Excalibur Squadron OOC 2: The Song Remains the Same

[Morrdh]

Anyways, yeah, it's a lazy, stupid game that somehow managed to get itself inadvertently defending the Third Reich. In case you cant tell, I like talking about this stuff.

The fact that in the trailers they referred to the Eastern Front as the "Forgotten War" told me everything I needed to know about CoH2.

Regardless I found the Soviet Storm series of documentaries on the Eastern Front pretty good if slightly pro-Russian.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Anyways, yeah, it's a lazy, stupid game that somehow managed to get itself inadvertently defending the Third Reich. In case you cant tell, I like talking about this stuff.

The fact that in the trailers they referred to the Eastern Front as the "Forgotten War" told me everything I needed to know about CoH2.

Doesn't it, though? Anybody who isn't a total blank slate on WW2 is at least cognizant that the Eastern Front was a thing. Fuck, they even had it referenced on Hogan's Heroes. You can't get any more WW2 mainstream than that.
And then to have Relic brag in pre-release interviews about all the supposed research that went into CoH2 is literally just setting themselves up for this kind of bullshit.

[Morrdh]

The fact that in the trailers they referred to the Eastern Front as the "Forgotten War" told me everything I needed to know about CoH2.

Doesn't it, though? Anybody who isn't a total blank slate on WW2 is at least cognizant that the Eastern Front was a thing. Fuck, they even had it referenced on Hogan's Heroes. You can't get any more WW2 mainstream than that.
And then to have Relic brag in pre-release interviews about all the supposed research that went into CoH2 is literally just setting themselves up for this kind of bullshit.

Yeah, especially since the British 14th Army (probably not so much with films like Bridge on the River Kawi and The Railwayman) and the British Pacific Fleet have better claims regarding 'being forgotten'.

[Monfrox]

Upotte!! got a dub. Which means you can all put a voice to Samantha if you want.

[Grenartia]

Upotte!! got a dub. Which means you can all put a voice to Samantha if you want.

Is this your way of implying or even outright admitting that we'll be hearing from Samantha down the line?

[Monfrox]

Upotte!! got a dub. Which means you can all put a voice to Samantha if you want.

Is this your way of implying or even outright admitting that we'll be hearing from Samantha down the line?

No, it's my way of saying fuck you to your imagination for thinking of a voice for her up until this point.

[The Two Jerseys]

Doesn't it, though? Anybody who isn't a total blank slate on WW2 is at least cognizant that the Eastern Front was a thing. Fuck, they even had it referenced on Hogan's Heroes. You can't get any more WW2 mainstream than that.
And then to have Relic brag in pre-release interviews about all the supposed research that went into CoH2 is literally just setting themselves up for this kind of bullshit.

Yeah, especially since the British 14th Army (probably not so much with films like Bridge on the River Kawi and The Railwayman) and the British Pacific Fleet have better claims regarding 'being forgotten'.

Don't forget East Africa, Madagascar, and Iraq.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Name: John Churchill
Age: 6 years
Rank: Lt.
Physical Description/Picture:

(Image)

Country of Origin: Australia
Flight/Flight Combat Experience (MANDATORY): He is a bird.
Ground Combat Experience: He is a flightless bird.
Specialties (air or ground - communications, demolitions, disguises, languages, etc.): Yes, of course.
Weapons of Choice: Beak of God.
RP Experience: None.
Personal History/Bio (more than one line please): John was born in Australia to a penguin immigrant family. He was mocked and bullied as a child for the fact he was a minority, but stuck through the pain. John and his parents were fiercely patriotic to the kingdom of Great Britain and the crown. They always intended to move to the United Kingdom, and eventually they finally managed to acquire the funds to do so.

But when they moved into London, the Blitz began. John's family died, and his dreams died with them.

Furious, John became a soldier, being renowned for many military victories against the Nazis. He acquired respect among the British Army, who started accepting the fact they served under a penguin commander. He became a hero to penguins all across the Commonwealth.

But it is time for Lt. John Churchill to shift his abilities. One day, he decided to sign up for Excalibur Squadron.

You know, John is probably best friends with Abdul.

[Grenartia]

Is this your way of implying or even outright admitting that we'll be hearing from Samantha down the line?

No, it's my way of saying fuck you to your imagination for thinking of a voice for her up until this point.

What if we aren't able to watch the Upotte!! dub? Or even the original?

Name: John Churchill
Age: 6 years
Rank: Lt.
Physical Description/Picture:

(Image)

Country of Origin: Australia
Flight/Flight Combat Experience (MANDATORY): He is a bird.
Ground Combat Experience: He is a flightless bird.
Specialties (air or ground - communications, demolitions, disguises, languages, etc.): Yes, of course.
Weapons of Choice: Beak of God.
RP Experience: None.
Personal History/Bio (more than one line please): John was born in Australia to a penguin immigrant family. He was mocked and bullied as a child for the fact he was a minority, but stuck through the pain. John and his parents were fiercely patriotic to the kingdom of Great Britain and the crown. They always intended to move to the United Kingdom, and eventually they finally managed to acquire the funds to do so.

But when they moved into London, the Blitz began. John's family died, and his dreams died with them.

Furious, John became a soldier, being renowned for many military victories against the Nazis. He acquired respect among the British Army, who started accepting the fact they served under a penguin commander. He became a hero to penguins all across the Commonwealth.

But it is time for Lt. John Churchill to shift his abilities. One day, he decided to sign up for Excalibur Squadron.

You know, John is probably best friends with Abdul.

John just seems like the Wayne's World 2 to Abdul's Wayne's World.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

No, it's my way of saying fuck you to your imagination for thinking of a voice for her up until this point.

What if we aren't able to watch the Upotte!! dub? Or even the original?

You know, John is probably best friends with Abdul.

John just seems like the Wayne's World 2 to Abdul's Wayne's World.

I have no idea what this means.

[Monfrox]

No, it's my way of saying fuck you to your imagination for thinking of a voice for her up until this point.

What if we aren't able to watch the Upotte!! dub? Or even the original?

http://www.dubbedonline.net/upotte-episode-2-english-dub/

[Grenartia]

What if we aren't able to watch the Upotte!! dub? Or even the original?



John just seems like the Wayne's World 2 to Abdul's Wayne's World.

I have no idea what this means.

Work your seekrit Hindu techsupport magic to stealthily download them from some unwitting American's harddrive.

But seriously, you can probably download them and watch them.

What if we aren't able to watch the Upotte!! dub? Or even the original?

http://www.dubbedonline.net/upotte-episode-2-english-dub/

Muchas gracias, senorita. I'll watch it later.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

So has the non-forum part of this site died for anybody else?

[Goram]

So has the non-forum part of this site died for anybody else?

Yes. Seemed to be fixed now, mind.

[United Kingdom of Poland]

So has the non-forum part of this site died for anybody else?

mine died entirely. server crash maybe

[Nightkill the Emperor]

viewtopic.php?f=31&t=282872

Why things broke.

[Len Hyet]

Tigger! Stop ignoring Silva's feels!

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Tigger! Stop ignoring Silva's feels!

Feelings are for ethnic people, Len.

Fine, will edit in.

EDIT: Oh, and in continuing CoH 2 coverage, the Soviet CO just got captured! Oh, but don't worry, his forces all banded together and rescued him! But then the entire battalion gets executed for disobeying orders! Because that's a thing the Soviets did, right?
This fucking game...

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Edited in.
Also, get your last posts for this particular IC day in quickly, because I feel a time-skip coming on.

[Goram]

28 minutes into the operation against Stahlstadt, streets of city were adorned with blazing buildings and bodies by the dozens. For Arno Bischoffshausen, a middle aged member of the city's volunteer fire brigade, the scene was all too familiar. Arno was a veteran of the hardships that were common place during the last war. He had survived the first thousand bomber raid of the war, having been visiting relatives in Cologne at the time. Arno Bischoffshausen was no stranger to the horror of war, but even he could tell that tonight was going to be different.

Arno sat in the passenger side of a Magius LF 15 fire engine, hanging on for dear life as the driver threw the aged machine through the streets.The response of the city's emergency forces was haphazard to say the least. The city had no organised response plans, no contingency for bombed out people and no central command for the emergency services. As such, Bischoffshausen lead his team of volunteer fire fighters to where the fires were fiercest. Bombers were passing over the target area at the rate of six per minute, each pouring payloads of incendiary and high explosive misery onto the beleaguered defenders. Arno knew that no single team of volunteer fire fighters could stem the fires now. Indeed, he knew that no fire brigade in the world could save the city. Despite the impossibly long odds, the old veteran knew that they had to try. This was their home and it was burning.

Arno pulled on his heavy gloves and donned the old helmet that he had carried with him. The brass head gear was styled after the helmets worn by French in the last war; a shape that Arno had known with both fear and hatred in years gone past. The helmet, however, did not smell as the firefigher expected - not as the helmets of the previous war had. It didn't smell of the sweat and fear of battle, it didn't have the stink of dead men and mud about it. Rather it smelt fresh and new, never having been worn in any sort of action before this night. As Arno buckled the straps of the protective headgear, the truck swung around a corner onto a street that was wreathed entirely in flame.

"Here! Stop here!"

Arno shouted at the teenage boy, sat nervously behind the wheel. The boy was barely 17 years old, conscripted into the Reichsarbeitsdienst earlier that year. Arno couldn't help but think that the vehicle was probably older than the driver. Never the less, the red truck careened to a halt and the firefighters piled out.

"Right, you men, connect the hoses and get to it!"

Arno yelled above the roaring of the flames and the pounding of the bombs, as he grabbed the business end of the heavy duty hose and began dragging it towards the first house on the street. Flames licked from the windows and from where the door used to be. The roof looked to have either collapsed or been blown away entirely. The surrounding buildings told a similar story, though several had collapsed into little more than smouldering piles of red hot masonry and timbers. As Arno, along with two others, braced the nozzle of the hose towards the building, another man connected the other end to a hydrant.

Alright, Herr Bischoffshausen! It's ready!

The man yelled and the water supply was turned on. For a few precious seconds, a high pressure stream of water belted out of hose and poured onto the blazing building. Then, the pressure began to drop off and the column of water quickly transformed from a powerful fountain to little more than a dribble.

---

One of hundreds of bombers, a Lancaster from No. 460 RAAF, crossed the target area. In the perspex nose of the aircraft, the Australian bomb aimer stared intently down through his bomb sight

Bomb doors open, bombs fused and selected

The bomb aimer began his ritual chant, as his knuckles whitened around the bomb release switch. Seconds later, the clamps opened simultaneously and the entirely high explosive ordinance tumbled out of the cavernous bomb bay. The Cookie fell like a stone, surrounded by a gaggle of 500 pounders, towards the conflagration of flame that threatened to engulf the city. The Lancaster began to break away over the target and the pilot's hand moved towards the bomb door switch

"Wait Skip!"

The bomb aimer blurted out

"We've got an egg hung up. I'm going to try and shift it."

The bomb aimer took up the release switch again and jabbed down hard. Almost immediately, the hung up bomb tumbled free and began its decent. The bomb fell at roughly 1,100 feet per second, meaning it would cover the distance of almost exactly 20,000 feet in exactly 18. 1 seconds.

---

"You stupid bloody boy"

Arno bellowed

"Plug the sodding thing back in, we've got work to do!"

But...Herr Bischoffshausen, it's still connected! I...I don't know what's wrong.

Unbeknownst to the firefighters, the city's main pumping station had been completely levelled by a high capacity 4,000 pounder almost a half hour ago and the repeated concussion of high explosive ordinance had cracked the pipes leading from subordinate stations. Even now, millions of gallons of the water, that could have saved Stahlstadt , were leaking away. The hoses in the majority of the city would be entirely useless and all that could be used would be buckets or hand pumps. This made no difference to Herr Bischoffshausen and his team of volunteers. Almost 15 seconds had passed since a Lancaster of No. 460 RAAF passed over head. Arno heard the distinctive whistle of a bomb coming down, he turned to the rest of his team and screamed

"Get down! Get down n-"

The rest of his sentence was cut off as the world turned inside out. The 500 pounder, that by pure chance had hung up in the Lancaster's bomb bay, impacted the middle of the street, perhaps 140 yards away from the fire team. Arno was picked up by the explosion and hurled across down the road, coming to a rest roughly 20 yards away from where had had been standing. Here he lay, devoid of all conciousness.

---

A Lancaster, flying at a bombing altitude of 19,000 feet, turned onto it's final run into the city. This particular bomber, it's engines roaring in perfect harmony, was among the last of the first wave of bombers headed towards the target. In the pilots seat, Douglas Stanford could see the city clearly. Only a blind man could miss the flames in the darkness.

"Navigator to pilot. 35 minutes to target, Skip."

No offence, Colly, but I'm not sure we need help to find the target.

The Canadian bomb aimer said dryly. He was not wrong. Only a blind man could miss the flames in the darkness. Stanford breathed deeply behind his mask - this was it. The next half hour passed without incident, as had much of the trip so far. Stanford and his crew knew that there would be uncontrolled fighters, "Wilde Sau" the Germans called them, operating in the area. These aircraft were usually FW-190s or 109s, deadly to the lumbering bombers if they were uncovered. However, the darkness was their ally and they were well concealed to a single seat fighter, without the benefit of radar.

Jesus...Looks like shit and derision down there

The rear gunner, Sergeant Potter, said to no one in particular. The city seemed to be a sea of fire, with the centre mass directly on top of where the target indicators that had been laid down some time before. From 20,000, the sight was curiously beautiful.

"Pilot to bomb aimer. She's all yours Cole."

Stanford said. They had scant minutes left on the run in and the interior of the bomber had gone from pitch black to lit up by the bright red light of the fire below. What once had been an almost impenetrable cloak surrounding the bomber had been drawn back. Looking out of the glazed cockpit windows, Stanford could clearly make out almost a dozen aircraft, a mix of Lancasters and Halifaxes, all around his aircraft.

Thanks skip...

The bomb aimer replied. From the tone of his voice, it was clear that the man was otherwise engaged. Stanford reached for the bomb door controls. He operated the switch and the doors slid open with an audible hydraulic hiss. In the nose of the aircraft, Cole examined the bomb switch panel to the right of his station. He pushed all sixteen switches down, into the on position, in order to select and arm the aircraft's payload. Cole's hand felt around his position in the nose, searching for the release switch, as he stared down through the sights.

"Right then. Bomb doors open...bombs fused and selected."

Stanford said. Seconds later, the bomb aimer began passing his instructions to the pilot.

Left, left...steady...left, left...steady...

As the bomb aimer spoke, Stanford made the minute yet necessary adjustments. Cole prided himself on his position at the top of the bombing ladder, Stanford wasn't about to let him down.

Right...no, too much, left, left...steady...

Cole's fingered tightened around the bomb release

Steady...hold it there Skip...bombs gone!

Stanford's bomb load tumbled away and the Lancaster jumped up several hundred feet as the excess weight was stripped out of the machine. Stanford would never cease to be surprised how much better the aircraft handled without the encumbrance of a heavy bomb load.

"Pilot to bomb aimer. All clear, Cole?"

Just checking now, Skipper...all gone. Nothing hung up.

"Good. Bomb doors closing. Let's get some altitude and get out of here. Navigator, set a course for Bywater."

Stanford increased the power and applied some back pressure to the control column. The Lancaster, now unburdened by it's tremendous bomb load, began to climb gracefully, executing a shallow turn out of the target area. As the bomber banked, Stanford was treated to a panoramic view of the target area. It seemed that the entirety of hell had been poured forth and was now engulfing the city. Stanford looked down with a sense of grim satisfaction. He couldn't help but think the bastards were getting what was coming to them. In his mind, each bomb dropped and each German killed was one more small piece of revenge for his brother, for the empty seats in the mess, for the population of London, Coventry and half a hundred other places, and for all the others killed in one way or another. As the bomber rolled onto it's course for home, the pilot snapped his mind back to the business at hand. The bombs had been dropped, but Stanford got the feeling this night was far from over.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

28 minutes into the operation against Stahlstadt, streets of city were adorned with blazing buildings and bodies by the dozens. For Arno Bischoffshausen, a middle aged member of the city's volunteer fire brigade, the scene was all too familiar. Arno was a veteran of the hardships that were common place during the last war. He had survived the first thousand bomber raid of the war, having been visiting relatives in Cologne at the time. Arno Bischoffshausen was no stranger to the horror of war, but even he could tell that tonight was going to be different.

Arno sat in the passenger side of a Magius LF 15 fire engine, hanging on for dear life as the driver threw the aged machine through the streets.The response of the city's emergency forces was haphazard to say the least. The city had no organised response plans, no contingency for bombed out people and no central command for the emergency services. As such, Bischoffshausen lead his team of volunteer fire fighters to where the fires were fiercest. Bombers were passing over the target area at the rate of six per minute, each pouring payloads of incendiary and high explosive misery onto the beleaguered defenders. Arno knew that no single team of volunteer fire fighters could stem the fires now. Indeed, he knew that no fire brigade in the world could save the city. Despite the impossibly long odds, the old veteran knew that they had to try. This was their home and it was burning.

Arno pulled on his heavy gloves and donned the old helmet that he had carried with him. The brass head gear was styled after the helmets worn by French in the last war; a shape that Arno had known with both fear and hatred in years gone past. The helmet, however, did not smell as the firefigher expected - not as the helmets of the previous war had. It didn't smell of the sweat and fear of battle, it didn't have the stink of dead men and mud about it. Rather it smelt fresh and new, never having been worn in any sort of action before this night. As Arno buckled the straps of the protective headgear, the truck swung around a corner onto a street that was wreathed entirely in flame.

"Here! Stop here!"

Arno shouted at the teenage boy, sat nervously behind the wheel. The boy was barely 17 years old, conscripted into the Reichsarbeitsdienst earlier that year. Arno couldn't help but think that the vehicle was probably older than the driver. Never the less, the red truck careened to a halt and the firefighters piled out.

"Right, you men, connect the hoses and get to it!"

Arno yelled above the roaring of the flames and the pounding of the bombs, as he grabbed the business end of the heavy duty hose and began dragging it towards the first house on the street. Flames licked from the windows and from where the door used to be. The roof looked to have either collapsed or been blown away entirely. The surrounding buildings told a similar story, though several had collapsed into little more than smouldering piles of red hot masonry and timbers. As Arno, along with two others, braced the nozzle of the hose towards the building, another man connected the other end to a hydrant.

Alright, Herr Bischoffshausen! It's ready!

The man yelled and the water supply was turned on. For a few precious seconds, a high pressure stream of water belted out of hose and poured onto the blazing building. Then, the pressure began to drop off and the column of water quickly transformed from a powerful fountain to little more than a dribble.

---

One of hundreds of bombers, a Lancaster from No. 460 RAAF, crossed the target area. In the perspex nose of the aircraft, the Australian bomb aimer stared intently down through his bomb sight

Bomb doors open, bombs fused and selected

The bomb aimer began his ritual chant, as his knuckles whitened around the bomb release switch. Seconds later, the clamps opened simultaneously and the entirely high explosive ordinance tumbled out of the cavernous bomb bay. The Cookie fell like a stone, surrounded by a gaggle of 500 pounders, towards the conflagration of flame that threatened to engulf the city. The Lancaster began to break away over the target and the pilot's hand moved towards the bomb door switch

"Wait Skip!"

The bomb aimer blurted out

"We've got an egg hung up. I'm going to try and shift it."

The bomb aimer took up the release switch again and jabbed down hard. Almost immediately, the hung up bomb tumbled free and began its decent. The bomb fell at roughly 1,100 feet per second, meaning it would cover the distance of almost exactly 20,000 feet in exactly 18. 1 seconds.

---

"You stupid bloody boy"

Arno bellowed

"Plug the sodding thing back in, we've got work to do!"

But...Herr Bischoffshausen, it's still connected! I...I don't know what's wrong.

Unbeknownst to the firefighters, the pumping station had been completely levelled by a high capacity 4,000 pounder almost a half hour ago. The hoses in the majority of the city would be entirely useless and all that could be used would be buckets or hand pumps. This made no difference to Herr Bischoffshausen and his team of volunteers. Almost 15 seconds had passed since a Lancaster of No. 460 RAAF passed over head. Arno heard the distinctive whistle of a bomb coming down, he turned to the rest of his team and screamed

"Get down! Get down n-"

The rest of his sentence was cut off as the world turned inside out. The 500 pounder, that by pure chance had hung up in the Lancaster's bomb bay, impacted the middle of the street, perhaps 140 yards away from the fire team. Arno was picked up by the explosion and hurled across down the road, coming to a rest roughly 20 yards away from where had had been standing. Here he lay, devoid of all conciousness.

---

A Lancaster, flying at a bombing altitude of 19,000 feet, turned onto it's final run into the city. This particular bomber, it's engines roaring in perfect harmony, was among the last of the first wave of bombers headed towards the target. In the pilots seat, Douglas Stanford could see the city clearly. Only a blind man could miss the flames in the darkness.

"Navigator to pilot. 35 minutes to target, Skip."

No offence, Colly, but I'm not sure we need help to find the target.

The Canadian bomb aimer said dryly. He was not wrong. Only a blind man could miss the flames in the darkness. Stanford breathed deeply behind his mask - this was it. The next half hour passed without incident, as had much of the trip so far. Stanford and his crew knew that there would be uncontrolled fighters, "Wilde Sau" the Germans called them, operating in the area. These aircraft were usually FW-190s or 109s, deadly to the lumbering bombers if they were uncovered. However, the darkness was their ally and they were well concealed to a single seat fighter, without the benefit of radar.

Jesus...Looks like shit and derision down there

The rear gunner, Sergeant Potter, said to no one in particular. The city seemed to be a sea of fire, with the centre mass directly on top of where the target indicators that had been laid down some time before. From 20,000, the sight was curiously beautiful.

"Pilot to bomb aimer. She's all yours Cole."

Stanford said. They had scant minutes left on the run in and the interior of the bomber had gone from pitch black to lit up by the bright red light of the fire below. What once had been an almost impenetrable cloak surrounding the bomber had been drawn back. Looking out of the glazed cockpit windows, Stanford could clearly make out almost a dozen aircraft, a mix of Lancasters and Halifaxes, all around his aircraft.

Thanks skip...

The bomb aimer replied. From the tone of his voice, it was clear that the man was otherwise engaged. Stanford reached for the bomb door controls. He operated the switch and the doors slid open with an audible hydraulic hiss. In the nose of the aircraft, Cole examined the bomb switch panel to the right of his station. He pushed all sixteen switches down, into the on position, in order to select and arm the aircraft's payload. Cole's hand felt around his position in the nose, searching for the release switch, as he stared down through the sights.

"Right then. Bomb doors open...bombs fused and selected."

Stanford said. Seconds later, the bomb aimer began passing his instructions to the pilot.

Left, left...steady...left, left...steady...

As the bomb aimer spoke, Stanford made the minute yet necessary adjustments. Cole prided himself on his position at the top of the bombing ladder, Stanford wasn't about to let him down.

Right...no, too much, left, left...steady...

Cole's fingered tightened around the bomb release

Steady...hold it there Skip...bombs gone!

Stanford's bomb load tumbled away and the Lancaster jumped up several hundred feet as the excess weight was stripped out of the machine. Stanford would never cease to be surprised how much better the aircraft handled without the encumbrance of a heavy bomb load.

"Pilot to bomb aimer. All clear, Cole?"

Just checking now, Skipper...all gone. Nothing hung up.

"Good. Bomb doors closing. Let's get some altitude and get out of here. Navigator, set a course for Bywater."

Stanford increased the power and applied some back pressure to the control column. The Lancaster began to climb gracefully, executing a shallow turn out of the target area. The bombs had been dropped, but Stanford got the feeling this night was far from over.

Linked.
So...somebody should post so that I'm not triple-posting in Tempsford.

[Goram]

28 minutes into the operation against Stahlstadt, streets of city were adorned with blazing buildings and bodies by the dozens. For Arno Bischoffshausen, a middle aged member of the city's volunteer fire brigade, the scene was all too familiar. Arno was a veteran of the hardships that were common place during the last war. He had survived the first thousand bomber raid of the war, having been visiting relatives in Cologne at the time. Arno Bischoffshausen was no stranger to the horror of war, but even he could tell that tonight was going to be different.

Arno sat in the passenger side of a Magius LF 15 fire engine, hanging on for dear life as the driver threw the aged machine through the streets.The response of the city's emergency forces was haphazard to say the least. The city had no organised response plans, no contingency for bombed out people and no central command for the emergency services. As such, Bischoffshausen lead his team of volunteer fire fighters to where the fires were fiercest. Bombers were passing over the target area at the rate of six per minute, each pouring payloads of incendiary and high explosive misery onto the beleaguered defenders. Arno knew that no single team of volunteer fire fighters could stem the fires now. Indeed, he knew that no fire brigade in the world could save the city. Despite the impossibly long odds, the old veteran knew that they had to try. This was their home and it was burning.

Arno pulled on his heavy gloves and donned the old helmet that he had carried with him. The brass head gear was styled after the helmets worn by French in the last war; a shape that Arno had known with both fear and hatred in years gone past. The helmet, however, did not smell as the firefigher expected - not as the helmets of the previous war had. It didn't smell of the sweat and fear of battle, it didn't have the stink of dead men and mud about it. Rather it smelt fresh and new, never having been worn in any sort of action before this night. As Arno buckled the straps of the protective headgear, the truck swung around a corner onto a street that was wreathed entirely in flame.

"Here! Stop here!"

Arno shouted at the teenage boy, sat nervously behind the wheel. The boy was barely 17 years old, conscripted into the Reichsarbeitsdienst earlier that year. Arno couldn't help but think that the vehicle was probably older than the driver. Never the less, the red truck careened to a halt and the firefighters piled out.

"Right, you men, connect the hoses and get to it!"

Arno yelled above the roaring of the flames and the pounding of the bombs, as he grabbed the business end of the heavy duty hose and began dragging it towards the first house on the street. Flames licked from the windows and from where the door used to be. The roof looked to have either collapsed or been blown away entirely. The surrounding buildings told a similar story, though several had collapsed into little more than smouldering piles of red hot masonry and timbers. As Arno, along with two others, braced the nozzle of the hose towards the building, another man connected the other end to a hydrant.

Alright, Herr Bischoffshausen! It's ready!

The man yelled and the water supply was turned on. For a few precious seconds, a high pressure stream of water belted out of hose and poured onto the blazing building. Then, the pressure began to drop off and the column of water quickly transformed from a powerful fountain to little more than a dribble.

---

One of hundreds of bombers, a Lancaster from No. 460 RAAF, crossed the target area. In the perspex nose of the aircraft, the Australian bomb aimer stared intently down through his bomb sight

Bomb doors open, bombs fused and selected

The bomb aimer began his ritual chant, as his knuckles whitened around the bomb release switch. Seconds later, the clamps opened simultaneously and the entirely high explosive ordinance tumbled out of the cavernous bomb bay. The Cookie fell like a stone, surrounded by a gaggle of 500 pounders, towards the conflagration of flame that threatened to engulf the city. The Lancaster began to break away over the target and the pilot's hand moved towards the bomb door switch

"Wait Skip!"

The bomb aimer blurted out

"We've got an egg hung up. I'm going to try and shift it."

The bomb aimer took up the release switch again and jabbed down hard. Almost immediately, the hung up bomb tumbled free and began its decent. The bomb fell at roughly 1,100 feet per second, meaning it would cover the distance of almost exactly 20,000 feet in exactly 18. 1 seconds.

---

"You stupid bloody boy"

Arno bellowed

"Plug the sodding thing back in, we've got work to do!"

But...Herr Bischoffshausen, it's still connected! I...I don't know what's wrong.

Unbeknownst to the firefighters, the pumping station had been completely levelled by a high capacity 4,000 pounder almost a half hour ago. The hoses in the majority of the city would be entirely useless and all that could be used would be buckets or hand pumps. This made no difference to Herr Bischoffshausen and his team of volunteers. Almost 15 seconds had passed since a Lancaster of No. 460 RAAF passed over head. Arno heard the distinctive whistle of a bomb coming down, he turned to the rest of his team and screamed

"Get down! Get down n-"

The rest of his sentence was cut off as the world turned inside out. The 500 pounder, that by pure chance had hung up in the Lancaster's bomb bay, impacted the middle of the street, perhaps 140 yards away from the fire team. Arno was picked up by the explosion and hurled across down the road, coming to a rest roughly 20 yards away from where had had been standing. Here he lay, devoid of all conciousness.

---

A Lancaster, flying at a bombing altitude of 19,000 feet, turned onto it's final run into the city. This particular bomber, it's engines roaring in perfect harmony, was among the last of the first wave of bombers headed towards the target. In the pilots seat, Douglas Stanford could see the city clearly. Only a blind man could miss the flames in the darkness.

"Navigator to pilot. 35 minutes to target, Skip."

No offence, Colly, but I'm not sure we need help to find the target.

The Canadian bomb aimer said dryly. He was not wrong. Only a blind man could miss the flames in the darkness. Stanford breathed deeply behind his mask - this was it. The next half hour passed without incident, as had much of the trip so far. Stanford and his crew knew that there would be uncontrolled fighters, "Wilde Sau" the Germans called them, operating in the area. These aircraft were usually FW-190s or 109s, deadly to the lumbering bombers if they were uncovered. However, the darkness was their ally and they were well concealed to a single seat fighter, without the benefit of radar.

Jesus...Looks like shit and derision down there

The rear gunner, Sergeant Potter, said to no one in particular. The city seemed to be a sea of fire, with the centre mass directly on top of where the target indicators that had been laid down some time before. From 20,000, the sight was curiously beautiful.

"Pilot to bomb aimer. She's all yours Cole."

Stanford said. They had scant minutes left on the run in and the interior of the bomber had gone from pitch black to lit up by the bright red light of the fire below. What once had been an almost impenetrable cloak surrounding the bomber had been drawn back. Looking out of the glazed cockpit windows, Stanford could clearly make out almost a dozen aircraft, a mix of Lancasters and Halifaxes, all around his aircraft.

Thanks skip...

The bomb aimer replied. From the tone of his voice, it was clear that the man was otherwise engaged. Stanford reached for the bomb door controls. He operated the switch and the doors slid open with an audible hydraulic hiss. In the nose of the aircraft, Cole examined the bomb switch panel to the right of his station. He pushed all sixteen switches down, into the on position, in order to select and arm the aircraft's payload. Cole's hand felt around his position in the nose, searching for the release switch, as he stared down through the sights.

"Right then. Bomb doors open...bombs fused and selected."

Stanford said. Seconds later, the bomb aimer began passing his instructions to the pilot.

Left, left...steady...left, left...steady...

As the bomb aimer spoke, Stanford made the minute yet necessary adjustments. Cole prided himself on his position at the top of the bombing ladder, Stanford wasn't about to let him down.

Right...no, too much, left, left...steady...

Cole's fingered tightened around the bomb release

Steady...hold it there Skip...bombs gone!

Stanford's bomb load tumbled away and the Lancaster jumped up several hundred feet as the excess weight was stripped out of the machine. Stanford would never cease to be surprised how much better the aircraft handled without the encumbrance of a heavy bomb load.

"Pilot to bomb aimer. All clear, Cole?"

Just checking now, Skipper...all gone. Nothing hung up.

"Good. Bomb doors closing. Let's get some altitude and get out of here. Navigator, set a course for Bywater."

Stanford increased the power and applied some back pressure to the control column. The Lancaster began to climb gracefully, executing a shallow turn out of the target area. The bombs had been dropped, but Stanford got the feeling this night was far from over.

Linked.
So...somebody should post so that I'm not triple-posting in Tempsford.

Cheers. If you can edit to address Stanford, I can post right now.

[Kouralia]

Shitpost Shitposted.

Now back to 'the social and psychological explanations of Aggression'.

[Goram]

Shitpost Shitposted.

Now back to 'the social and psychological explanations of Aggression'.

...Sounds bloody awful. What in God's name are you doing that for on a Sunday?

[Kassaran]

Well, it appears jonah will be absent for a few eeks from the thread at the rate we're going. Just wondering if TK or someone could just hint to Mack being perfectly fine and in a hospital?