory;
In the mind, thou dost nestle pleasures most true.
Might one, to thy succor, endeavor to fly,
'Twere nothing to live poor, 'twere nothing to die. - Polish Poem

[United Kingdom of Poland]

dover. april 1955

Michael and dietrich sat in a park while they watched young children play. it was a nice day out and Michael needed a break from MI6.
"do you think about what happend during the war?"

dietrich turned his head to michael, he knew what happend in its early months.

"no. why bother? its the past and im doing my best to bury it."

dietric raised an eyebrow.
"including excalibur? your former comrades?"

"not exactly, they were like my brothers and sisters to me. matt, pat, talbot and the others, id do anything to see them again."

michael took a sip of water from a bottle.
"did you here about dunham?"

dietrich was confused. dunham was a colleage in MI6.
"no. what happened?"

"some south american fuckers captured him, they want ransom money or some shit."

"and the director wants us to get him?

micheal smirked.
"quite. theyre still working on a plan to get him out. it involves an insertion and immediate recovery."

"what did you and excalibur fight for? a better world? a safer europe? or was it just for the sake of fighting?"

michael stood and looked up at the blue skies. memories took hold.
"a brighter future for all, a better life for us, dietrich. thats what we fought for. a brighter future and a better life...

O sacred love of the beloved Country,
Only good and true minds can experience you!
For thee, virulent poisons are savory;
For thee, chains and fetters are not an abuse.
Thou embellish cripples with scars of glory;
In the mind, thou dost nestle pleasures most true.
Might one, to thy succor, endeavor to fly,
'Twere nothing to live poor, 'twere nothing to die. - Polish Poem

you do realize that there may be a cold war excalibur, or do you plan on reconning this if it does happen.