Operation Highwire (Closed, Excalibur Only)

[Morrdh]

Kaya was rolling on the ground screaming in pain and clutching her ankle as an Austin K2 ambulance pulled up nearby, a couple of orderlies hurrying over following her screams. The first one reached our and crutched down, asking as he did so. "Easy lass, where does it hurt?"

"Me ankle." Answered Kaya in between cries of pain. "Landed badly on it."

"Right, this may hurt a little..." The orderly as he gently took Kaya's leg and then slowly moved her foot a little, prompting a cry of pain from Kaya as she turned the air blue with a few choice curse words. "OK, alot then."

"Ye reckon?"

"Can give you a shot of morphine for the pain, though looks like you may have broken it."

"Just get me outta here." Kaya nodded and then winced in pain.

"Half a mo' lass." The orderly muttered as he gave Kaya a quick shot of morphine and then called over to his colleague. "Harry, give us a hand over here."

[United Kingdom of Poland]

Matt looked back, his prey flying in an unstable strait line, definitly out of the action. finishing his climb he heard the radio message from Tempsford. 'Copy that control. We have the transport but it appears to be in pretty bad shape with at least two engines out. We had 2 fighters come back with damage and one missing, feared lost. There are four of us left against 10 enemy fighters so if the cavalry would kindly hurry up and help us out that would be very appreciated, ov.." Just then a Matt's spit shook from enemy fre with bullet holes appearing in the right wing. sending his craft into a dive he flew head on into another fighter. Ducking just as his canopy shattered. As they passed he lokked up the windsheer blasting at his face. Come on boys, any time now.

[Le-Quebec]

Back at Tempsford, the lanky flight controller and his aide squinted as their ears attempted to clean out the voice of an Excalibur pilot responding from the crackles and buzzes of radio static. The two rolled their eyes as the man relayed the casualty figures that they had just gone over, sighing as the feared reports were in fact true. Upon the pilot finishing, the tower chief bent over into the microphone to speak.

"We are aware of the situation, Sword 5. Can you patch us through to Sword Leader? Her standard line has gone dark, do copy over."

As he spoke, the officer gently tapped the shoulder of his adjutant, whom instantly nodded as he understood what to do. Rushing for another radio set, the younger man twisted and turned with the knobs.

---

Miles across the Channel, the loosely gathered formation of RAF fighters from 319 and 610 Squadrons received yet another set of new orders from their controllers.

"Tempsford to all units: Sword elements have reported in and are hard pressed against what they count to be at least ten enemy fast movers. Further combat elements are anticipated to reach the area within the hour; we're deploying in more assets to assist, but they'll take some time to mobilize. Stand by for new course. . ."

As the tower relayed their new flight paths, which always ended up leading into a hailstorm of bullets and cannon fire, Vegesack relayed situation in his head.

There's twelve of us and ten of them - it should be an even engagement; unless if their reinforcements get there faster than us. After all, the fight's closer to them.

When the tower closed its message, he relayed his thoughts to Allistor, whom amusingly was less than surprised at the notion; he had been thinking the exact same thing in all the while.

"I suppose that we're on the same degree of intelligence, aren't we Tom?" chuckled the Swede, a rather discomforting uneasiness building up inside him as the dark shadow of mainland Europe drew ever closer, "Feels like Dunkirk all over again."

A moment of silence followed, as if the two friends dove into reflection about those dramatic days over the northern coast of France, covering the fleets of "little ships" that served as the mythos for the so called "Dunkirk spirit" of the British people. Vegesack recalled flying over massive formations of demoralized and defeated troops sitting on the cramped beaches, waiting to be ferried back home with an admirable patience as German artillery and air strikes mercilessly rained down upon them. He remembered how during one harrowing sortie over the shrinking defensive perimeter, a full squadron of Boulton Paul Defiants fighting alongside his had been decimated to only five machines by the end of the day, despite the frantic efforts of the Spitfires and several nearby Hurricanes to protect them.

"You said it right friend." replied Allistor, "Now let's cut the chatter because I'm seeing movement at ten and eleven o' clock. Say again, all units, this is Stagfoot Leader; I've got movement at ten and eleven o' clock do you copy?"

Vegesack sighed as he realized that they may have just arrived at their destination, a full on dogfight over enemy territory for the most part.

If anyone gets downed from this point on, there going to have a particularly hard time swimming back across the Channel.

Peering hard to the side of the canopy, he noticed ahead amongst the fragile wisps of cloud cover a massive and messy formation of what appear to be seabirds tangling in a mad hunt for perhaps a ball of fish in the sea below.

That is, what he had hoped it to be; he already knew what he was in for the second he could help but see that these birds, even if seen from a distance, had wings that refused to flap. Some were even urinating gray trails of smoke, which turned black with increased ferocity over the period of seconds.

This was it, and his tongue sliced into the airwaves.

"Sword 15 to Stagfoot Leader: positive on the visual. It's what we're looking for - your boys up in arms?"

Allistor was quick to respond, "Solid. We've made up a plan, let's stick to it; get your blokes to cover above while we go in first, ease the bullets flying at your backs."

"Copy, Stagfoot." smiled Vegesack with grim anticipation, the adrenaline entering his system, "Lead us in Tom."

He watched as the friendly Spitfires towards his east side burst into motion and made wide arcing swoops towards the fighting flocks of dots and lines across on the horizon. In the meantime, he briefed his own wingmen flying besides him.

"Sword 15 to all Gold Swords: it is time my friends. Our allies in Stagfoot will cover our advance as they will assail the enemy first, whom are all but just about the horizon to our northwest. In the meantime, we will ascend to favorable height and attack the enemy from above. Our friend in the Hurricane will lead us as planned, and we will cover him. Follow my lead, climbing angels now. Sword 15 out."

He lifted the stick, sending his Spitfire into a twenty degree climb, the nimble aircraft slashing through a thin cloud like a straw through water. Waiting for his wingmen to catch up, Vegesack lowered the stick after nearly two full minutes of flight, looking down from his vantage point to see a particularly ferocious dogfight only intensified by the arrival of 610 Squadron.

"Sword 16, everything's on you now. Pick a target and make the call. We'll go in behind your back. Sword 15 out."

[Gibberan]

"Say again, all units, this is Stagfoot Leader; I've got movement at ten and eleven o' clock do you copy?"

As this was said, Carter's face had been nearly pressed against the glass, trying to ascertain if this movement was actually the real thing and not just another flock of seagulls. Sure enough, Carter could barely see it, even with his well-trained eyes, but it was there. It was like bees swarming around a mockingbird (Carter wondered where he had gotten that metaphor from), the latter of which was trying to escape desperately. There was a lot of smoke, which lead to the thought that Carter might never even be able to meet any of his new squadron mates.

"Sword 15 to all Gold Swords: it is time my friends. Our allies in Stagfoot will cover our advance as they will assail the enemy first, whom are all but just about the horizon to our northwest. In the meantime, we will ascend to favorable height and attack the enemy from above. Our friend in the Hurricane will lead us as planned, and we will cover him. Follow my lead, climbing angels now. Sword 15 out."

It's time, thought Carter, It's time for you to prove yourself. As 610 Squadron descended into the massive dogfight, it only intensified. Now Carter could make out a German transport, which was being harried by the 109s everywhere. That was probably where the rest of 319 was.

"Sword 16, everything's on you now. Pick a target and make the call. We'll go in behind your back. Sword 15 out."

Carter closed his eyes. This was his first combat experience since 1937, and even that was with inferior aircraft. No, he thought, putting aside all of his inconfident worries and focused on the battle at hand. He opened his eyes and looked up. The rest of the Golds were above him and behind him, in the clouds. He could make out the figures of their shadows, but he doubted the Messers would. He scanned the skies, trying to pick out his first, and hopefully, not his last, target.

There. A lone BF-109, possibly a D variant, who had just finished a pass on the transport's left wing. It hadn't spotted him, but Carter had spotted it. It continued flying away, banking to the right preparing to make another pass. Carter would stop him.

Yanking his stick hardly, he began a barrel roll and dove on the unsuspecting 109. Pulling up, the unsuspecting Messerschmidt swerved to avoid him. He had presumably radioed to his squadron leader (As Carter had just now deduced that the aircraft he was going after wasn't the squadron leader, dismayed), who had begun diverting aircraft in his direction. They were approaching fast, but not fast enough to prevent Carter from ripping into the 109's elevator.

Shards of metal flew back as carter let his guns loose. He paused for a second, to stop his guns from jamming, then continued. He couldn't keep track of how fast or slow time was going. He kept on hammering the 109, which was growing weaker by the second. Now, he didn't care about his guns jamming, he just wanted to kill the bastard. Suddenly, part of the 109's left wing exploded into several brilliant shades of yellow and orange. Although Carter didn't think the pilot had been killed (though probably severely injured), the Messer slowed, so slow that it passed under him, and then, gracefully, it descended through the clouds to it's fate.

Carter rejoiced.

After making sure there were no 109s paying attention to the clouds above (Most of them were chasing him, rather determinedly), he radioed to Gold Flight, "All right, guys, let 'em loose!"

[Morrdh]

"Stagfoot, this is Throphy." Flight Lieutenant Morgan called out over the radio. "We're the Beaufighters, double check your visuals before you open fire please."

"Trophy Lead to squadron," Morgan said after he'd switched the channel. "We've got friendlies inbound, those needing to can RTB now. The rest of you cover our wounded crates."

Morgan's observer alerted him to a German fighter diving down from above, cursing Morgan cut the throttle and pulled back on the stick before opening fire with the quad 20mm cannons as the surprised Hun flew down past him. His cannons soon clicked dry as he used up the last of his ammo, though he was awarded with seeing the 109 burst into flames and then explode. He flipped the radio switch and called out. "Trophy Lead, we're now withdrawing. Happy hunting Stagfoot and Sword."

[United Kingdom of Poland]

Back at Tempsford, the lanky flight controller and his aide squinted as their ears attempted to clean out the voice of an Excalibur pilot responding from the crackles and buzzes of radio static. The two rolled their eyes as the man relayed the casualty figures that they had just gone over, sighing as the feared reports were in fact true. Upon the pilot finishing, the tower chief bent over into the microphone to speak.

"We are aware of the situation, Sword 5. Can you patch us through to Sword Leader? Her standard line has gone dark, do copy over."

As he spoke, the officer gently tapped the shoulder of his adjutant, whom instantly nodded as he understood what to do. Rushing for another radio set, the younger man twisted and turned with the knobs.

---

Miles across the Channel, the loosely gathered formation of RAF fighters from 319 and 610 Squadrons received yet another set of new orders from their controllers.

"Tempsford to all units: Sword elements have reported in and are hard pressed against what they count to be at least ten enemy fast movers. Further combat elements are anticipated to reach the area within the hour; we're deploying in more assets to assist, but they'll take some time to mobilize. Stand by for new course. . ."

As the tower relayed their new flight paths, which always ended up leading into a hailstorm of bullets and cannon fire, Vegesack relayed situation in his head.

There's ten of us and twelve of them - it should be an even engagement; unless if their reinforcements get there faster than us. After all, the fight's closer to them.

When the tower closed its message, he relayed his thoughts to Allistor, whom amusingly was less than surprised at the notion; he had been thinking the exact same thing in all the while.

"I suppose that we're on the same degree of intelligence, aren't we Tom?" chuckled the Swede, a rather discomforting uneasiness building up inside him as the dark shadow of mainland Europe drew ever closer, "Feels like Dunkirk all over again."

A moment of silence followed, as if the two friends dove into reflection about those dramatic days over the northern coast of France, covering the fleets of "little ships" that served as the mythos for the so called "Dunkirk spirit" of the British people. Vegesack recalled flying over massive formations of demoralized and defeated troops sitting on the cramped beaches, waiting to be ferried back home with an admirable patience as German artillery and air strikes mercilessly rained down upon them. He remembered how during one harrowing sortie over the shrinking defensive perimeter, a full squadron of Boulton Paul Defiants fighting alongside his had been decimated to only five machines by the end of the day, despite the frantic efforts of the Spitfires and several nearby Hurricanes to protect them.

"You said it right friend." replied Allistor, "Now let's cut the chatter because I'm seeing movement at ten and eleven o' clock. Say again, all units, this is Stagfoot Leader; I've got movement at ten and eleven o' clock do you copy?"

Vegesack sighed as he realized that they may have just arrived at their destination, a full on dogfight over enemy territory for the most part.

If anyone gets downed from this point on, there going to have a particularly hard time swimming back across the Channel.

Peering hard to the side of the canopy, he noticed ahead amongst the fragile wisps of cloud cover a massive and messy formation of what appear to be seabirds tangling in a mad hunt for perhaps a ball of fish in the sea below.

That is, what he had hoped it to be; he already knew what he was in for the second he could help but see that these birds, even if seen from a distance, had wings that refused to flap. Some were even urinating gray trails of smoke, which turned black with increased ferocity over the period of seconds.

This was it, and his tongue sliced into the airwaves.

"Sword 15 to Stagfoot Leader: positive on the visual. It's what we're looking for - your boys up in arms?"

Allistor was quick to respond, "Solid. We've made up a plan, let's stick to it; get your blokes to cover above while we go in first, ease the bullets flying at your backs."

"Copy, Stagfoot." smiled Vegesack with grim anticipation, the adrenaline entering his system, "Lead us in Tom."

He watched as the friendly Spitfires towards his east side burst into motion and made wide arcing swoops towards the fighting flocks of dots and lines across on the horizon. In the meantime, he briefed his own wingmen flying besides him.

"Sword 15 to all Gold Swords: it is time my friends. Our allies in Stagfoot will cover our advance as they will assail the enemy first, whom are all but just about the horizon to our northwest. In the meantime, we will ascend to favorable height and attack the enemy from above. Our friend in the Hurricane will lead us as planned, and we will cover him. Follow my lead, climbing angels now. Sword 15 out."

He lifted the stick, sending his Spitfire into a twenty degree climb, the nimble aircraft slashing through a thin cloud like a straw through water. Waiting for his wingmen to catch up, Vegesack lowered the stick after nearly two full minutes of flight, looking down from his vantage point to see a particularly ferocious dogfight only intensified by the arrival of 610 Squadron.

"Sword 16, everything's on you now. Pick a target and make the call. We'll go in behind your back. Sword 15 out."

Matt strained to here the reply over the sound of the wind howling in his ear. Copy that, over." Next he tried hailing the stricken transport. Lead this is 5, reinforcments are arriving but base is trying to raise you, over."

[The Tiger Kingdom]

"Flight Lieutenant," he uttered, his voice as set and clear as he could be under the circumstances, "I, as Squadron Leader of 319 Squadron, am ordering you, and everyone else on this plane, to parachute out on my order. I will hold this plane above parachute altitude as long as I can in order to get us above friendly territory and make sure you've got the best chance possible of landing safely. I will then endeavor to land this plane as best I can. This is a direct order, and is not going to be countermanded. Staff Sergeant Smythe, see that it is carried out."

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

The words hit Page in the gut like a sucker-punch. For a second, he felt the cold fury, and what was more, the untrammeled hurt rising up in him at this, this...betrayal. It was ridiculous! Couldn't Smythe see what he was doing? He was such a ridiculous rule-follower, couldn't the Staff Sergeant realize that he hadn't only been completely out of line, what with having just accused his CO of being a murderer in front of the entire squadron, he had no right to second-guess that same CO - who had been tortured for a month and a half by the enemy, who hadn't broken, who had seen and gone through shit that the Staff Sergeant couldn't even fathom, assuming the regulation-fetishizing little psycho even was capable of fathoming anything - like this? And couldn't Alix see that she was wrong and that he was right? Was she so wrapped up in her own obsession with command-

And then it hit him that the exact same thing could be said of him, and realizing that somewhere in the last few weeks, he'd simultaneously turned so sickeningly callous, self-pitying, and self-obsessed that it made him want to vomit. For the first time, he considered what all his behavior must've looked like to the rest of the squadron, carrying on like things hadn't changed...expecting everybody to jump to his word just like the old days, when it was clear that Alix had taken over in his absence, exactly as he'd planned months ago if such a situation should come to pass, and stretched herself to the limit trying to pick up his slack - and he'd just walked all over that like an idiot.

He still felt like he had the right idea, but it was clear that he wasn't agreed with - and that he didn't have the right to overrule anybody here.

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

"The same as I've already said," the Flight Lieutenant growled, staring daggers at Page as she shucked her chute. "All of you, get back to the doors and get your chutes ready. As soon as we get over land, jump for it. I'll make sure you know."
Page resignedly hit a last few switches and pulled himself out of the seat as Alix slid into the copilot's seat. Off in the distance, the British coast finally hove into view, just a few minutes' flying away.
"You should have control over there. It handles like a whale, but it's otherwise just like the 52, just with a few more engines. Arnold, toss me that manual."
The Flight Lieutenant did so.
Page caught it one-handed and handed it to Alix, who promptly folded it out on her lap as she held the plane steady."

"Just hold this heading and this altitude, at this speed, and you'll be fine. If anything-"
"I think I've got it," Alix said intently, not looking back at him.

Page nodded to himself, unsure of what to say. She doesn't need my help. "Right, of course. Just...put it down somewhere soft, for God's sake."
"That's the plan. Now move, for God's sake."

Page picked the chute off of the floor and hesitantly pulled it on over his back as he walked off, wincing as a strap passed over his still-painful left arm. Every nerve in his body was screaming for him not to leave Alix behind like this, but it was out of his hands, now. He had the horrible feeling, already kicking in and killing his jaded sense of euphoria at liberation, that his freedom was going to come at the cost of Alix's life, but she was determined to do what she thought was right, she was the leader now, and that was the end of it. In the space of a year and a half with Excalibur, she'd gone from being a desk-bound secretary/intelligence analyst to a commando, entirely determined to stay behind on a crippled transport she had never flown before, in the middle of a raging air battle, for the sake of saving the rest of her team in order to save the harebrained rescue plans she'd devised herself - and was still confident that they could all come out of it alive.

As he formed up by the door, Page realized with a lump in his throat that he couldn't have been prouder.

---

Two of the pilots stayed behind in the cockpit as the rest dashed to the back.

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

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

Alix gritted her teeth through a rough patch of turbulence. The British coast was so close...she could see it...crawling infuriatingly, slowly closer...
"At the altitude we're working with here, there's going to be no difference between that water and concrete in terms of softness-"

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

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

"- and no, Talbot, sorry. I'm not leaving anybody in here. That's final. I have no idea what these Kraut chutes are rated for, and I can't actually remember what ours were rated at either, and I don't want to risk it. Get back there. That's an order."

---

A few minutes later as Page and the rest waited around the doors and the air battle raged outside (the fighters seemed to be keeping the Germans at a distance, thankfully, but it was too far for Page to identify either side solidly), and finally crawled below them.
"That's it!" Alix yelled back. "Bail out! Now!"
Page stood aside for the rest. "You heard her. Get going. I'll be right behind you all."

[Morrdh]

"Mam!" Charlie called back up the plane. "We'll have a pint waiting fer ya back at Tempsford, least we can do fer ya pulling off this crazy stunt!"

"Best of British mam." Added Charlie before he disappeared through the door and found himself in freefall for a moment before his chute opened.

---

"Skipper." Somebody called out over the radio amongst the surviving Beaufighters. "I see the second Whimpy!"

"Copy that, lets give 'em an escort lads." Flight Lieutenant Morgan replied. "Least to keep Jerry away from 'em."

---

As the ambulance sped along Kaya found herself drifting off as the morphine kicked in and dulled the sneering pain in her injured ankle.

[Gibberan]

Carter was hard-pressed. Extremely hard-pressed. He had already shot down one Messerschmidt, slightly damaged another, and was in the process of downing a third. However, he was almost out of ammunition; many of his shots had been near-misses and therefore wasted, and there were at least five, maybe more, 109s behind him. He himself had sustained heavy damage, and found it hard for his already weakened engine to go to higher altitudes.

He realized the whole time while he was thinking his fingers had been kept on the trigger, hammering away at the 109 in front of him. Suddenly, the 109's engine burst into smoke, and it plummeted down to Earth. The pilot opened the cockpit and quickly bailed out, much to Carter's dismay. The parachute opened, and the Luftwaffe pilot, struggling in his chute frantically, would probably land safely, unless someone in the squadron was able to take him out. This was a task that Carter couldn't do on account of his failing engine; if he went down to that altitude he probably wouldn't be able to come back up, and he'd be a sitting duck.

I must be seeing things, he thought, as in his mind he saw several other parachutes with the German pilot. Wait, no, those weren't German parachutes, they were Allied parachutes! But, where could they have came from? He looked up and saw the captured German transport, now smoking heavily, with a steady stream of Allied pilots falling down gracefully from the sky. They're bailing out, he thought immediately.

"Sword 15, this is Carter. It looks like our squadronmates have all bailed out. Should we head back?" He said into the radio, all the while trying to avoid the Messerschmidts on his tail.

[The balkens]

Joshua readied himself and at the instant he heard the order; hesitation.
Michael quickly remedied this by yelling "You heard the woman! GET THE FUCK OUT, FLYING OFFICER!" Michael had his chute readied for a moment and pushed his brother out as he exited.
Joshua screamed bloody murder, for a instant he was in freefall. then, like a weight lifted from him, his chute opened. With a sigh of relief, Joshua looked around for the rest of the team. Then, Michael came into view. "MICHAEL! YOU......YOU-ARGH!"

[Kouralia]

"Good luck, ma'am! It's been a pleasure under your command!" Smythe shouted before making his way to the back of the plane. "GO, Go, Go!" he screamed at the Zilorski brothers until they'd both left, turning, he watched Fodder leap past him, before noticing Page. Making his way over, he leaned in close so the Officer could hear him over the noise. "Sorry, sir! I didn't mean to act disobediently back there in the cockpit, but..." he left the sentence hanging. "Good luck, see you on the ground!"

Smythe jumped.

[The balkens]

location unknown

Dietrich fought hard for control of the doomed Heinkel, it was now in a spiral, bleeding oil and aviation fuel.
he thought of his lover in Paris, wondering if he will ever see her again. to his mother back home in Prussia. he regretted not knowing too well of his fathers career in the imperial air service. at around one thousand feet, the craft righted it self and Dietrich had precious little control over it.

he then saw the coast of what he thought was France. Dietrich kicked his rudder right and aimed the dying fighter straight at it.
moments passed and he was finally over land. he then guided the ruined craft down to earth at very low speed. he was ditching it, in hopes of using the fighter in later battles after repairs. Dietrich braced himself for impact, the heinkel skidded across the wet dirt and grass. it was another terrifying moment before the craft finally rested. now Dietrich was presented with a new problem, sparks ignited the gas line, he could smell it. breaking the canopy open, he dashed out, only having time to retrieve his Walther PP. running away from the now burning wreck, he was sure he was in France. then, it dawned on him. "FUCK!" he screamed as he dropped to his knees. he remembered seeing white cliffs, Dover. punching the soil in bitter anger. Dietrichs next priority was getting the hell out.

[Le-Quebec]

Vegesack's eyes strained as they were forced open, stalking the bulky and rough outline of Sword 16's Hurricane as if it were a nude woman out in a busy street. He watched as it's pilot finally picked a sample of prey below, lifting up a wing and suddenly twirling like a strip of confetti in a parade. Looking ahead of the aircraft, he caught eye of the Hurricane's chosen victim - an all to familiar Bf-109 that had wandered slightly too far from its comrades after finishing an attack run against . . .

One of its own transports?

His jaw dropping behind his oxygen mask in astonishment, he glanced below to see a struggling Junkers transport of sorts; it had to at least one of that company's, the main line heavy lifting arm of the German aviation industry. He was amused to see that this was an apparently new model, with an additional engine in comparison to the prominent Ju 52. It also had twin vertical stabilizers located directly behind the engines, a quite new feature usually unpopular with Junkers designs. It seemed larger than the other variants that he had seen and flown over the course of his life, and justified that it must've been a very recent addition to the Luftwaffe's wing since he didn't remember seeing it on the identification charts and manuals presented by the RAF. Otherwise, there was little time to admire the engineering beauty of the aircraft; exactly three of its four engines had been knocked out of action, with two being smoking wrecks while a third lacked a propeller to begin with.

"Sword 16, we're going in behind you. Push ahead. 15 out."

Vegesack thrust the control stick forward, twisting it hard to the right as his Spitfire danced into a fearsome barrel role as it dived a decent distance behind the Hurricane. Without having to glance upwards in the direction of the Hurricane, the jagged body of a Bf-109 zipped past the gold crosshairs of the electric reflector gunsight; the Germans had caught on.

"Sword Gold, engage!" he hissed into the radio as he pressed the trigger, sending a sparkling array of white hot tracers flying at the enemy aircraft ahead. The German responded quickly, sending his stiffer aircraft into a careening tangle as he dodged the majority of Vegesack's shots. Nevertheless, he would have second thoughts on going after the Hurricane as he had originally planned.

For the moment, that was all that mattered - cover Sword 16 or else he goes down.

Suddenly, Vegesack felt a pressing spirit behind his cockpit from his gut, followed by several orange wisps darting above his canopy. He knew all too well that someone not very friendly had come in behind his tail, and yanked the stick upwards and pushed it to the left to swing off the Messerschmitt determined to smite him. As expected by the Swede, the German managed to keep his bead on the Spitfire, but not without a certain degree of hasty sloppiness that made it look messy compared to the British aircraft. Vegesack had always gotten that strange certain feeling ever since he had arrived in first China and then Britain, for he was perhaps one of the only airmen in the RAF whom had actually flown, lest actually fought, in the very machines he would be pitted against whilst he flew on in first Messerschmitts', then Polikarpovs, and up to now, Spitfires.

There was no time to flash back to the cloudy horizons of the Jarama Valley, nor the vast green of the Wuhan plains. There was only the crisp waters of the English Channel that occupied Vegesack's mind, and the desperate need to avoid plunging into them at the hands of the very plane that he had flown over the first geographic location listed. He drew back on the throttle to lessen his airspeed, the respective analog gauge assigned to measure so shyly retreating to the left as it did so. The engine groaned pitifully in response, the sound being followed by a massive gray and yellow phantom gliding across the view of the Spitfire's canopy.

Vegesack smiled in satisfaction - the German had overshot him.

His view of the dogfight encircling him and his wingmen, whom were presumably attending to their own busy affairs, drastically narrowed as his eyes juggled glaring at the rectangular buttocks of the Messerschmitt ahead and flashing at the jet black cover and chalk white readings of the instrument panel only inches below. He inhaled deeply as he pushed the control stick sharply to the side, anticipating the numbness of the head so notoriously associated with his aircraft's greatest advantage over that of its arch nemesis - it's G-force pulling sharp turn. In the several agonizing seconds that it took for his Spitfire to bank into the general direction of the German's yellow painted tail, Vegesack's vision briefly blurred and his senses fell faint as the blood in his body violently rushed to his head.

It all ended just as soon as it begun however, and he found himself staring straight through the bright crosshairs at the seductive rear end of the Messerschmitt.

Pursing his lips in adrenaline, he opened fire.

As his finger held on the fateful button, it triggered an internal mechanism that spurned the release of .303 caliber rifle rounds from their cages of the eight US-modeled M1919 Browning machine guns located within the inch thick wings of the Spitfire, each of the automatic weapons being fitted with exactly 350 rounds of ammunition to supply their hunger for fire. With a bristling rate of fire of 1200 rounds of hot copper per minute from each of these guns, each of the four seconds that Vegesack had his hand on the trigger would have 20 spewing out from each of the eight machine guns. As six hundred and forty .303 caliber rifle bullets rocketed out at 844 meters, the distance of nearly nine football pitches, per second into the cold and chilly Atlantic air with the firepower of nearly an entire company of infantry, about half of them were able to find their marks in that of the icy aluminum of the Bf-109 so unfortunately caught in the golden electric crosshairs of Vegesack's Spitfire.

His eyes refused to relent as they witnessed the barrage of British bullets rip into the lower left underside of the German aircraft, the copper projectiles tearing straight inside the general three to four meters revolving around the German pilot's feet, which housed the retraction mechanisms for the aircraft's undercarriage, the wing and fuselage fairings, the master compass, and as well as the elevator control linkage. As all off the expensively churned instruments mentioned suffered the wrath of being shot up by fourteen pounds of hot copper and brass, the wireless leads located just three feet behind the back of the wounded machine's pilot snapped and twanged as a handful of rounds of the British rifle ammunition stabbed through the aluminum frame encompassing it while the 114 liter methanol water tank and as well as the three oxygen canisters that enabled the respiratory function of the aircraft's pilot, whom could only fiercely yank at his now useless controls, perched mere inches above violently burst like overburdened balloons.

All of this internal destruction could only be seen by Vegesack as a series of silver and black particles being ripped off of his now vanquished opponent, the bottom keel and connector stringer of the latter simply dislodging without effort at the encouragement of the hellfire of the Spitfire two to three football fields behind it. In fact, it had all happened so fast that the German wasn't even aware of his misfortune until the under-floor contoured fuel tank directly below his boots caught fire at the spark of a couple specially designed incendiary rounds with all of the flamboyant glory of 400 liters of high 87 octane B4 fluid.

By then, his fallen opponent had long given up the fight, the once pristine 42,900 Reichsmark sculpture of German engineering having been disfigured by the corrosive acid that was the chipping power of a full British infantry company. Wounded, it lazily limped over to the side, a silky long blood stream of black following it behind as it disappeared behind the thick white of a low hanging coastal cloud. Whether or not the Messerschmitt's pilot had managed to safely escape the doomed craft was to be discovered later - for now, Vegesack had much more urgent matters to attend to.

"Sword 15, this is Carter. It looks like our squadron-mates have all bailed out. Should we head back?" He said into the radio, all the while trying to avoid the Messerschmitts on his tail.

The broadcast reminded him of the young man manning the Hurricane, whose aircraft, to Vegesack's controlled horror, had inevitably sustained battle damage in a severity that he had at all expected; the brown fabric covered rudders and elevators now resembled some sort of rotten Swiss cheese, while the aluminum skin of the wing bore horrific puncture wounds that dangerously stabbed into the aircraft's flap structure and ammunition boxes. The Hurricane itself was bleeding a thin but thickening string of white aviation fuel, while it clearly appeared that its pilot was becoming beleaguered in his efforts to keep the robust animal aloft.

Bastards must have grouped in on him while I took that one down.

Despite being utterly caught off guard by the fellow's notion of having wingmen who had all bailed out, he responded quickly to his fellow comrade in the Hurricane, whom had presumably stated his name instead of his call-sign by accident. Although he expected slightly better from an established airman as the young blonde man, it was still understandable in the bottle rattling fury that was combat.

"Not until the enemy has been handled completely, 16; what do you mean that we have wingmen who've bailed out? Have they've been shot down?" he gulped as his eyes took in the sight of what appeared to be a full dozen of milk white parachutes arrayed over the green pastures of the Kentish coastline, "You're not saying that they were from that - thing, are you?"

Suddenly a familiar voice cracked over the airwaves.

"Stagfoot Leader to all Swords; I can't believe this, but some damn Jerry bastard in a Junkers we've never seen before just managed to slip across the Channel with us. He's just dropped a full stick of paratroops - my section's moving in to smoke him, over."

Vegesack could only watch silently as Allistor slowly slid his Spitfire cleanly behind the four engined Junkers, clearly with hostile intent. He switched the radio without hesitation, for it would only be a matter seconds before his old friend in 610 Squadron would put his finger on the bad button and send the strange German aircraft straight into sleep amongst the grass bed of the English countryside. Then were was a strange feeling, and he shot his eyes up a hand's length just above Allistor's craft. Several speckled spots along the high clouds seemed to arc steadily towards the Squadron Leader in Vegesack's general direction.

The uneasiness in Vegesack's bowels was only confirmed by a shrill call over the wireless.

"Stagfoot Leader, this is Four! You've got bandits at two o'clock high!"

Vegesack could only gun the joystick in horror as his close companion, the one that had gotten the closest to him during his time with 610, cursed in response; "Gah! Where did they come from?!"

He watched fiercely as Allistor promptly delivered a messy volley of tracer fire just as he banked sharply to the side of the wounded Junkers, prompting the four engine animal's last living engine to cough and ignite. While a small side of Vegesack certainly did pity whomever had the noble courage to man the doomed hulk, saving Allistor from the flight of enemy fighters that had steadily hid amongst the clouds until now had to come first. As he caught eye of his friend's own wingmen rush to his aid in all directions, Vegesack called upon his own to assist.

"Sword 15 to all Golds; Stagfoot Leader has just been bounced by several bandits and is in need of relief! Move in to assist! Out!"

As he mobilized his wingmen, the Swede noticed that the once hectic nature of the battle was being to die down steadily, like a storm in the midst of the sky clearing and the Sun rising. He smiled in a minor triumph as the Germans had presumably begun to withdraw, either out of their dwindling fuel stocks, which famously could only last ten minutes over London, or simply out of the fear that they'd rather be brought down over the Channel than British soil where they could have an at least decent chance of being rescued than captured. Yet as he sped miles high above across a scenic view of the chalk white cliffs of Dover, he wondered of what the whole past few minutes, especially with Allistor and the mysterious Junkers, looked like through the eyes of the dozen of parachutists whom had presumably ditched from the strange German aircraft.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Sturmscharfuhrer Adalbert Eicke had a splitting headache and an arm that felt like it was on fire.

Taking groggy inventory of what his current status was, he flashed back to his last few moments of consciousness before the blackout. Guarding the prisoners...odd noises...and a sudden firefight that he and his men had been on the wrong side of. Judging from the styles of pain now assaulting his body, he guessed that he'd been grazed by a bullet on his arm, was spun around and knocked on his ass by the bullet, and had hit his head, thus explaining the head pain and the blackout itself.

This was, to put it mildly, extraordinarily embarrassing. It was enough to send a proud German fighting man into an incoherent rage. and if there were any English still lurking around up here...

But his common sense kicked in before he could jump up and look for trouble. He could hear, over the rumble and cough of the engines (the noise considerably quiter now - had some of them stopped functioning?), the voices of the infiltrators, speaking in English, could hear them walking around and conversing with each other. Eicke wasn't exactly fluent (French had been more his style), but he picked up sentences and tried to parse them for meaning. Getting up now and attacking would be nothing short of assisted suicide on his part, he was smart enough to see that. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself...

He held his breath as best he could and shut his eyes, mimicking a cadaver, as he listened and tried to figure out a plan.

"... not letting this fucker get even close to the radio again. Get up here and - oh, God. Yeah, you're going to have to move a body..."

"...Ye know, we could still double up on one of the 'chutes. Go with the lightest buggers we have and then have 'em bail out over the Channel, the water should ..."

“I hate to interrupt your party,” he said, leaning on the bulkhead to prop himself up, “but if we’re picking who gets to be the odd man out, why don’t you look at some cold, hard facts...”

After a few minutes of listening, and some furtive glances around the interior of the cabin whenever he could without drawing attention, the situation seemed clear enough. The aim of the commando team had been, of course, to free the prisoners. that was their goal, and they'd succeeded. But something had gone wrong (maybe the SS had decided that they'd destroy the lane if they'd lost control of the transport?), and they were going to have to leave the aircraft in a hurry. The pilots looked to be dead, if the bodies in the cockpit were any indication. As their discussion drew to a close, the entire group of commandos and prisoners tramped to the back of the aircraft, all of them donning parachutes on their backs, looking tense and strained.

Eicke's mind whirred. What could he do? He still couldn't take all of them on without signing his own death warrant. Maybe he could attack them while they were debarking...get the last few of them...and steal one of their chutes? Could that work?

It seemed the best shot that he had.

The English debarked, one by one, out the side, jumping into the wind. Four left...three...two...one...

This last one hesitated for a second. To his considerable delight, Eicke noticed it was one of the prisoners, and even better, the highest-ranking of the prisoners, who had gotten the worst of Major von Sporrenburg's treatment. The man was weakened, starved, barely able to stand - and even at his best, was maybe half Eicke's weight. It wouldn't even be a contest. Eicke could rip him apart like a sheet of paper, even with his injuries.

Worth going for a gun?

He couldn't see one. Would take too long, expose himself. He could finish this hand to hand.

He steeled himself, and in a lightning motion, pulled himself up and launched himself at the English officer-

---

"Mam!" Charlie called back up the plane. "We'll have a pint waiting fer ya back at Tempsford, least we can do fer ya pulling off this crazy stunt!"

"Best of British mam." Added Charlie before he disappeared through the door and found himself in freefall for a moment before his chute opened.

"Good luck, ma'am! It's been a pleasure under your command!" Smythe shouted before making his way to the back of the plane.

Alix couldn't help a half-smile at their shouted approbations. It was a good feeling, and in a better time, she'd have really been knocked out by it, but she was so tense flying what was increasingly the carcass of a once-functioning plane, it barely registered.
Once we get back on the ground, we'll have time to process all of this.

She could hear them yell as they leaped from the craft. Momentarily distracting herself from the morass of disaster that was the JU 89's instrument display, she began to look for a logical place to set down. Her eyes darted around, searching increasingly desperately for anything that looked like it might work, but nothing seemed like an apparent landing field - the area below was too crowded by farms and buildings, the fields were too small and hedged-in, the ground too hilly. Off to the northwest, she could see the line of what looked to be a fairly large (and hopefully fairly deep) river or canal. Carefully, she began to nudge the plane towards it. Hopefully this thing won't just crack up on hitting the water...

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud BANG from the rear of the aircraft. For a second, she was afraid that it was another 109 run and that the 89 was finished now, but it sounded like it was coming from inside the cabin. She spared a second to turn and look...

[The balkens]

Dover
"oh it had to be Dover! Just had to be!" Dietrich cursed the stinging bad luck that had fallen on to him. Walking down the road towards the nearest town. There was a rather large home that stood out, perhaps he could get some clothes. Perhaps he could blend in...

Tip-toeing to a first floor window, he broke the pane nearest the lock and twisted it towards the unlock position. Dietrich leaped inside, keeping his PP handy. He could hear running water and a woman humming. Perhaps the owner was taking a shower. Finding what he thought was the master bed room, he rummaged through the drawers and closets. Then, he noticed a picture of a couple on the top of it. After rather close inspection, Dietrich was horrified to find out who occupied the home other then the woman in the shower.
ZILORSKI!? he was truly in the lions den! Cursing his worsening luck, dietrich decided it was not worth finding a disguise in a home that his rival had been staying. Then Dietrich heard a sound that he feared. The front door opened...
"Miss stevens! Your father said you wanted a package?!"
The woman known as Stevens answered. "I'll come and take care of it later!" "right."

The door shut. Dietrich did not hesitate to sprint down and chase after the leaving post man.
"Halt!" he wisphered loudly. The postman stopped dead in his tracks. "Aw shite!" "is that your car?" "er.....yea....who are you?" Dietrich only gave him as little info as possible. "I am a Luftwaffe pilot. You will drive me to the nearest civilian air field and you will keep that mouth shut." Dietrich was impressed. Things were looking up now. As they awkwardly got in the car, Dietrich kept his gun pointed at him at all times. "so......" Dietrich asked. "you in the army?" "uh...yea. Courier service basically." "uh huh." a few moments later, they stopped at a rail crossing. Then Dietrich saw a truck coming over the horizon from the north. It was a army truck! "go....." Dietrich ordered. But the man would not follow orders. "Go......." dietrich's voice was growing louder. "GO!" the truck was in full view. Dietrich stuck his pistol in the drivers gut, fired and slammed the gear shift in to reverse and stomped on the gas pedal. "FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!" he yelled. He was hoping not to kill anyone at all. "FUCK." he screamed again. The truck was now pursuing him at speed.....

[United Kingdom of Poland]

Polanski saw the Spitfire lining up on the transport that Noble and the rest were bailing out of. Before he could hit the radio the Spit opened up taking out the last remaining engine. Of course, if things weren't bad enough the idiots in the control tower didn't bother to tell our allies that we had friendlies in the transport, fucking compartmentalization. "All allied aircraft this is sword 5, hold fire on the transport. the transport is friendly, I repeat the transport is with us." Of course knowing their luck one of the pilots would mistake his polish acent for a german one and would assume the whole squadron was a bunch of german spies. Matt knew what would come next. Just like in Poland they would start attacking the group stuck in their chutes. " Excalibur this is sword 5, we need to protect our guys floating down.They are sitting ducks right nw. I don't want any German getting within 100 feet of them unless he's on fire or in a parachute themselves."

[The Tiger Kingdom]

As the last of the assault team made their soaring departure from the craft, Page braced himself in the doorway and hesitantly looked down. Below him was the great sweep of the English countryside, almost painfully green and pretty to the eye (even through the sparseness of winter, although Page had to admit his deprivation from the outside world may have contributed slightly to his appreciation for the tableau), sparkling under the harsh, cold, now unobstructed winter sun. The cold wind blasted him, and clad only in his thin prison garb, he finally realized how shiveringly cold he was, his body trembling involuntarily. But he didn't unduly mind. It was, he realized, the kind of discomfort he was very comfortable with if it meant escaping this with his life.

The thought of the freedom the land below represented made the view even prettier. The thought of escaping...of being free was almost too sweet to even encompass. He couldn't even process it at the moment - hell, he was still trying to make sure this wasn't a dream. For a second, despite the air battle raging around him and the dire circumstances the plane was in, he just stood there and drank in the possibilities that freedom offered
I'll be able to fly again...see my family again...see Cutler again...and punch him where it counts...accidentally, of course...
He shook himself out of it. Bah, enough ruminating. Let's just get this over with.

He took a deep breath, the exhaled air hanging in a haze in front of him that was then whipped out the side as he tried to psych himself up. It had been a long, long time since he'd had to do this, and he'd never particularly learned to enjoy it. Back when he'd first enlisted, he'd had to struggle hard to conquer his fear of heights when flying, and he'd made himself proud when he succeeded, given enough time - but when it came time for parachute practice, it was like undoing all that mental progress he'd made and facing the fear totally fresh once again. Even with freedom beckoning, it took some psyching up to be ready to throw himself outside.

Even harder than the thought of jumping down into that void, though, was the thought of leaving Alix behind. He had faith in her abilities, of course - the rescue proved she had the touch for this sort of thing, and even before that, he knew that she had been trained, albeit a bit cursorily, on these sorts of planes before. But the idea of jumping off of a burning plane while his rescuer stayed on, no matter how feasibly possible their ultimate survival was in the end, made him feel like dirt. The fact that it was Alix was just one more twist of the knife.
It's been years since I had to follow an order like that. Can't remember one I felt worse about following.

For a last second, he pondered disobeying the command, turning back from the doorway. But, as the plane began to nose towards a nearby river, the presumable landing (water-ing?) destination, he sighed and decided against it.
Time to show a little faith. For God's sake, Flight Lieutenant, good luck, and if there's somebody Up There, they'd better be helping you out. You've earned it.

He was ready. He braced himself once more, closed his eyes, one hand on his jump cord, and -

-And then a fucking freight train (for that was the only feeling Page could immediately call to mind that captured the visceral power of the impact) hit him from the side, throwing him along the side wall of the cabin, his head striking the metal with a dull thud. In a flash, Page was on the ground with someone on top of him, someone in a black uniform who was built like a gorilla and looked very, very angry, their hands around his throat. Reflexively, Page threw his right knee, which thwocked very satisfyingly into this undead(?) SS trooper's groin. He didn't let go, but he definitely felt it - his hands on Page's throat loosened as he grunted in pain, giving Page the neck maneuverability to lunge forward and (in what he offhandedly realized was quickly becoming his signature move) bit the SS trooper with all the force he could muster on his exposed left wrist.

The German screamed in pain as he withdrew his arm and pulled back his right for a massive haymaker that caught Page on the right cheek, snapping his head around like the cylinder on a revolver, blackening his vision and causing a small explosion inside his head-

[Le-Quebec]

"All units, this is RAF Tempsford: Fighter Command has caught wind of the battle that's being carried over into the northeast end of the North Weald Sector. Friendly assets are being called up from the nearest bases to the fight, and North Weald is sending in flights from 249 Squadron callsigned Arrow and Shamrock, say again, friendly units are en route call-signed Arrow and Shamrock. ETA in seven minutes."

The voice of the flight controller boomed in Vegesack's ears as he brought his aircraft in a broad sweep around the tail end of the crippled Junkers transport, which amazingly possessed the integral endurance to continue aloft without disintegrating at any moment. Frantically cocking his head about in search of Allistor's Spitfire, he was reminded of one certain issue that needed to be addressed rather quickly.

"Sword 16, permission is granted for you to bug out. You're job this day is done. All other Gold Swords may head along home with him as to provide escort; the enemy is withdrawing from the field and friendly reinforcements are on their way to relieve us. Sword 15 out."

A muddy brown round and elliptical blot soon could then be seen darting from one lazy patch of marine layer to another above spanning the distance of the view across Vegesack's cockpit. In a rather sloppy pattern, various gray and white rectangular and boxy silhouettes closely following it were superseded by other brown roundish figures closely tailing behind, as if posing for some bizarre aerial abstract artwork. To many a fighter pilot such as Vegesack by this time, the aforementioned sight only meant one thing; an elongated aerial dogfight with entire sections of opposing wingmen trying to relieve each other of hostiles behind them. In Vegesack's eyes, it could be compared to a group of men trying to scratch each other's backs in an attempt to be rid of the single flea that jumped on one of them. To the Swede, the sight was what he had been looking for - it was Allistor and his squadron tapping in a mad tango with a German equivalent.

Since the dogfight had started on one opposite end of the Channel to be brought over another, Vegesack couldn't help but notice that the Luftwaffe airmen pitted against them came in primarily two species: both showed particular bravado and ferocity in combat, but one of the kind seemed to lose its dedication to the fight as it dragged increasingly into British airspace. These Messerschmitt pilots seemed to melt away back to the safety of France upon the first chance of being dislodged with the RAF Spitfires tasked with engaging them. Their performance was contradicted with that of their remaining comrades however, who seemed stunningly oblivious to the fact that they were throwing themselves into enemy territory and whom apparently didn't shy at the thought of doing so. The Swede also took note that the tactics used by these resilient adversaries had a tendency to be much more aggressive and gritting than their shier peers.

The only logical explanation to this, though Vegesack, was that he and his comrades were currently pitted against hardened veterans of the fierce summer and autumn clashes of last year. To add to the worries, the Bf-109's that they were now dealing with were, like bloodhounds unhooked from their leases, unhindered by the rules of engagement so frustratingly pressed upon them during their time baby sitting bomber formations here and there across the Channel. Thus, the German pilots roaming the Anglian skies were now free to maneuver with whatever tricks up their sleeves that they wished.

[/i] "All allied aircraft this is sword 5, hold fire on the transport. the transport is friendly, I repeat the transport is with us." Of course knowing their luck one of the pilots would mistake his polish acent for a german one and would assume the whole squadron was a bunch of german spies. Matt knew what would come next. Just like in Poland they would start attacking the group stuck in their chutes. " Excalibur this is sword 5, we need to protect our guys floating down.They are sitting ducks right nw. I don't want any German getting within 100 feet of them unless he's on fire or in a parachute themselves."

They've could've told us that earlier - what is this mad stunt? A defection? This is nothing like I've ever seen before!

A European accented voice rang through Vegesack's ears, the options of his nationality being most likely of either the exiled Dutch, Poles or Czech airmen serving within the RAF; he had fought alongside several elements of these foreign units the past autumn, and had even gotten to interview a Czech pilot who had crash landed at Biggin Hill whom he had helped escape from his burning aircraft. In the meantime, the man call-signed Sword 5 continued his report, stating that the rest of 319 squadron should fix their goals on protecting their paradropped allies pathetically drifting about in the sea wind. Vegesack didn't really know what to say, for he was actively confused about why a large group of "friendlies" were doing about camping up in a German transport aircraft and why the Germans had been so fixed on bringing it down into the sea? Was it some sort of prisoner rescue? If so, then how did the British manage to smuggle in operatives to hijack the aircraft in the first place?

"Sword 5, this is 15; there is a lessening need to buzz about our friends in the parachutes. The Germans are running low in strength and are turning back - it's only a matter of fending them off so that our reinforcements can arrive to contribute. Stagfoot has just been bounced by a number of enemy movers and is in need of our assistance. Plus, it is unchivalrous and dishonorable to German pilots to shoot parachuted opponents - dogfighting is a literally a sport to them. 15 out."

Allistor returned just as he finished, "Sword 5, this is Stagfoot: well, tell your friends who've got the dumb sense to stay in that burning wreck that I'm sorry; think you lot can quit escorting that doomed thing and help my boys out here? It's only a couple Jerries - they just have to see you come in and they'll be running for France in no time! Stagfoot out."

Vegesack chuckled through his flight mask as he took in the sour pessimism in his friend's voice. Without waiting for his wingmen, whom were now unneeded and free to assist their official squadron with the battle largely at hand, and as well as Sword 5 and the rest of the returning 319 members, the Swede curved the joystick, sending his bird in a deep slash in the direction of the hay ball that entangled 610 Squadron.

[The balkens]

Dover
Dietrich commandeered car sped backwards down the road, but he was focused on the pursuing truck.
"WHY DIDN'T YOU FUCKING GO!?" he berated the dying driver. "because i got scared!" Dietrich was furious at himself and at the fact the driver got cold feet. "YOU GOT SCARED!?" "you held a gun to my head!" "you've been living in a country that has been on top of Germany's "invade here" list for how long!? and you're scarred now?!" the driver began to conk out. "HEY! don't you die on me you idi-" the car suddenly rear-ended itself into a roadside tree, wrapping its bumper around the trunk. Dietrich was dazed momentarily but shook himself into focus. the driver was dead, his skull busted and bleeding profusely. Dietrich staggered out of the now destroyed car, weapon still in hand. the truck that has been chasing them stopped and 5 homeguard soldiers leaped out of its back. knowing that he is now done for, Dietrich threw his weapon onto the ground. he put his hands up, pondering what awaits him. "this is not how i fucking planned my life...."

[Le-Quebec]

The deep blue of the Channel zoomed in as Vegesack's Spitfire threw itself into a cutting curve downwards from above, targeting the sloppy entanglement of 610 Squadron and the resilient last remaining Luftwaffe fighters with the courage to stand and fight for only a few minutes longer.

Either their obsessed with tallying up their kills, out for blood and vengeance against fallen comrades, or simply because they fear that we'll launch a counter sweep across the Channel.

The Swede's pondering was cut short by his aircraft punching through a puff of moist cloud and descending into the mad fur-ball that compromised Allistor's squadron. Despite the increasingly obvious fact that the dogfight was falling into the favors of the RAF, the remaining German pilots continued to relentlessly throw out defiance and daring from the controls of their fighter aircraft. Apparently, Allistor's wing-men had managed to throw their leader out of the cage of Messerschmidt's that had previously closed in on him, as his previously less than tasteful ramblings for assistance over the radio had ceased.

Nevertheless, Vegesack felt that he still had a sense of duty with his old friends in 610 Squadron, pressing his buck teeth against the soft skin of his lower lip as he swerved his aircraft along and then behind the flight path of the recognized boxy shape of a Bf-109. The latter itself was busily navigating the tight crevasses between a once prominent blob of cloud currently being torn into five halves by the conflicting wind currents around it. Suddenly without warning, the German's movement became all the more erratic and shaky, as if a man caught by a seizure.

He's caught on.

Vegesack slammed the throttle forward in response, jolting his body backwards against the cold brown rubber of his stiff seat as his aircraft rush through a stream of G's. The Messerschmidt pilot immediately followed suite, banking straight into a wall of cloud besides him to disorient the Spitfire's as the latter was making his moves to close in onto the German so that he could exploit the merits of his faster and tighter turn while neglecting his opponent's sturdy firepower and quicker dive.

Despite his respect for the Luftwaffe man desperate to shake him off, Vegesack sighed as he forced his metal kite to give chase; lowering his speed for a second as to discourage the German from hiding out in the vaporized water as to ambush him, the Swede popped out of his cloud cover as he came to realize that the pursuit had in fact taken him under the main fighting of the dogfight. Lifting his eyes up from the frantic readings on the altimeter, Vegesack suddenly caught the Bf-109's nude underside seemingly hover down from straight above. His eyes didn't blink as they greeted the Messerschmidt's boxy coolant radiators and pea pod undercarriage, both of which had the signature of being locked closer together than those on the aircraft's arch nemesis.

Unfortunately for the seemingly unsuspecting German, Vegesack happened to be flying it and against him in a time and place where British and German technology clashed with catastrophic consequences. For a second, he wondered whether this was the exact foe that had so nimbly evaded him only half a minute before; it seemed incredibly ironic for a Luftwaffe airman to have used the maximum of his sixth sense in shaking off a Spitfire, only to fly in a long and stable flight path without even feeling the presence of his opponent only meters below him.

The circumstances of the moment denied the Swede to linger any longer however, and Vegesack didn't hesitate to pitch up his bird perhaps only a narrow London crosswalk behind the yellow fin of the German and jab his thumb on the fire trigger.

In the process of about four seconds that it took to smash down the Messerschmidt, the tidal wave of hot brass ejected from the Spitfire's weaponry mostly smashed into the regions of the German's rear wings and tail side of its fuselage. In fact, the only factor that kept the German's tail from being torn to shreds by the British cat was that Vegesack had regrettably failed to request that the range of convergence on the machine-guns of his new second Spitfire be adjusted down to 82 meters from its RAF standard 228; the British people had lost 12,604 of their taxpaying pounds when Vegesack was forced to bail out of his first aircraft after it's engine was severely damaged from the flying remains of a doomed Stuka dive bomber that last early September. What followed was a rather hectic episode regarding a makeshift mobilization of the British Army in southeast Kent ignited by the careless spark of a coastal town and its equally jittery Home Guardsmen.

As he watched the Messerschmidt's wing flaps and ailerons, key organs of the maneuvering and control systems of the injured animal, come away mid-flight, Vegesack couldn't help but utter a silent, "Es tute mir sehr leid, mein Freund" as the German's ammunition stores within his wounded wings caught fire. As the Bf-109's countless internally housed rounds of 20 and 7.92 millimeter cartridges combusted with the penetrating encouragement of the Spitfire's barrage of .303 millimeter shells, the aluminum ceilings centimeters above them popped off, exposing the once intricate brown and copper network snugged in by the German's loaders and mechanics.

As Vegesack added a pitiful "Wahrhaft, ich bin", the Messerschmitt's fuel system finally burst into a mellow, but still otherwise dramatic, plume of bright flame and dark smoke. Seconds before the German's entire left wing was amputated from the wing's root filler to its pick-up point a meter behind, the roof of the miniature greenhouse that was the Bf-109's 90 millimeter thick glass canopy seemingly popped off like a bottle cap. In a stroke of luck determined by the fraction of a half minute, the Luftwaffe man that had handled Vegesack's newest kill chose to hit the silk just in the nick of time before his aircraft was engulfed in a screen of darkness. The Swede nodded silently as the pathetically nimble ragdoll of the German's body cascaded into the wide open blue, the smooth cream pedals of a parachute blossoming from his tumbling shadow in the wind.

Swooping his aircraft in a vast circle to get his bearings, Vegesack realized that the battle had died down to almost pacifistic levels in a time span far too illogical for it to happen. It was only the second when he came about that the lush green seaside meadows of Kent were no longer visible, having been replaced by the soulless blue of the Atlantic - during his chase of his latest kill, he had unknowingly overflown the fighting between Allistor's squadron and the rest of his own.

A previously unheard voice blasted over the intercom as Vegesack sent his plane into a broad arc homewards: "All units, this is Arrow; closing in on your position. We're exactly a minute out and we've got eyes on some Jerries in a tangle with you people. We'll cover Stagfoot while Shamrock takes Excalibur home."

Another man dominated the radio waves immediately afterwards: "Sword, this is Shamrock: we're coming in on your position and are entering the action space now. Fighter Command wants you to pull out immediately before any more of you buy the farm, clear? We're tasked with escorting you back to Tempsford while Arrow and Stagfoot clear off what's left of the Jerries."

[Calizorinstan]

As Pat jumped he looked back and watched as the others began to jump. He grimaced and waited and pulled the jump cord and prayed the chute would pop as he descended towards the water. With satisfaction he noted that it did and his rate of descent slowed. As he splashed down in the water, his main thought was "Boy, this water sure is cold." He then treaded water and wondered if anybody had a life raft they could use. "I don't really want to freeze to death." He muttered as he swam towards where the others had gone down.

[Goram]

A blue and white van made it's slow way down a country lane, as it headed east, quickly leaving Dover behind. The scene might have been considered picturesque, as the sun glistened off the snow, that blanketed the ground, and off the van's gleaming paint, that had been lovingly maintained. The picture was completely ruined by the huge, dirty silver, bag that seemed to the perched precariously atop the van. The van had been converted to gas and the owner had not been entirely happy about this development. Still, some things had to be sacrificed for the greater good; there was a war on, after all.

In the cab of the vehicle sat three men. On the right, sat an officer. On his shoulder he wore the three pips of a Captain in His Majesty's Armed Services, though this man certainly wasn't a member of the British Army. He was a shorter than most but what he lacked in height, he certainly made up for in girth. Under his officer's peaked cap, the man was practically bald. However, his most defining feature was the round glasses. These, though he would never admit it, he hated - for once a woman, loved and lost, had told him that the glasses took the warmth out of his eyes. The Captain's look was rounded off by an almost unnoticeable moustache. In the middle of the cab sat a Sergeant, who could have been the polar opposite of the Captain he sat next to. The Sergeant was a tall, thin man with a full head of grey hair. He, in physical appearance and manner, bore strong resemblance to Anthony Eden. Though he had won medals in the previous war, he never wore the ribbons on his uniform. The same, could not be said about the Corporal sat behind the wheel. The man driving the van, on account of the fact that he owned the vehicle, wore a chest full of medal ribbons. The eldest of these ribbons, dated back to 1882 and Egypt. This medal had been won before the other two men in the cab had even been born. With his thin moustache and grey hair, the Corporal looked every inch the old man that he was. Plainly, none of these men looked to be soldiers. Fortunately for the outlook of the nation, none of them were. They were Home Guard, better know to the country as Dad's Army.

"Oh Lord"

The Sergeant complained, mentally. The Captain seemed to have woken up and was now talking, snapping the Sergeant out of the dreamlike state in which he semi-permanently existed.

"When I open the bank on Monday morning"

The Captain mused

"I really must reinforce the windows in my office. If Jerry invades...I can cover the entire street, from Stephen Simpson's to Timothy White's, from that there. I really must start taking the Lewis Gun to work."

"Do you think that wise, Sir?"

The Sergeant replied, with his customary tone that bordered between cautious and condescending.

"I mean, a Lewis Gun? In your office? Won't that upset the customers?"

"There is a war on you know, Wilson. Do you think Hitler will hold of his invasion, because customers in our bank might be upset by a gun? No. We must maintain a state of constant readiness, to throw Hitler back into the Channel..."

Wilson gazed out of the window and watched, without really seeing as car pulled out in front of them and then sped off into the distance. He tuned out the Captain's words, replying in his customary manner until the conversation, if it could really be called that, was interrupted by a noise coming from the Corporal behind the wheel.

"B'waah!"

The noise he made betrayed shock, surprise and sounded rather like a cow in heat

"Captain Mainwaring! That car's crashed! That car's crashed Captain Mainwaring!"

"Well don't just stand there Jones!"

The rotund Captain replied

"Pull over!"

The van, with it's gas bag wobbling dangerously, skidded to a halt by the side of the road, perhaps 20 yards from the wrecked vehicle. Mainwaring banged a gloved hand on the partition that separated the cab from the rest of the vehicle. The doors at the rear of the truck swung open, an a dozen Home Guards leapt (well, some leapt. Others were not fit for leaping, not at their time in life) down to the ground, followed by the three from the cab. They started towards the car that was wrapped around a tree. Then a man pulled himself from the wreckage and the platoon stopped dead, for the fellow was holding a gun and was dressed in the uniform of a German pilot.

"B'waah!"

The Corporal was making that noise again, as he hopped excitedly from foot to foot as he grappled with his bayonet.

"It's a German, Sir! It's a German!"

He exclaimed

"Let me at him, let me at him! They don't like it up 'em Captain Mainwaring, they do not like it up 'em! Don't panic, Sir, don't panic!"

"Calm down Jones!"

Mainwaring said, as loudly and as forcefully as he could muster. This was all a relatively new experience for the Home Guardsmen. The platoon had encounter the enemy only twice. Once had been a pilot dangling from his parachute on top of the town hall, the other had been a rather uncouth gentleman who had once been the commanding officer of a U-Boat.

"Mister Mainwaring? May I shoot him?"

A voice piped up. It belonged to a young boy, quite distinct from the old men of the platoon. He couldn't have been more than 17 years of age and he wore a claret and blue scarf, completely against regulations, around his neck. Despite all this, he carried a disproportionally large Thompson sub machine gun.

"No you may not Pike, you stupid boy."

The Captain berated him, as the officer fumbled for his pistol. With weapon in hand, he called out

"In the name of the King, I call upon you to surrender!"

To his utter amazement, the German complied. The German's compact handgun tumbled from his grip and he slowly raised his hands.

"Go and bring him over here, Jones"

The officer said to his ancient Corporal. Jones, now with his bayonet attached, veritably sprinted forward. He moved behind the German, judiciously poking him with the point of the blade.

"Handehoche! Handehoche!"

He kept repeating

"Keep those handies hoche! Sergeant Wilson!"

He was almost shouting now, his bayonet tip jittering from side to side though the excitement of it all

"We should cut off his trouser buttons! That way, he won't be able to run away, because he will have his hands in his pockets!"

"Really Jones, we can't do that. It's not decent."

The upper class Sergeant said. Wilson always seemed to have a way of speaking with a warm, comforting but almost unintentionally patronising tone. Mainwaring turned to his Platoon, in order to address them.

"Listen here men. We've captured a German air man. We're going to take him back to Walmington with us, until Colonel Pritchard sends the MP's. Be on your guard men, we don't want any of his typically shabby Nazi tricks!"

[The Tiger Kingdom]

- But the haymaker so unbalanced the German that Page's rather weak replying punch to the German's ribs managed to unbalance his assailant enough to where he toppled off of Page's chest. The Captain rolled free and hurriedly, came to his wobbly feet. He tried to pull himself together, and shake the pain off as he put up his fists, ready to fight. He was breathing like a prizefighter, his heart beating like a drum. Despite his physical weakness, he was as ready to fight as he'd ever been.

...But all that quickly was reduced to nothing more than laughable bluster as his Teutonic foe pulled himself off of the floor, a terrifying, inhuman look of mirthful mockery on his face. The man was built like an ox, all muscle and no fat, with half a foot on him and at least 50 pounds of well-honed physical presence as well. The German took his time, he didn't need to rush - after all, what could this feeble, emaciated prisoner do to him? Evidently, killing his former charge wasn't so much on his mind as much as playing with him before snapping his neck was, not at all unlike the cruel joy a cat takes in tormenting a mouse before killing it - let it almost escape, then reeling it back in again and again, the true outcome never under so much as a shadow of a doubt...

Now on his feet, the German put his hands up in what looked like almost a mockery of Page's fighting stance, his face twisted in a hateful, jeering sneer at his opponent, even ducking and juking with Page in anticipation of the no doubt puny punches. Page tried to look for an opening to land a blow, but none seemed forthcoming - until his massive opponent actually gestured at Page, opening a hole in his defense to make a - there was no doubt about it - a sort of "bring it on" gesture.

Oh, that's the fucking limit, Kraut.

Seeing his opportunity, trap though it might have been, Page put all his diminished strength behind one massive right hook, right onto the German's stupid fucking face, imagining teeth shattering like light bulbs, his whole skull coming apart like an old pumpkin dropped from a roof, his fist effortlessly smashing bone like so much papier-mache and splattering the German's miniscule amount of brain matter all over the fucking cabin - the blow landed unopposed -

The German's head snapped around a little. He grimaced slightly. No visible effect. Certainly nothing on the level of skull fracturing. Page tried again with the left.

Nothing.

With his sneer quickly turning into an outright grin of triumph, the German went with an undercut right into Page's stomach, with no particular indication that the blow taxed him much at all. All at once, Page keeled over and involuntarily came around into the fetal position from the literally breathtaking force and the horrific pain. It felt like every internal organ in the sub-sternum region had been turned into total mush, his lungs reduced to pure pulp, useless for breathing. All he could do was lay on his side, desperately gasping like a fish, trying to force air back into his system. The whole floor seemed to be moving and slanting, although being that they were in an airplane, that was fairly explicable outside of bodily infirmity.

Some feet away, the body of one of the German's comrades lay (thankfully, showing no signs of the inexplicable revival that this Kraut had), Luger pistol still clutched in his hand. It's the only real shot I've got left.
Taking what few gasps he could, Page made like he was about to get up again, then bolted on hands and knees towards the corpse. He dove at the gun, only to have a jackboot come down on his hands as it was just a few tantalizing inches beyond his fingertips. The jackboot maneuvered the pistol out of the dead man's hand, and casually kicked it towards the door. The gun fell out into the howling wind.

And all the while, the German just stared down at him, now slowly circling around him, just waiting for him to get up, fists still at the ready, sneer of Aryan superiority still proudly deployed.

After a moment, Page managed to summon the last dregs of his strength and pull himself to his feet, swaying back and forth like a drunk, his breath only coming in short little gasps. Still channeling his anger, he began to throw punches wildly: rights, lefts, jabs, haymakers, uppercuts, undercuts...but nothing stuck. The German practically danced around his clumsy, weak strikes like a ballerina, not a single one landing. Finally, Page let loose with one more strike, only to have the German gaily grab his arm and slam him into the cabin wall with the force of a piledriver. Once again, Page collapsed to the floor, a distinct *crack*ing noise audible at the point of impact.

Oh...so that's what it feels like to break a rib...or ribs...

Flat on his back, Page could feel his anger ebbing away, the horrible pain in his torso weakening it. Replacing it was that old sense of fatalistic depression that had been such a close companion for the last few weeks. it was hopeless. This whole fight was futile. In his prime, months ago, maybe he could've actually put up a fight, but it seemed to him, he wouldn't have been able to triumph, but the way he was now, it was just a sick joke, him deluding himself that he could actually stand a chance against this monster. He knew in his guts that this whole thing must've been too good to be true, and he was totally right.

Why even get up again, assuming he even could? What was the point? Who was he trying to kid?

Blackness began to crowd the edges of his vision, and a ringing in his ears began to rise. He could hear the German laughing as he sensed that playtime was over, the the time for the kill was fast approaching. Even through a heavy German accent, his gloating tone came through loud and clear.
"Prisoner, can you hear me? Your effort is commendable. Major von Sporrenburg was right to treat you with this level of security. You came so close, thanks to your friends...but not close enough. Your weakness was your undoing. You were careless and sloppy, and you'll pay for it."
He lowered his voice to a stage whisper.
"I only wish I could afford to keep you alive for a little longer so you could watch as I kill your pilot over there too...but I suppose you can't always get what you want."

This was followed by a vicious kick to Page's side, eliciting a scream of pain. He drew his foot up to do it again.
"But then, you'd know plenty about that, wouldn't you, prisoner?"

His foot rose -

"Oi! Heads up, Captain!"

- and stopped, interrupted by a sudden yell and a following odd noise in the cabin. His head snapped around to try and find the source of it. The yell had clearly been the pilot, but the noise sounded like metal sliding on metal...and it had come from the cockpit. Was it some part of the landing procedure? Some new part of the plane tearing itself apart?

He looked up the cabin floor, all the way back to the cockpit, and saw the female pilot in a flurry of motion, trying to return her attention to the instruments in spite of the fight. But if she was turning around, that meant she had, however momentarily, been facing towards the fight - what the hell was she -
Suspecting some kind of trick, he looked back down at Page again, increasingly worried. But he needn't have worried, for it was no trick.

Nestled up against the prisoner's body, sliding across the metal floors, was a gleaming, factory new Colt pistol. This looked as much of a shock to Page as it was to Eicke. For a second, they both blinked stupidly at it.

Then, Page's arm darted to grab it just as Eicke's boot came down. It arrested Page's arm, but not quickly enough - the Captain had his hand in his best death grip around the handle. He struggled to free it as the German dug it deeper into his arm - he couldn't get an angle - unless...could he tilt it so that -

*BANG*

The report echoed through the whole cabin. The German yelped in pain and let go of Page's arm. Blood was spurting copiously from his left leg and Page could see a visible bullet trail running up the leg of his pants, the bullet had just grazed him. The German stumbled back, momentarily stunned, the sudden turn the battle had taken leaving him speechless - and genuinely worried at the scale of his injuries.

Page propped himself up on his elbows as the German staggered back, then pulled himself to his feet one final time, the gun on the German the entire time.
"Wrong again, Kraut," Page hissed, his voice a nearly inhuman rasp, finger tightening on the trigger, "because I'm not a prisoner."

"I'm a free man."

With a roar of unharnessed fury, the German hurled himself at Page, who pulled the trigger as fast as his battered, shaking fingers possibly could - one shot - two - three - it made no difference. The German was moving at such a clip, and with the powerful bulk of his body still providing such momentum, that his insane charge still smashed Page into the bulkhead despite the fact that he was undoubtedly mortally wounded. Page was blown back by the force like a leaf in a storm, but at least there was the metal there to stop him. It would hurt like a bitch, but he'd be alive, and the German would be dead, and -

There wasn't any metal there. The hatch had been left open.

The wild blue yonder surrounded both of them.

[The balkens]

Meanwhile, in the channel.
"You pushed me out of a plane!" Joshua screamed at Michael. The two were floating in the frigid water and Michael couldn't stop laughing.

"I AM FREE! FREE AT LAST!" he exclaimed. Sticking his arms out in triumph. "Do you hear me?! I. AM. FREE!"
Joshua was growing annoyed at his younger brothers actions. "stop moving around! You'll need that energy." Michael complied, not because of Joshua prompting him, but because he suddenly had no feeling in his legs. His head went under but joshua lifted him up and kept his head above water.
"jeeeeesus Christ.....it's so damn cold." Michael said, his voice trembling. "just hang on." Joshua implored. "hopefully some royal navy ship will pick us up." Michael snickered. "just like dunkirk...."

[Calizorinstan]

Pat swam over to Michael and Joshua "Nice to see you have made it for a nice swim in the sea.. I hope this isn't the North Sea. I've heard it's pretty darn frigid, in case I can't already tell." He shivered, the water was really getting to him. He was ready to help either of them should the occasion arise.