Excalibur Squadron OOC 2: The Song Remains the Same

[The Tiger Kingdom]

I'm a quarter Irish and a quarter Scottish. I think you're underestimating me.

I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of the voiceless lateral fricative Ll.

Come on, Kour, we need a post from you.
ALL THIS FOOLISHNESS IS UNPRODUCTIVE
PRODUCTIVITY IS THE GOAL

http://forum.nationstates.net/viewtopic.php?f=31&t=273173&p=19748626#p19748626

I've made edits to the backstory to be more accurate and imply more flying experience.

Accepted.

[Len Hyet]

http://forum.nationstates.net/viewtopic.php?f=31&t=273173&p=19748626#p19748626

I've made edits to the backstory to be more accurate and imply more flying experience.

Fair warning, stalking is a nono here. And remember to always call The American Tiger Kingdom "Tigger". And for the love of God dont engage the Brits in an argument. It's just not worth it.

Also Hail Hydra.

[United Kingdom of Poland]

http://forum.nationstates.net/viewtopic.php?f=31&t=273173&p=19748626#p19748626

I've made edits to the backstory to be more accurate and imply more flying experience.

Fair warning, stalking is a nono here. And remember to always call The American Tiger Kingdom "Tigger". And for the love of God dont engage the Brits in an argument. It's just not worth it.

Also Hail Hydra.

great these guys again. Cap get over here, we found another one for ya.

[Morrdh]

Also Hail Hydra.

You know I was so so tempted to shout this out at work when a guy came up wearing a SHIELD hoodie to get tickets for the new Cappy A film.

[Goram]

Note: All this takes place in the Winter of 1943/44. None of it has any impact on current operations. Also, probably the only time you'll catch me writing anything...sentimental...like this

Arno Bischoffshausen's eyes flickered open, perhaps thirty seconds after the deafening explosion that had rocked the streets. His vision swam, his ears rang and his head pounded as if a blacksmith was using it as an anvil. The old man attempted to get up, but found that he could not. His arms were responding as they had on every occasion until that point, but curiously, his legs would not cooperate with his brain. Lying there, in the ruins of what had once been the front wall of a home, Arno looked down his body to find a stump where his right leg had been and a bloody mess where his left clung onto the knee by little more than a thread. Oddly enough, Arno was not at all shocked to discover that he had all but lost both legs. Indeed, the fact that he was not distressed by this loss was more worrying to him than the fact that the loss itself. His disillusioned mind eventually decided that this was obviously due to shock, especially because he felt no pain at all. Of course, shock was part of why Arno felt nothing, but in actuality, he was scant minutes from death.

As the old fire-fighter lay on his back, his ears deaf to the world, staring up at the sky, his mind wandered for what felt like an eternity. He remembered faces that he had buried deep inside. The faces of men long since dead, killed in Northern France and Belgium flooded back and he remarked to himself that it would probably not be long until he re-joined them, to march as comrades once again, through heaven's open gates. It was in this contented state that Arno eventually slipped from conciousness and from life itself, as he bled from wounds that no doctor could ever hope to heal.

Arno had been almost completely deafened when he died and this was certainly a blessing for the old soldier. The scene around him, which had been completely oblivious to, was one akin to Hell on Earth. The entire street was burning as sheets of fire remorselessly engulfed entire buildings. Over the roar and crackle of the inferno, the screams of the wounded, maimed and dying could be heard. Of the men that had crewed Arno's firetruck, not one would survive the night. Those not fortunate enough to be killed outright by the bomb lay in the remnants street, bleeding and screaming. Help was not coming and if blood loss didn't kill the two survivors, the raging fires certainly would. The impending deaths of the two men lying in that godforsaken street was almost a metaphor for the entire city. They were doomed to die a terrible death and so was Stahlstadt.

Two months or so previously

Stanford stood in his is ill fitting Sunday best. He shuffled his feet nervously, before stealing a glance at the only other person in the tiny church. The Pastor smiled reassuringly at him.

You're nervous, Flying Officer?

"Yes"

Stanford managed to choke out

Well, you've got nothing to worry about on my account, my boy. I'll keep your secret safe.

Douglas opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the opening of a side door. Through the door stepped a woman, dressed in equally fine clothes. She hurried across the ten or so feet to stand next to the Flying Officer and he took her hand in his. The Pastor smiled to himself as he looked at the pair, they made quite the juxtaposition. The man stood tall, six feet even the Pastor guessed, but his soon to be wife was at least a full foot shorter than him, if not more.

Dearly beloved, we are gather-

the Pastor began, suddenly curbing himself on the word gathered. Besides the bride, the groom and himself, the church was deserted. The couple before him had not invited a single guest, for reasons they had chosen not to indulge as they had told the Pastor that they must be married in secrecy. They had told him it was due to disapproving parents, but in reality, the pair knew that to make their marriage public risked being geographically split up by the SOE, and being posted away from each other, along with their friends and comrades in arms at Tempsford, barely a mile away from where they stood now. There would be no wedding day smiles, no walk down the aisle, no flowers and no wedding dress today.

As the Pastor droned on, Stanford looked down at his bride to be. The plucky little Australian looked resplendent in her finery. He involuntarily squeezed her hand a little tighter and smiled. He'd loved her since the first day at Tempsford, he was sure of that, and they had talked of undertaking this endeavour for almost a year. Now, it was finally happening.

Douglas Stanford, do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?

The words snapped the Flying Officer back to reality

"I do"

He said

Kaya Waddock, do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband

"I do"

Splendid.

The Pastor replied

I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.

20,000 feet over Occupied Europe

Stanford fought the controls of the Lancaster as he wrenched the heavy bomber through taxing manoeuvres in order to avoid the night fighter that prowled around in the darkness, like a shark around its prey. Audible over the roar of the Merlins, was the rattling sound of six .303 calibre machine guns and the terrifying noise of incoming fire ripping through the aircraft's frame - the sound of which was akin to gravel being thrown around in a tin can. Less than ten minutes after bombing the target, the rear gunner had spotted a Junkers 88 off the port beam, just as it had opened fire. The burst of cannon fire cut through the port wing, setting the port outer a flame. Thankfully, the Flight Engineer had been able to immediately activate the fire extinguisher in that engine and had quickly feathered the propeller, thus preventing any more crippling damage.

The Lancaster had survived the first assault, but the night fighter seemed to be a talented and relentless fellow. Thus, Stanford threw the great bomber about the sky and the gunners filled the air with potently accurate return fire, but the Junkers stayed with him. The pilot of the twin engine machine followed Stanford through every gut wrenching turn and chest crushing climb. Lances of cannon fire streamed over and around the aircraft, but with each burst the German came closer and closer to his mark. The combat had lasted barely a minute to this point, but for the crew of both aircraft it seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, the enviable happened. A short burst of cannon fire raked over the Lancaster. The Junkers fired roughly 60 shells in two seconds and approximately 15 of them impacted the British machine, some penetrating the airframe and exploding inside the great bomber. The effect was devastating as a holocaust of shrapnel whipped through a portion of the fuselage. The mid upper gunner was killed almost instantly and the wireless operator mortally wounded.

Oh Christ

The navigator yelled over the intercom

Carter's dead and Colly's fucked

Another short and shattering burst struck the Lancaster, the explosive effect of the shells blowing the starboard inner off it's mounting and setting that wing a flame. One shell deflected at a bizarre angle, penetrated the cockpit perspex and detonated against the instrument panel. Pieces of shattered perspex, glass, metal and shrapnel from the shell scythed across the flight deck, peppering both the pilot and the flight engineer. The flight engineer fell from his chair, yelling in pain as fragments ranging from the size of a grain of sand to an inch long perforated his shoulder, face and neck. The man barely made a noise as he slumped over in his folding seat and collapsed onto Stanford.

"Cole!"

The Flying Officer shouted

"Get up here, Haywood's hit!"

The Canadian dropped out of the nose turret and scrambled through the few feet of fuselage that separated him from the cockpit. Tracer flashed by as the bomb aimer moved past, illuminating the cockpit in an eerie green light for a split second - just long enough for Stanford to notice the concerned look on the Canadian's face as he looked him up and down.

Skip, you're bleeding.

"I'm fine."

Stanford winced

"Help Peter, he needs you more than me."

Cole grabbed the Flight Engineer's jacket and dragged the groaning man backwards, towards the wireless operator's compartment. Cole flicked the wireless operator's lamp on and the full scale of the Flight Engineer's wounds were brought to light. The man was a mess of metal and blood. It didn't take a doctor to realise that the man was certainly living on borrowed time - time that was surely limited.

Stanford had been lucky compared to the Flight Engineer. Though he caught several dozen pieces of shrapnel, none of them struck a vital area or had caused a particularly serious wound. But, with an air of inevitability, the Junkers was coming in for the kill. The surviving gunner, in his rear turret, poured fire at him but the .303 calibre machine guns simply didn't have the reach to combat the night fighter's potent 20mm cannon. It seemed that the German was going to back off and use his superior weaponry to pluck the Lancaster from the sky, and there wasn't a damned thing the gunner could do about it. Suddenly, the night sky lit up as a chrysanthemum of flame erupted behind the Lancaster and a second twin engine machine shot by and off into the darkness.

"What in the blazes was that?"

Stanford said

"Haven't a bloody clue Skip."

Potter replied, from his cramped and isolated rear turret

"The ruddy Junkers just exploded."

Hauptmann Willi Bauers had been enjoying a fruitful night. Two kills so far and he had been closing in on a third. The Lancaster he held in his sights had fought him hard and fought him well, but now the game was up. One more burst ought to have done for it. But war is never that straight forward and in the blink of an eye, the hunter became the hunted.

Willi's concentration had been broken by a cry behind him, as Rudi, the 19 year old radar operator screamed in terror at the Mosquito that was diving on them, with all eight guns blazing. It was by simple chance that the British machine had spotted the lopsided combat, as it returned from an uneventful night. The combined fire of the four .303 machine guns and the four Hispano cannon carried by the RAF night intruder tore the Junkers to shreds, killing all three crew members in the cockpit in an instant. Fractions of a second later, the night fighter exploded and the Mosquito, it's crew celebrating the kill, shot past the falling wreckage and away into the night sky.

Earlier that morning...

Kaya sat on the wing of a Spitfire, in the furthest dispersal pen on the Tempsford aerodrome. The Spitfire on which the little Corporal sat bore the codes XI-G and was adorned with her husband's name under the canopy. The two had been meeting here for some time now as this particular pen, seeing as it housed Stanford's aircraft, was almost always deserted, except for Stanford himself and his ground crew, who had been the only people on the base trusted with the couple's secret anyway. Kaya had asked him to meet her here that morning. She had something important to tell him, something life changing. So there she sat, swinging her feet on the wing of a Spitfire, wondering how to tell Douglas something that threatened to tear their world of secrecy apart.

Stanford whistled a nondescript tune as he walked towards his pen. He was in a good mood, despite the fact that he had been told that he would be making up the numbers for a Bomber Command unit later that nigh. With pipe in mouth he rounded the earth and concrete wall to see his wife sat on the wing of his aircraft. He smiled and opened his mouth to greet her.

I'm pregnant.

Stanford stopped dead in his tracks, his pipe fell to the floor as he stood with his mouth agape.

"Pardon?"

He said, not quite believing what he had heard.

Pregnant, Doug. I'm going to have a sprog.

She said again.

"Oh...oh Christ"

Stanford muttered, as the enormity of what Kaya had just said sank in. Such news ordinarily would have been fantastic, certainly a blessing, but here and now? They had always feared that their marriage would get out, but this made it all but impossible to hide. Stanford walked over to his wife, and climbed up onto the wing next to her. He rested a booted foot on the cannon and put his arm around her, as she rested her head on his shoulder.

"What are we going to do, Corp?"

he sighed

I don't know, Doug, I don't know.

She replied.

Somewhere over Holland, later that day

With two engines gone and much of the control surfaces blown away, Stanford struggled to control the Lancaster as he desperately attempted to maintain altitude. The night fighter which had attacked, roughly fifteen minutes ago had almost proved fatal for the aircraft. Indeed, it had claimed one crew member dead and two mortally wounded. As Stanford fought with the controls, the bomb aimer and navigator did what they could to save their friends. In his solitary position, the rear gunner remained alert as his turret rotated back and forth.

At an altitude of 7,000 feet, Stanford finally managed to steady the aircraft and keep her flying straight and level. He had not emerged unscathed from the attack, as the blood that oozed from multiple wounds testified to, but he would live. With one gloved hand he fished around inside his heavy irvin jacket, electrically heated suit and silk undershirt for the chain and identity tags around his neck. Attached to them was his wedding ring. He felt the plain gold band and thought

I'm going to make it. I'm coming back to you.

Barely seconds after that, a massive explosion rocked the battered bomber. A single 88mm shell, likely radar guided, burst directly in front of the Lancaster. It split into exactly 5,083 fragments, which cut through the air at many times the speed of sound. Several hundred of them found their way to the RAF machine, particularly the nose section which was completely exposed to the blast. The vacant bomb aimer's position and front turret were mangled by the blast. The cockpit faired no better. Stanford, the instant he registered the explosion, felt an Earth shattering punch to his chest. Suddenly, he struggled to draw breath. Desperately, he tried to breath, but all he could managed was a thin stream of air in and out. He looked down to find what looked like several large holes in his flying jacket, through which blood freely flowed. When he attempted the breathe, the blood bubbled. Stanford blinked twice and muttered into the intercom

"Pilot to crew...I've think I've been hit"

Cole dashed forwards and surveyed the man in the pilot's chair. He didn't need to speak, the look on his face told Stanford everything he needed to know. In that instant, the pilot knew he would succumb to the wounds. He would never again see Kaya, he would never hold their child. He was going to die tonight, here and now. He thought on this for an instant and then it was gone from his mind. He might be about to die, but that didn't mean his crew had to. Stanford turned his head to look out of the pilot side window, which took more effort than any action he'd ever attempted in his life, and saw that a large chunk of the wing was missing. Although the instrument panel was entirely useless, even a blind man could see that the bomber was again losing height. Douglas grabbed Cole by the lapel of his jacket

"Tell...Tell the crew to bail out...I'm going to try and put her down in a field..."

All due respect Skip, but get fucked. You're part of our crew now. If you stay, we stay.

Seconds later, the navigator and rear gunner chimed their agreement.

Besides

Cole continued, as his hands slipped over Stanford's on the wheel

You're going to need some help getting this bitch down

The Lancaster, starboard outer now trailing sparks and flame, descended slowly through the night sky. In the distance, a farmer's field was illuminated in the pale moon light. This, the two men decided, would be their runway. Through the flak and the fighters, the flaps and one of the undercarriage had been completely blown away. Not that it really mattered, as the crew of the Lancaster had absolutely no way of judging their altitude or speed anyway. In short, this wasn't going to be a crash landing. Rather, it would be a barely controlled decent into terrain. Seconds before impact, Stanford closed his eyes. He wanted his last thoughts to be of family and he focused on the Australian girl, of his parents, his sister and of his brother, who he would soon join. Silently, as the ground loomed up, he mouthed

"I l-"

Perhaps thirty feet above the ground the aircraft finally ran out of airspeed and stalled. The Lancaster dropped like stone and smashed into the ground nose first. By some miracle, the aircraft did not explode on impact. Stanford was cut off by the bone jarring impact and, as the aircraft came apart around him, the entire world faded into a black oblivion.

[Gibberan]

Carter's dead and Colly's fucked

[Goram]

Carter's dead and Colly's fucked

Not you. I'm afraid I named the crew before you were with us

[United Kingdom of Poland]

so is Lamarche joining us this mission, we could use one more person on blue fight.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Note: All this takes place in the Winter of 1943/44. None of it has any impact on current operations. Also, probably the only time you'll catch me writing anything...sentimental...like this

Arno Bischoffshausen's eyes flickered open, perhaps thirty seconds after the deafening explosion that had rocked the streets. His vision swam, his ears rang and his head pounded as if a blacksmith was using it as an anvil. The old man attempted to get up, but found that he could not. His arms were responding as they had on every occasion until that point, but curiously, his legs would not cooperate with his brain. Lying there, in the ruins of what had once been the front wall of a home, Arno looked down his body to find a stump where his right leg had been and a bloody mess where his left clung onto the knee by little more than a thread. Oddly enough, Arno was not at all shocked to discover that he had all but lost both legs. Indeed, the fact that he was not distressed by this loss was more worrying to him than the fact that the loss itself. His disillusioned mind eventually decided that this was obviously due to shock, especially because he felt no pain at all. Of course, shock was part of why Arno felt nothing, but in actuality, he was scant minutes from death.

As the old fire-fighter lay on his back, his ears deaf to the world, staring up at the sky, his mind wandered for what felt like an eternity. He remembered faces that he had buried deep inside. The faces of men long since dead, killed in Northern France and Belgium flooded back and he remarked to himself that it would probably not be long until he re-joined them, to march as comrades once again, through heaven's open gates. It was in this contented state that Arno eventually slipped from conciousness and from life itself, as he bled from wounds that no doctor could ever hope to heal.

Arno had been almost completely deafened when he died and this was certainly a blessing for the old soldier. The scene around him, which had been completely oblivious to, was one akin to Hell on Earth. The entire street was burning as sheets of fire remorselessly engulfed entire buildings. Over the roar and crackle of the inferno, the screams of the wounded, maimed and dying could be heard. Of the men that had crewed Arno's firetruck, not one would survive the night. Those not fortunate enough to be killed outright by the bomb lay in the remnants street, bleeding and screaming. Help was not coming and if blood loss didn't kill the two survivors, the raging fires certainly would. The impending deaths of the two men lying in that godforsaken street was almost a metaphor for the entire city. They were doomed to die a terrible death and so was Stahlstadt.

A month or so previously

Stanford stood in his is ill fitting Sunday best. He shuffled his feet nervously, before stealing a glance at the only other person in the tiny church. The Pastor smiled reassuringly at him.

You're nervous, Flying Officer?

"Yes"

Stanford managed to choke out

Well, you've got nothing to worry about on my account, my boy. I'll keep your secret safe.

Douglas opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the opening of a side door. Through the door stepped a woman, dressed in equally fine clothes. She hurried across the ten or so feet to stand next to the Flying Officer and he took her hand in his. The Pastor smiled to himself as he looked at the pair, they made quite the juxtaposition. The man stood tall, six feet even the Pastor guessed, but his soon to be wife was at least a full foot shorter than him, if not more.

Dearly beloved, we are gather-

the Pastor began, suddenly curbing himself on the word gathered. Besides the bride, the groom and himself, the church was deserted. The couple before him had not invited a single guest, for reasons they had chosen not to indulge as they had told the Pastor that they must be married in secrecy. They had told him it was due to disapproving parents, but in reality, the pair knew that to make their marriage public risked being geographically split up by the SOE, and being posted away from each other, along with their friends and comrades in arms at Tempsford, barely a mile away from where they stood now. There would be no wedding day smiles, no walk down the aisle, no flowers and no wedding dress today.

As the Pastor droned on, Stanford looked down at his bride to be. The plucky little Australian looked resplendent in her finery. He involuntarily squeezed her hand a little tighter and smiled. He'd loved her since the first day at Tempsford, he was sure of that, and they had talked of undertaking this endeavour for almost a year. Now, it was finally happening.

Douglas Stanford, do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?

The words snapped the Flying Officer back to reality

"I do"

He said

Kaya Waddock, do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband

"I do"

Splendid.

The Pastor replied

I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.

20,000 feet over Occupied Europe

Stanford fought the controls of the Lancaster as he wrenched the heavy bomber through taxing manoeuvres in order to avoid the three swarming night fighters that prowled around them, like sharks around their prey. Audible over the roar of the Merlins, was the rattling sound of six .303 calibre machine guns and the terrifying noise of fire ripping through the aircraft's frame - the sound of which was akin to gravel being thrown around in a tin can.

Less than ten minutes after bombing the target, the rear gunner had spotted a Junkers 88 off the port beam, just as it had opened fire. The burst of cannon fire cut through the port wing, setting the port outer a flame. Thankfully, the Flight Engineer had been to immediately activate the fire extinguisher in that engine and had quickly feathered the propeller. The Lancaster had survived the first assault, but the night fighter seemed to be a talented and relentless fellow. Thus, Stanford threw the great bomber about the sky and the gunners filled the air with potently accurate return fire, but the Junkers stayed with him. The pilot of the twin engine machine followed Stanford through every gut wrenching turn and chest crushing climb. Lances of cannon fire streamed over and around the aircraft, but with each burst the German came closer and closer to his mark. The combat had lasted barely a minute to this point, but for the crew of both aircraft it seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, the enviable happened. A short burst of cannon fire raked over the Lancaster. The Junkers fired roughly 60 shells in two seconds and approximately 15 of them impacted the British machine, some penetrating the airframe and exploding inside the great bomber. The effect was devastating as a holocaust of shrapnel whipped through a portion of the fuselage. The mid upper gunner was killed almost instantly and the wireless operator mortally wounded.

Oh Christ

The navigator yelled over the intercom

Carter's dead and Colly's fucked

Another short and shattering burst struck the Lancaster, the explosive effect of the shells blowing the starboard inner off it's mounting and setting that wing a flame. One shell deflected at a bizarre angle, penetrated the cockpit perspex and detonated against the instrument panel. Pieces of shattered perspex, glass, metal and shrapnel from the shell scythed across the flight deck, peppering both the pilot and the flight engineer. The flight engineer fell from his chair, yelling in pain as fragments ranging from the size of a grain of sand to an inch long perforated his shoulder and face. Stanford, however, was lucky compared to the Flight Engineer. Though he caught several dozen pieces of shrapnel, none of them struck a vital area or had caused a particularly serious wound. But, with an air of inevitability, the Junkers was coming in for the kill. Suddenly, the night sky lit up as a chrysanthemum of flame erupted behind the Lancaster and a second twin engine machine shot by and off into the darkness.

"What in the blazes was that?"

Stanford said

"Haven't a bloody clue Skip."

Potter replied, from his cramped and isolated rear turret

"The ruddy Junkers just exploded."

Hauptmann Willi Bauers had been enjoying a fruitful night. Two kills so far and he had been closing in on a third. The Lancaster he held in his sights had fought him hard and fought him well, but now the game was up. One more burst ought to have done for it. But war is never that straight forward and in the blink of an eye, the hunter became the hunted.

Willi's concentration had been broken by a cry behind him, as Rudi, the 19 year old radar operator screamed in terror at the Mosquito that was diving on them, with all eight guns blazing. It was by simple chance that the British machine had spotted the lopsided combat, as it returned from an uneventful night. The combined fire of the four .303 machine guns and the four 20mm cannon carried by the RAF night intruder tore the Junkers to shreds, killing all three crew members in the cockpit in an instant. Fractions of a second later, the night fighter exploded and the Mosquito, it's crew celebrating the kill, shot past the falling wreckage and away into the night sky.

Earlier that morning...

Kaya sat on the wing of a Spitfire, in the furthest dispersal pen on the Tempsford aerodrome. The Spitfire on which the little Corporal sat bore the codes XI-G and was adorned with her husband's name under the canopy. The two had been meeting here for some time now as this particular pen, seeing as it housed Stanford's aircraft, was almost always deserted, except for Stanford himself and his ground crew, who had been the only people on the base trusted with the couple's secret anyway. Kaya had asked him to meet her here that morning. She had something important to tell him, something life changing. So there she sat, swinging her feet on the wing of a Spitfire, wondering how to tell Douglas something that threatened to tear their world of secrecy apart.

Stanford whistled a nondescript tune as he walked towards his pen. He was in a good mood, despite the fact that he had been told that he would be making up the numbers for some Bomber Command unit later that day. With pipe in mouth he rounded the earth and concrete wall to see his wife sat on the wing of his aircraft. He smiled and opened his mouth to greet her.

I'm pregnant.

Stanford stopped dead in his tracks, his pipe fell to the floor as he stood with his mouth agape.

"Pardon?"

He said, not quite believing what he had heard.

I'm pregnant, Doug. We're going to have a baby.

She said again.

"Oh...oh Christ"

Stanford muttered, as the enormity of what Kaya had just said sank in. Such news ordinarily would have been fantastic, certainly a blessing, but here and now? They had always feared that their marriage would get out, but this made it all but impossible to hide. Stanford walked over to his wife, and climbed up onto the wing next to her. He rested a booted foot on the cannon and put his arm around her, as she rested her head on his shoulder.

"What are we going to do, Corp?"

he sighed

I don't know, Doug, I don't know.

She replied.

Somewhere over Holland, later that day

With two engines gone and much of the control surfaces blown away, Stanford struggled to control the Lancaster as he desperately attempted to maintain altitude. The night fighter which had attacked, roughly fifteen minutes ago had almost proved fatal for the aircraft. Indeed, it had claimed one crew member dead and two mortally wounded. As Stanford fought with the controls, the bomb aimer and navigator did what they could to save their friends. In his solitary position, the rear gunner remained alert as his turret rotated back and forth.

At an altitude of 7,000 feet, Stanford finally managed to steady the aircraft and keep her flying straight and level. He had not emerged unscathed from the attack, as the blood that oozed from multiple wounds testified to, but he would live. With one gloved hand he fished around inside his heavy irvin jacket, electrically heated suit and silk undershirt for the chain and identity tags around his neck. Attached to them was his wedding ring. He felt the plain gold band and thought

I'm going to make it. I'm coming back to you.

Barely seconds after that, a massive explosion rocked the battered bomber. A single 88mm shell, likely radar guided, burst directly in front of the Lancaster. It split into exactly 5,083 pieces of shrapnel, many of which found their way to the RAF machine. The vacant bomb aimer's position and front turret were mangled by the blast. Stanford , the instant he registered the explosion, felt an Earth shattering punch to his chest. Suddenly, he struggled to draw breath. Desperately, he tried to breath, but all he could managed was a thin stream of air in and out. He looked down to find what looked like several holes in his flying jacket, through which blood freely flowed. Stanford blinked twice and muttered into the intercom

"I've think I've been hit"

Cole, the Canadian bomb aimer dashed forwards and surveyed the man in the pilot's chair. He didn't need to speak, the look on his face told Stanford everything he needed to know. In that instant, the pilot knew he would die. He would never again see Kaya, he would never hold their child. He was going to die tonight, here and now. He thought on this for an instant and then it was gone from his mind. He might be about to die, but that didn't mean his crew had to. Stanford turned his head to look out of the pilot side window, which took more effort than any action he'd ever attempted in his life, and saw that a large chunk of the wing was missing. Although the instrument panel was entirely useless, any man could see that the bomber was again losing height. Douglas grabbed Cole by the lapel of his jacket

"Tell...Tell the crew to bail out...I'm going to try and put her down in a field..."

All due respect Skip, but get fucked. You're part of our crew now. If you stay, we stay.

Came the reply. Seconds later, the navigator and rear gunner chimed their agreement.

Besides

Cole continued, as his hands slipped over Stanford's on the wheel

You're going to need some help getting this bastard down

The Lancaster, starboard outer now trailing sparks and flame, descended slowly through the night sky. Seconds before impact, Stanford closed his eyes. He wanted his last thoughts to be of family and he focused on the Australian girl, of his parents, his sister and of his brother, who he would soon join. Silently, as the ground loomed up, he mouthed

"I lov-"

He was cut off by the bone jarring impact and the entire world faded into a black oblivion.

*gasp*
Noooooooooooooo!

so is Lamarche joining us this mission, we could use one more person on blue fight.

Erm...that's actually a bit of a funny question. I guess it could work - unlike with Pat, we haven't specifically said that he wasn't there...
New Terrisia, would that be OK with you - reading the IC thread to get caught up and all that?

[New Terrisia]

so is Lamarche joining us this mission, we could use one more person on blue fight.

Erm...that's actually a bit of a funny question. I guess it could work - unlike with Pat, we haven't specifically said that he wasn't there...
New Terrisia, would that be OK with you - reading the IC thread to get caught up and all that?

Um, sure. Is this Southern Cross that you're referring to?

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Erm...that's actually a bit of a funny question. I guess it could work - unlike with Pat, we haven't specifically said that he wasn't there...
New Terrisia, would that be OK with you - reading the IC thread to get caught up and all that?

Um, sure. Is this Southern Cross that you're referring to?

Indeed.

[New Terrisia]

Um, sure. Is this Southern Cross that you're referring to?

Indeed.

Alright then. I'll read it over (which may take a short while) and then post.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Indeed.

Alright then. I'll read it over (which may take a short while) and then post.

*Quietly marks New Terrisia down as "probable team player"*

[Goram]

Note: All this takes place in the Winter of 1943/44. None of it has any impact on current operations. Also, probably the only time you'll catch me writing anything...sentimental...like this

Arno Bischoffshausen's eyes flickered open, perhaps thirty seconds after the deafening explosion that had rocked the streets. His vision swam, his ears rang and his head pounded as if a blacksmith was using it as an anvil. The old man attempted to get up, but found that he could not. His arms were responding as they had on every occasion until that point, but curiously, his legs would not cooperate with his brain. Lying there, in the ruins of what had once been the front wall of a home, Arno looked down his body to find a stump where his right leg had been and a bloody mess where his left clung onto the knee by little more than a thread. Oddly enough, Arno was not at all shocked to discover that he had all but lost both legs. Indeed, the fact that he was not distressed by this loss was more worrying to him than the fact that the loss itself. His disillusioned mind eventually decided that this was obviously due to shock, especially because he felt no pain at all. Of course, shock was part of why Arno felt nothing, but in actuality, he was scant minutes from death.

As the old fire-fighter lay on his back, his ears deaf to the world, staring up at the sky, his mind wandered for what felt like an eternity. He remembered faces that he had buried deep inside. The faces of men long since dead, killed in Northern France and Belgium flooded back and he remarked to himself that it would probably not be long until he re-joined them, to march as comrades once again, through heaven's open gates. It was in this contented state that Arno eventually slipped from conciousness and from life itself, as he bled from wounds that no doctor could ever hope to heal.

Arno had been almost completely deafened when he died and this was certainly a blessing for the old soldier. The scene around him, which had been completely oblivious to, was one akin to Hell on Earth. The entire street was burning as sheets of fire remorselessly engulfed entire buildings. Over the roar and crackle of the inferno, the screams of the wounded, maimed and dying could be heard. Of the men that had crewed Arno's firetruck, not one would survive the night. Those not fortunate enough to be killed outright by the bomb lay in the remnants street, bleeding and screaming. Help was not coming and if blood loss didn't kill the two survivors, the raging fires certainly would. The impending deaths of the two men lying in that godforsaken street was almost a metaphor for the entire city. They were doomed to die a terrible death and so was Stahlstadt.

A month or so previously

Stanford stood in his is ill fitting Sunday best. He shuffled his feet nervously, before stealing a glance at the only other person in the tiny church. The Pastor smiled reassuringly at him.

You're nervous, Flying Officer?

"Yes"

Stanford managed to choke out

Well, you've got nothing to worry about on my account, my boy. I'll keep your secret safe.

Douglas opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the opening of a side door. Through the door stepped a woman, dressed in equally fine clothes. She hurried across the ten or so feet to stand next to the Flying Officer and he took her hand in his. The Pastor smiled to himself as he looked at the pair, they made quite the juxtaposition. The man stood tall, six feet even the Pastor guessed, but his soon to be wife was at least a full foot shorter than him, if not more.

Dearly beloved, we are gather-

the Pastor began, suddenly curbing himself on the word gathered. Besides the bride, the groom and himself, the church was deserted. The couple before him had not invited a single guest, for reasons they had chosen not to indulge as they had told the Pastor that they must be married in secrecy. They had told him it was due to disapproving parents, but in reality, the pair knew that to make their marriage public risked being geographically split up by the SOE, and being posted away from each other, along with their friends and comrades in arms at Tempsford, barely a mile away from where they stood now. There would be no wedding day smiles, no walk down the aisle, no flowers and no wedding dress today.

As the Pastor droned on, Stanford looked down at his bride to be. The plucky little Australian looked resplendent in her finery. He involuntarily squeezed her hand a little tighter and smiled. He'd loved her since the first day at Tempsford, he was sure of that, and they had talked of undertaking this endeavour for almost a year. Now, it was finally happening.

Douglas Stanford, do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?

The words snapped the Flying Officer back to reality

"I do"

He said

Kaya Waddock, do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband

"I do"

Splendid.

The Pastor replied

I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.

20,000 feet over Occupied Europe

Stanford fought the controls of the Lancaster as he wrenched the heavy bomber through taxing manoeuvres in order to avoid the three swarming night fighters that prowled around them, like sharks around their prey. Audible over the roar of the Merlins, was the rattling sound of six .303 calibre machine guns and the terrifying noise of fire ripping through the aircraft's frame - the sound of which was akin to gravel being thrown around in a tin can.

Less than ten minutes after bombing the target, the rear gunner had spotted a Junkers 88 off the port beam, just as it had opened fire. The burst of cannon fire cut through the port wing, setting the port outer a flame. Thankfully, the Flight Engineer had been to immediately activate the fire extinguisher in that engine and had quickly feathered the propeller. The Lancaster had survived the first assault, but the night fighter seemed to be a talented and relentless fellow. Thus, Stanford threw the great bomber about the sky and the gunners filled the air with potently accurate return fire, but the Junkers stayed with him. The pilot of the twin engine machine followed Stanford through every gut wrenching turn and chest crushing climb. Lances of cannon fire streamed over and around the aircraft, but with each burst the German came closer and closer to his mark. The combat had lasted barely a minute to this point, but for the crew of both aircraft it seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, the enviable happened. A short burst of cannon fire raked over the Lancaster. The Junkers fired roughly 60 shells in two seconds and approximately 15 of them impacted the British machine, some penetrating the airframe and exploding inside the great bomber. The effect was devastating as a holocaust of shrapnel whipped through a portion of the fuselage. The mid upper gunner was killed almost instantly and the wireless operator mortally wounded.

Oh Christ

The navigator yelled over the intercom

Carter's dead and Colly's fucked

Another short and shattering burst struck the Lancaster, the explosive effect of the shells blowing the starboard inner off it's mounting and setting that wing a flame. One shell deflected at a bizarre angle, penetrated the cockpit perspex and detonated against the instrument panel. Pieces of shattered perspex, glass, metal and shrapnel from the shell scythed across the flight deck, peppering both the pilot and the flight engineer. The flight engineer fell from his chair, yelling in pain as fragments ranging from the size of a grain of sand to an inch long perforated his shoulder and face. Stanford, however, was lucky compared to the Flight Engineer. Though he caught several dozen pieces of shrapnel, none of them struck a vital area or had caused a particularly serious wound. But, with an air of inevitability, the Junkers was coming in for the kill. Suddenly, the night sky lit up as a chrysanthemum of flame erupted behind the Lancaster and a second twin engine machine shot by and off into the darkness.

"What in the blazes was that?"

Stanford said

"Haven't a bloody clue Skip."

Potter replied, from his cramped and isolated rear turret

"The ruddy Junkers just exploded."

Hauptmann Willi Bauers had been enjoying a fruitful night. Two kills so far and he had been closing in on a third. The Lancaster he held in his sights had fought him hard and fought him well, but now the game was up. One more burst ought to have done for it. But war is never that straight forward and in the blink of an eye, the hunter became the hunted.

Willi's concentration had been broken by a cry behind him, as Rudi, the 19 year old radar operator screamed in terror at the Mosquito that was diving on them, with all eight guns blazing. It was by simple chance that the British machine had spotted the lopsided combat, as it returned from an uneventful night. The combined fire of the four .303 machine guns and the four 20mm cannon carried by the RAF night intruder tore the Junkers to shreds, killing all three crew members in the cockpit in an instant. Fractions of a second later, the night fighter exploded and the Mosquito, it's crew celebrating the kill, shot past the falling wreckage and away into the night sky.

Earlier that morning...

Kaya sat on the wing of a Spitfire, in the furthest dispersal pen on the Tempsford aerodrome. The Spitfire on which the little Corporal sat bore the codes XI-G and was adorned with her husband's name under the canopy. The two had been meeting here for some time now as this particular pen, seeing as it housed Stanford's aircraft, was almost always deserted, except for Stanford himself and his ground crew, who had been the only people on the base trusted with the couple's secret anyway. Kaya had asked him to meet her here that morning. She had something important to tell him, something life changing. So there she sat, swinging her feet on the wing of a Spitfire, wondering how to tell Douglas something that threatened to tear their world of secrecy apart.

Stanford whistled a nondescript tune as he walked towards his pen. He was in a good mood, despite the fact that he had been told that he would be making up the numbers for some Bomber Command unit later that day. With pipe in mouth he rounded the earth and concrete wall to see his wife sat on the wing of his aircraft. He smiled and opened his mouth to greet her.

I'm pregnant.

Stanford stopped dead in his tracks, his pipe fell to the floor as he stood with his mouth agape.

"Pardon?"

He said, not quite believing what he had heard.

I'm pregnant, Doug. We're going to have a baby.

She said again.

"Oh...oh Christ"

Stanford muttered, as the enormity of what Kaya had just said sank in. Such news ordinarily would have been fantastic, certainly a blessing, but here and now? They had always feared that their marriage would get out, but this made it all but impossible to hide. Stanford walked over to his wife, and climbed up onto the wing next to her. He rested a booted foot on the cannon and put his arm around her, as she rested her head on his shoulder.

"What are we going to do, Corp?"

he sighed

I don't know, Doug, I don't know.

She replied.

Somewhere over Holland, later that day

With two engines gone and much of the control surfaces blown away, Stanford struggled to control the Lancaster as he desperately attempted to maintain altitude. The night fighter which had attacked, roughly fifteen minutes ago had almost proved fatal for the aircraft. Indeed, it had claimed one crew member dead and two mortally wounded. As Stanford fought with the controls, the bomb aimer and navigator did what they could to save their friends. In his solitary position, the rear gunner remained alert as his turret rotated back and forth.

At an altitude of 7,000 feet, Stanford finally managed to steady the aircraft and keep her flying straight and level. He had not emerged unscathed from the attack, as the blood that oozed from multiple wounds testified to, but he would live. With one gloved hand he fished around inside his heavy irvin jacket, electrically heated suit and silk undershirt for the chain and identity tags around his neck. Attached to them was his wedding ring. He felt the plain gold band and thought

I'm going to make it. I'm coming back to you.

Barely seconds after that, a massive explosion rocked the battered bomber. A single 88mm shell, likely radar guided, burst directly in front of the Lancaster. It split into exactly 5,083 pieces of shrapnel, many of which found their way to the RAF machine. The vacant bomb aimer's position and front turret were mangled by the blast. Stanford , the instant he registered the explosion, felt an Earth shattering punch to his chest. Suddenly, he struggled to draw breath. Desperately, he tried to breath, but all he could managed was a thin stream of air in and out. He looked down to find what looked like several holes in his flying jacket, through which blood freely flowed. Stanford blinked twice and muttered into the intercom

"I've think I've been hit"

Cole, the Canadian bomb aimer dashed forwards and surveyed the man in the pilot's chair. He didn't need to speak, the look on his face told Stanford everything he needed to know. In that instant, the pilot knew he would die. He would never again see Kaya, he would never hold their child. He was going to die tonight, here and now. He thought on this for an instant and then it was gone from his mind. He might be about to die, but that didn't mean his crew had to. Stanford turned his head to look out of the pilot side window, which took more effort than any action he'd ever attempted in his life, and saw that a large chunk of the wing was missing. Although the instrument panel was entirely useless, any man could see that the bomber was again losing height. Douglas grabbed Cole by the lapel of his jacket

"Tell...Tell the crew to bail out...I'm going to try and put her down in a field..."

All due respect Skip, but get fucked. You're part of our crew now. If you stay, we stay.

Came the reply. Seconds later, the navigator and rear gunner chimed their agreement.

Besides

Cole continued, as his hands slipped over Stanford's on the wheel

You're going to need some help getting this bastard down

The Lancaster, starboard outer now trailing sparks and flame, descended slowly through the night sky. Seconds before impact, Stanford closed his eyes. He wanted his last thoughts to be of family and he focused on the Australian girl, of his parents, his sister and of his brother, who he would soon join. Silently, as the ground loomed up, he mouthed

"I lov-"

He was cut off by the bone jarring impact and the entire world faded into a black oblivion.

*gasp*
Noooooooooooooo!

Yup.

If you could link it up for me when you get the chance, that'd be great.

[Kassaran]

Damn, Jonah's going to stick around a while you guys, but that sucks. Also, still trying to decide what my squadron codes are to be, and what my nose art should be. I'm going to have Jonah's already painted on, he'd of stayed up a bit while on the boat working on it... which would bring about just how much time I've been working on mine.

[New Terrisia]

OK, I'm all caught up. I'll post tomorrow as it's practically 5am where I am. Just to be clear, I'm on Blue Flight?

[The Tiger Kingdom]

*gasp*
Noooooooooooooo!

Yup.

If you could link it up for me when you get the chance, that'd be great.

Oh well. I think we'll have enough time between now and then for you to really consider such a drastic step.
And yes, I'll try to link it tonight.

OK, I'm all caught up. I'll post tomorrow as it's practically 5am where I am. Just to be clear, I'm on Blue Flight?

You would be in the twelve-spot, yes.
I'll rotate Len out for you once you post.

[Goram]

Yup.

If you could link it up for me when you get the chance, that'd be great.

Oh well. I think we'll have enough time between now and then for you to really consider such a drastic step.
And yes, I'll try to link it tonight.

No, I'm pretty sure that's where I'm going with this. Took too long to get even close to adequate, so I do not see a retcon in the future. I'm sure both Page and Noble will have an awful lot of fun having rather awkward conversations with Kaya at some point in the future.

Cheers. Not going to lie, I'm rather keen to see what your summary sentence says.

[Kassaran]

So how does this work for nose art? No charicatures, pretty much straight to the point, "German Hunter". Also, ID Codes will be SO-B... I figure that should earn me a nickname among those who don't like me, but it also works given I am SwOrd-11, Blue-3.

[United Kingdom of Poland]

So how does this work for nose art? No charicatures, pretty much straight to the point, "German Hunter". Also, ID Codes will be SO-B... I figure that should earn me a nickname among those who don't like me, but it also works given I am SwOrd-11, Blue-3.
(Image)

I wouldn't rely on that. squadron designations tend to change a lot mission to mission

[Goram]

So how does this work for nose art? No charicatures, pretty much straight to the point, "German Hunter". Also, ID Codes will be SO-B... I figure that should earn me a nickname among those who don't like me, but it also works given I am SwOrd-11, Blue-3.
(Image)

I thought the Squadron code was XI-something?

For example, Stanford is "XI-G"

[United Kingdom of Poland]

well found a slight problem Goram, if Stanfords still in Excalibur, why in gods name would the RAF/SOE let a special forces commando go on bomber missions.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Oh well. I think we'll have enough time between now and then for you to really consider such a drastic step.
And yes, I'll try to link it tonight.

No, I'm pretty sure that's where I'm going with this. Took too long to get even close to adequate, so I do not see a retcon in the future.

Well, I mean...assuming you're talking about the one-shot, there's nothing in there that absolutely seals the deal for Doug's death, if you ever changed your mind.

I'm sure both Page and Noble will have an awful lot of fun having rather awkward conversations with Kaya at some point in the future.

ASSUMING EITHER OF THEM ARE STILL ALIVE...?
...?!?!

Cheers. Not going to lie, I'm rather keen to see what your summary sentence says.

"Shit happened."

[Kassaran]

So how does this work for nose art? No charicatures, pretty much straight to the point, "German Hunter". Also, ID Codes will be SO-B... I figure that should earn me a nickname among those who don't like me, but it also works given I am SwOrd-11, Blue-3.
(Image)

I wouldn't rely on that. squadron designations tend to change a lot mission to mission

Meh, that's just what he is going to have his named, he sees the funny side to it too, and doesn't mind it. Honestly, I'm going to try and have him act a little cheeky whenever possible, though he still is coping with having lost a squadron mate to enemy fire, a squadron mate he should have been protecting.

According to Wikipedia, it was the first two letters make up the prefix for the callsign of the craft, which then is given it's third letter from the first in the actual designation. So SwOrd 11 Blue 3...

[Goram]

well found a slight problem Goram, if Stanfords still in Excalibur, why in gods name would the RAF/SOE let a special forces commando go on bomber missions.

To make up the numbers on a maximum effort raid. Temporarily posted away in a similar fashion to the way that Charlie was posted to a night fighter squadron for a bit before returning.

No, I'm pretty sure that's where I'm going with this. Took too long to get even close to adequate, so I do not see a retcon in the future.

Well, I mean...assuming you're talking about the one-shot, there's nothing in there that absolutely seals the deal for Doug's death, if you ever changed your mind.

...I see you've seen through my "what if I want to make a dramatic reappearance after a miracle survival" escape option.

Oh right, I thought you meant the codes on the side of the aircraft. As in, the ones separated by the roundel on the fuselage.