Excalibur Squadron OOC Thread

[Monfrox]

Don't look at me. They're the ones who like to provoke people. What with their unbridled patriotism and need to slather it all up in my and everyone else's face.

[The balkens]

This man was a member of the SS special air unit.
Former member of the German Luftwaffe, SS air unit: Dietrich zimmermann.
(interview recorded in 1947)

"Michael Zilorski, now that's a name I haven't heard for 2 years."

Dietrich said as he handed me a cup of coffee, I had asked him why he is living in Dover of all places. He simply replied that he enjoyed the weather, not to mention his french wife isabel is also staying here.

"I first met him above lodz in '39. He was a clever bastard, took down several of my comrades."

When I asked him what was it like battling in the air, he gave me a dumb look and snarled.
"it's not like the propaganda films that you probably watched during the war. It's phyisical, bloody and very violent. You shoot somebody in the cockpit, you sure as hell will see blood."

He began to show me pictures, of him growing up in what used to be Prussia.
"my family survived the economic chaos after the great war by....well......Berlin pretty much became our sin city, I'll tell you that much."
He pointed out one photo of him and another man.
"the handsome one is me, the ugly one is the guy you're looking for. It was after i defected. Me and him became the best of pals, even made me god father of his kids!"

He slapped his knee as he reared. This greatly alarmed his wife, Dietrich was known for being subtle and calm.

"anyway, if you want to know where he is, then talk to his girl, victoria. Poor girl still waits for his return. I lost hope after the war ended.

[Lancearc]

wrote a draft long ago, forgot it, decided to finish it along with another one shot, the things I rarely decide to do anyway

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.

Bray Family Farm
July 22nd, 2005
Outside of Dublin, Ireland

"It used t'be that you'd actually have'ta go hard ta work every now and then. Now you c'n just let your father do most of the work, it's not nearly as difficult as it was. Though I won't get started on a 'back in my day' rant." an old, grey haired man spoke up from his rocking chair in the living room as he and a boy much to his likeness sat in the room alone, the boy's father--the old man's son--having taken a trip to Dublin for various reasons, many of which he never went into specifics about. The old man didn't mind, he was content to stay at the farm house he'd been raised in, somewhat isolated from the worries of the larger city.

"It's not like I do nothing, grandpa." the boy spoke up from his own chair, glancing towards his grandfather. The boy was perhaps twelve or thirteen. "Aye, I know. You're a lucky boy though, let's just say that." the old man replied.

"Grandpa Monroe, look!" the boy suddenly broke the silence that had befallen the room, save for the drone of the television. The aged Monroe Bray had been watching the news, but in his short conversation with his grandson had stopped paying attention. Now his grandson turned up the volume of their television, a news reporter going on about the event unfolding--a World War Two Spitfire was being raised from the Channel, bound for an aviation museum or something, he wasn't really paying attention to what was being said, his eyes were transfixed on the aircraft he'd not had the pleasure of flying for years, though he'd seen them every so often.

"Just like you flew..." his grandson commented, still gazing at the old pilot. "Just like I flew." Monroe confirmed as he took his gaze off of the TV screen before them and towards the stairs over his shoulder. "C'mhere Daniel, somethin' ya might be interested in. Or at least you'll fake it to show a wee bit o' respect for your old grandfather." Monroe said, standing from his chair with a still toothy, and somehow cocky fighter-pilot grin as he did so, headed towards the stairs with his grandson in tow.

"I know ya've heard from yer father, no one touches ol' grandpa Monroe's chest, 'n he's right, if ya touched it without my permission I'd probably straighten ya out like I would anyone else." Monroe began as they reached the top of the stairs, the more youthful Daniel reaching the top first. "And I know ya've been wonderin' about just what grandpa keeps in that big dust collector in the corner of his room. Ya happened ta visit at a good time for certain, ya caught me in a good mood today." Monroe said as they entered what was the old pilot's bedroom, where in the corner a heavy oak chest sat.

Monroe's old, calloused hands patted the top of the chest solemnly before flicking open the two locks and opening the creaking lid. It appeared to be nothing special at first, some papers and his reading glasses, but he pushed aside these mundane objects to reveal beneath letters yellowing with age, black and white photographs, and a patch that was once stitched onto a uniform. The former pilot took all of these out one by one, setting them on the bed to his left carefully, the patch being the last out.

"If anyone ever tried ta get these without my permission I'd probably 'ave ta see if I still have what it takes to be called an Excalibur. That patch meant more than it looks like, lad." Monroe said as his grandson reached slowly for the unit patch that Monroe had kept. "It meant your old grandfather was more than just a pilot, he was tha best of tha best." he finished with a smirk. He picked up one of the aged photographs with a smile.

"Aye, we were all tha best, each 'n every one of us. Don't let anyone ever tell ya anythin' different than that." Monroe grinned, placing a heavy hand on his grandson's shoulder. "You see that man at the front? A finer captain you'll never find. This Yankee standin' beside me was probably one of tha better fellas I've ever had tha pleasure of meeting." Monroe said with a chuckle, pointing out Pat in the photograph of the squadron.

"Aye, these fine gentlemen came from all 'round tha world. Not to count out our ladies of course." he said, indicating the two women of the squadron. "I'd have a drink with any of these men any day, I imagine most of 'em are still kickin'." he said. "And, I'll just say, I think this handsome bastard right here was the best pilot out of all of 'em." Monroe joked, pointing out himself in the picture.

The boy's attention had shifted over to the yellowing papers, which Monroe didn't imagine he had to explain were letters he'd sent to Daniel's grandmother during the war. The old man opted to stand and walk out of the room though, leaving the boy to pour over the trove of his grandfather's old letters and such he'd discovered. It would be enough to keep him occupied, he imagined. For now, the old pilot sat back in his chair and dozed off, as evening was just arriving.

The first is origins, I might bother myself with a title for the second later though, as it's late

[Britcan]

Too bad.

So sad.

The song is Primo Victoria by Sabaton. I didn't even need to look at the description.

[The balkens]

So sad.

The song is Primo Victoria by Sabaton. I didn't even need to look at the description.

thanks.

[Monfrox]

I just realized something.

Stanford's gonna have a helluva time explaining to Samantha what happened to her Spitfire.

[The Two Jerseys]

Watching Fighter Squadron right now. Lots of nice color P-47 footage, and non-stock footage air-to-air sequences are pretty good for 1947. But they have P-51s standing in for 109s...

[Morrdh]

Watching Fighter Squadron right now. Lots of nice color P-47 footage, and non-stock footage air-to-air sequences are pretty good for 1947. But they have P-51s standing in for 109s...

Thats ok, seen films where they use M3 Halftracks and British armoured cars to stand in for German vehicles.

@Monfrox; To say nothing of the helluva time he might* have with Kaya?

*Not implying nothing...

[Monfrox]

Oh man, Stanford's going to be in hot water.

[Morrdh]

Well, for all my sins....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZRInlPuloAA

[The balkens]

Watching Fighter Squadron right now. Lots of nice color P-47 footage, and non-stock footage air-to-air sequences are pretty good for 1947. But they have P-51s standing in for 109s...

the two look somewhat similar, I mean not the P-51d type but older variants.

[The Two Jerseys]

Watching Fighter Squadron right now. Lots of nice color P-47 footage, and non-stock footage air-to-air sequences are pretty good for 1947. But they have P-51s standing in for 109s...

Thats ok, seen films where they use M3 Halftracks and British armoured cars to stand in for German vehicles.

@Monfrox; To say nothing of the helluva time he might* have with Kaya?

*Not implying nothing...

That's pretty much standard practice with halftracks. Of course I always liked how on Hogan's Heroes they had the Germans driving a CMP truck with RHD, and how every German vehicle is covered in swastikas and Balkenkreuzes (lest we mistake it for an Allied vehicle deep behind enemy lines...).

Having P-51s stand in for 109s wouldn't have been so bad if they didn't have the bubble canopy and weren't painted flat battleship gray. If it was the original framed canopy with Luftwaffe camo and yellow noses, they could totally pass for a 109 at a quick glance.

[United Kingdom of Poland]

Thats ok, seen films where they use M3 Halftracks and British armoured cars to stand in for German vehicles.

@Monfrox; To say nothing of the helluva time he might* have with Kaya?

*Not implying nothing...

That's pretty much standard practice with halftracks. Of course I always liked how on Hogan's Heroes they had the Germans driving a CMP truck with RHD, and how every German vehicle is covered in swastikas and Balkenkreuzes (lest we mistake it for an Allied vehicle deep behind enemy lines...).

Having P-51s stand in for 109s wouldn't have been so bad if they didn't have the bubble canopy and weren't painted flat battleship gray. If it was the original framed canopy with Luftwaffe camo and yellow noses, they could totally pass for a 109 at a quick glance.

or using AD-1 skyraiders for P-47s in the longest day.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Watching Fighter Squadron right now. Lots of nice color P-47 footage, and non-stock footage air-to-air sequences are pretty good for 1947. But they have P-51s standing in for 109s...

Guess the Spanish weren't playing along like they did in later years, letting movie companies borrow their weird 109s (albeit with Merlin engines).

[Calizorinstan]

I sat in a He-111 one time at an air show, an ex Spanish AF one. I remember sitting in the bombardiers position... It as since crashed, and no more are flying..

[United Kingdom of Poland]

I sat in a He-111 one time at an air show, an ex Spanish AF one. I remember sitting in the bombardiers position... It as since crashed, and no more are flying..

better then me, i gut stuck as the ball guner in a B-17 (at 5'2" I was the only one who would fit in it) my first words upon getting out (they had a bunch of vets there) were who was the ball gunner. my next words "whatever they paid you, it should have been triple"

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Okay, I think I got all the one shots uploaded, although I think I either missed part 3 of Balk's interview series or they got misnumbered somehow. Balk, can you find it anywhere? Because I can't.

I sat in a He-111 one time at an air show, an ex Spanish AF one. I remember sitting in the bombardiers position... It as since crashed, and no more are flying..

It's always a sad thing when something like that happens, all the more when people died as well in the crash.
There are a total of about four original German 111s and about 13 Spanish ones in various conditions, hopefully they'll be able to get some of those running somehow.

I sat in a He-111 one time at an air show, an ex Spanish AF one. I remember sitting in the bombardiers position... It as since crashed, and no more are flying..

better then me, i gut stuck as the ball guner in a B-17 (at 5'2" I was the only one who would fit in it) my first words upon getting out (they had a bunch of vets there) were who was the ball gunner. my next words "whatever they paid you, it should have been triple"

Being the ball turret gunner is fucking terrifying to contemplate. Combat fear, plus total claustrophobia, plus fear of heights.
Fun.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Part XI:

Ugarte Village
Basque Country
1120 Hours

Page's heart pounded and his hands began sweating as they approached the inn, while Isabelle seemed entirely unaffected by any visible stress whatsoever. She adjusted her hair, tapped her pistol to reassure herself that it was there
"Remember," she whispered, "Just keep calm and don't say anything. I'll do the talking. But when we get to the field, I'll give you a signal when it's time to strike."
He nodded, his heart in his throat.
"You ready?"
He swallowed hard. "Yeah. Let's just get this over with."
He could have been imagining it, but for just a second, her voice seemed to soften.
"You'll do fine. Don't worry, just be alert and follow my lead."

Momentarily preparing herself and shifting back into her terrified persona, she pulled the door of the cantina open, revealing a dim, grimy interior. Even though it was bright outside, little of the light penetrated through the scummy and ill-maintained windows, with lit candles evidently being necessary in the middle of the day for any light at all. The place was almost entirely empty, with the notable exception of a loud clump of about eight men in Nationalist uniforms clustered at the bar. As a miserable-looking bartender hovered nearby, the gang seemed to be engaging in a bout of heavy lunchtime drinking. Numerous empty bottles were scattered on the table and on the surrounding floor. At first, nobody noticed as the pair stepped in. Then, Isabelle called out:

<<We need help! Please, can one of you help us? We've been attacked by bandits!>>

The men turned to look, their gazes turning from dull bellicosity at their drinking being interrupted to fascination to overtly lascivious stares as they noticed Isabelle. They seemed to entirely overlook Page (to his relief) in their haste. One of them, wearing a patch bearing an odd-looking hooked "X" design (Page vaguely recognized it as a Carlist cross) and the rank marks of a Lieutenant drunkenly swiveled about in his chair at Isabelle's breathless request. His eyes widened and his mouth slackened as he stared at her chest for a solid five seconds, then he snapped back to reality, a drunken leer on his face.

<<Y...you came to the right men, miss. What happened?>>

The words tumbling out at a breathless pace. <<My...friend...and I were walking on the road...the south road from here...when we were ambushed! I...I'm sorry, we ran all the way here, I'm out of breath...>>

The fascist Lieutenant laughed. <<You got robbed? What, your boyfriend there wasn't macho enough to stop him?>>
The patrol cackled menacingly at Page, who turned a fierce red. He barely heard Isabelle's rejoinder.
<<Don't be so mean to Roberto! He's a poet. He has weak hands.>>
The laughing got even louder. Page half-pretended to glare daggers at Isabelle, who didn't acknowledge him. Ah, just like being back in boarding school. Nice bit of improvisation though, Izzy.
"Besides," she went on, "There were five or six of them, with big guns! It was really scary. They stole our money, and then they ran back into the woods. And I think...>> She sniffed dramatically, looking for all the world like she was on the verge of bursting out in tears, <<...I think they might have been communists.>>

The Lieutenant hiccuped at this. <<Really.>>
She nodded vigorously. <<Yes, you know, now that I think about it, I'm quite sure. They said something about going back to their godless, work-shy, anarchic commune and redistributing our bourgeois, hard-earned wealth equally according to the needs of the so-called proletariat while they were running off.>>

She looked demurely at her feet. <<At least, I think that's what they said.>>

The fascist soldiers were now entirely at rapt attention. <<Listen, miss...>> the Lieutenant said after draining his glass, burping slightly. <<We don't->>
Her lips suddenly quivering and her eyes suddenly wavering, Isabelle didn't hesitate. As Page's eyes widened, she leaned over to him, resting her hand on his knee, her face only a few inches away from his, her voice taking on a faintly (but distinctly) sensual tone.
<<Please, sir, could you help us catch those men? I'd be ever so appreciative...>>

Silence again, as the Lieutenant went back to staring. Finally, he returned to his senses.
<<Well, when you put it like that...Men, form up. We're going hunting!>>
A good cheer came up from the men as they got to their feet, rifles and bayonets appearing in their hands. The Lieutenant slowly pulled himself to his feet, the grotesque leer still on his face, his intentions as to how to take advantage of her gratitude all too clear. <<Lead the way, my fair lady.>>
With a wildly suggestive wink, Isabelle turned and slunk out the door, the soldiers hot on her heels. One of them nearly knocked Page down in his haste, and a second later, the bar was almost totally clear. Ruefully dusting himself off, Page adjusted his jacket and jogged in pursuit.

The walk, thankfully, was a short one. As Page hung back, behind the bulk of the patrol, the Fascist Lieutenant and his men were falling over themselves trying to both look as impressive as possible and to get Isabelle's attention. The officer was practically strutting like a peacock, smirking at his good fortune to have an excuse to be at the head of the column. Isabelle seemed to take no notice - she kept her head up high, not even acknowledging them, almost regal in her detachment.

Page could feel the revolver chafe against his skin, as the patrol, following Izzy, took a turn onto a dark and confined dirt lane. I hope she knows where she's going...

Finally, the group emerged at the other end of the lane, into a large and grassy clearing with a small brook running through the middle of it. Clearly, this was the ambush site. Isabelle calmly lead the group, now trying to look as "on-guard" as possible, through the knee-high grass towards the brook. When they reached it, the Lieutenant called out:
<<This isn't the road, miss.>>
<<No, it's not,>> Isabelle breezily called out, not looking at the man, but towards the treeline, <<but I saw them running off in this direction, towards this field. I'd say they're still around here somewhere. Can you please look, sirs?>>

The soldiers began to fan out, looking warily around, still seeming (to Page) to be trying to look as impressive and tough as possible. While they did so, she edged slowly towards Page. Finally, as she was no more than a foot away, she raised her fist in the air for three seconds. Just as he was about to say something or at the very least ask what the hell they were waiting for (in a deadly-quiet whisper, of course), he felt a sudden object spring at great speed into his side. Very surprised and confused, he went down like a ton of bricks.

The air above him exploded with gunfire from the forest, coming not in spontaneous bursts, but in a pair of measured volleys. The soldiers dropped like flies as the bullets screamed through the air, cutting them down efficiently. His eyes shut tight, Page didn't dare look up, his mind frozen in fear.

Before he even knew it, it was silent again. Peeking up from down in the dirt, he could see that the fascist soldiers had been lain waste - not one was still standing. As he looked around, it slowly dawned on him that the mysterious thing that had hit him like a train and knocked him safely onto the ground as the gunfire started was Isabelle. As he glanced up at her gratefully, she noticed his gaze and hastily stood back up on her feet, dusting herself off casually.

"Well done, both of you!"
Page recognized Vasquez's booming tones coming from the trees as the partisans emerged. He kept talking as he strode over.
"You got them exactly where we want them. And hopefully, their uniforms aren't too damaged. We'll get them washed and patched up, and in a few hours, they should be good as new."
Vasquez offered him a hand. Page was about to accept it, when a sudden yell emanated from behind him. His nerves still tight as guy-wires, his reflexes took over - he flipped over onto his back, hand scrabbling for the Webley. He found it, flicked the firing pin back, and fired a wild shot in the direction of the noise, before he'd even had time to aim or focus. As he saw his target, he realized what had happened.

One of the fascists had had the presence of mind to play dead, and was in the process of pulling a pistol on the Captain and Isabelle when he let out his unwise vocalization. The fascist was now silent and still, half-risen from his faked death, a bullet hole right in his chest. Exhaling slowly, the fascist's body toppled over truly dead this time.

Vasquez blew out a breath, his eyes wide. "That...was some good fucking shooting, Anglo. Nice catch. You probably saved at least one of us there."
Page grabbed his still-extended hand and hauled himself up, nearly hyperventilating. That was the first time, ever, that he'd actually shot somebody face-to-face - not over air-combat distances, but at close range. He wasn't sure how to handle it, but he did know that at first glance, he definitely didn't like it. It felt dirtier, more wrong, and more real actually seeing the body and the damage you did firsthand, rather than just seeing n enemy plane spiraling away and exploding. Even as Isabelle and Vasquez clapped him on the back and said some congratulations, he still felt horrible.

Noticing his fixation, Isabelle turned to him.
"You'll get used to it, comrade. It's never easy the first time. Trust me, I know..."

[Britcan]

Are we really going to do the whole ventilation shaft cliche? Why would a tunnel even have a ventilation shaft?

[Kherkov]

So sad.

The song is Primo Victoria by Sabaton. I didn't even need to look at the description.

Of course, Brit knows every Sabaton song ever written.

[Morrdh]

Are we really going to do the whole ventilation shaft cliche? Why would a tunnel even have a ventilation shaft?

If its a long tunnel all the smoke from steam engines would build up and suffocate passengers whenever a train passes through, the ventilation shafts would allow the smoke to leave the tunnel.

EDIT: An overview of the RPG setting I'm working on chaps.

http://utherwald.blogspot.com/2013/06/t ... 62013.html

[Goram]

Sorry for my absence, chaps. Back now.

[Len Hyet]

*

Because in America we spell it Color.

[Britcan]

The song is Primo Victoria by Sabaton. I didn't even need to look at the description.

Of course, Brit knows every Sabaton song ever written.

Not all, just many.

Are we really going to do the whole ventilation shaft cliche? Why would a tunnel even have a ventilation shaft?

If its a long tunnel all the smoke from steam engines would build up and suffocate passengers whenever a train passes through, the ventilation shafts would allow the smoke to leave the tunnel.

Yes, but you don't have them right next to the tunnel entrance, you have it a long way down the tunnel.

[Goram]

September 15th 1940,
Over Gravesend,
Approximately 1440

The view that greeted Pilot Officer Stanford was a breath taking one indeed. He watched as 63 RAF fighters charged many, many times their number. The German formation was vast, flying in three great columns. Each column of bombers was made up of an entire Kampfgeschwader.

The Hurricanes of No. 249 and No. 504 made the first contact, quickly racking up three Dornier 17's. The escorting Bf.109s were helpless to defend the Dorniers, who's gunners fought a desperate battle against the marauding Hurricanes, as their strict orders prevented them from leaving the Heinkels of KG 26. Before too long those escorting 109's were engaged by nine Hurricanes, lead by the famous ace; Squadron Leader Robert Tuck, and were badly scattered. Tuck's machines fell on the Heinkels and for a time the Messerschmitts were powerless to intervene.

As Stanford watched from on high, in a reserve position, four more squadrons (No. 1 Canadian, 66, 72 and 229) slashed into the column made up of Junkers, Dorniers and Heinkels belonging to KG 53. smoke and contrails criss crossed the light blue sky as fighters twisted around each other and long black lines of oily smoke indicated a damaged or fallen bomber. Some of the more heavily damaged bombers cut and ran for France; the RAF seemed happy to let them go, knowing that a far greater prize was at stake.

41 Squadron maintained loose contact with the sprawling battle, awaiting the controller's order to engage. Finally, as the battle moved over Kenley, the order came. The Spitfires of 41 Squadron banked steeply into the southern most end of the battle and at almost the same moment, the Duxford Wing also engaged in roughly the same area. The Germans, already heavily engaged, were battered with the blunt force of six fresh squadrons. 41 Squadron made a pass against KG 2 before they split apart and delved into the frenetic combat that went on all around. Stanford left the bombers to the other marauders, whilst he scanned the sky for targets. Before long, he was caught up in a dogfight with Messerschmitts from Jagdgeschwader 26. It did not take long for two Hurricanes, from No.310, to fall away from the combat, streaming smoke as they did so. The two lost Hurricanes were quickly joined, however, by a 109 which disintegrated somewhere over West Ham. Stanford swiftly made it two, putting a well placed burst into one of JG 26's machines. Stanford's rounds set the port wing on fire and, though the port tank was almost empty, some fuel was still sloshing around in the tank and a rip in the rubber was now sucking at it. Eventually, as the 109 began a slow bank to port; making the best attempt at escape that it could, the ripped rubber sucked in extra large an extra large gulp of the volatile fuel-air mix and exposed it to the burning wing section. The result was an explosion that ripped the fighter into thousands of indistinguishable pieces.

By now the bombers had done their work. Despite the huge number of attacking fighters, very few bombers had been shot down. After the first three Dorniers were destroyed in the first attack, only one more had been shot down. Several, however, had been forced to turn back. It was on the return leg of the journey that the RAF did their best work. Four Dorniers and six Heinkels were shot down quickly over Kent and as the assaulting fighters, including 41 Squadron, withdrew from the combat, three more squadrons attacked. These newcomers exploited gaps in the German formations, shooting down three Dorniers and three escorting Bf.110's from the escorting Lehrgeschwader 1, which had appeared late in the battle to aid the withdrawal. All in all, it was a battle the RAF had decisively won. They had managed to inflict severe losses on the Germans who, despite effectively bombing the target, had lost 21 bombers and 23 fighters, though they had scored 15 RAF fighters in return.

Thus, the main combat of September 15th ended. Due to the untenable losses of the day and of those preceding it, the Germans would never again attempt a major daylight raid over England. The Germans had lost 61 aircraft destroyed and 20 more severely damaged. From now on, they would bomb almost exclusively by night and the infamous Blitz would begin in earnest.

---

Stanford returned to Hornchurch to be met by the Squadron Leader.

"Stanford!"

he bawled

"I've just been given this! Fresh off the bloody teleprinter. You're fucking off to No.319 Squadron!"

As he came closer, his voice dropped down to a level that only Stanford could hear. Stanford had always known that the Squadron Leader, and everyone else for that matter, hadn't liked him that much but only the Leader was openly hostile. Perhaps he'd pulled some strings to get him transferred to this hitherto unknown unit.

"Good riddance to you, Stanford. You're finally out of my hair. You're bloody obsession with killing Huns and putting good chaps in danger by gallivanting off into battle is someone else's trouble now. Between you and I, I dearly hope this No.319 Squadron is so far North that you never see a bloody Hun again. Your posting is effective September 17th but I want you gone by the time I get to to the Officers Mess tonight."

The Squadron Leader turned on his heel and strode away, angrily. Stanford wasted no time in packing what kit he had and mounting it onto the dark green motorcycle for which he had saved three months pay. With the transfer came a day's leave; he'd spend the 16th drinking cream teas in a little hotel somewhere in the country before he headed off to his new base, RAF Tempsford the next morning. He was relieved to hear that the new base was in Berkshire, barely a stones throw from his home town. He knew the area intimately, so finding the place would not be hard.

As the afternoon turned into evening on the 15th, Stanford idled the motorcycle's engine as the barrier at RAF Hornchurch slowly raised. He looked back at the field for the last time before inching the machine forward. He decided that he would not miss the place. All that lay before him was the open road and a fresh start, with fresh faces, at Tempsford and No.319 Squadron.