RAF Tempsford (Excalibur IC RP Thread, Members Only)

[Grenartia]

in the mind of Michael
"you do know that I'll lose everything because of this little episode right?" Michael said as he crossed his arms. "I'll lose my wings, noble will no doubt report me to that prick cutler...."

Nothing in reply. "I'll just go now."
Tempsford
"yea, he's my younger brother." Joshua said almost hesitantly.

"I'm sure he'll start getting better once the doctors start treating him, sir. He's back in friendly hands now, and his walking around earlier sure as hell shows he's got a lot of fight. You know what they say. You can't keep a good man down." Jimmy said, reassuringly.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Alix followed the group clustered around Michael into the infirmary. The facility, housed inside a classic-style Nissen hut, wasn't very roomy, but it was well-maintained, with about a dozen separate bed-containing alcoves, six to a side, separated off from each other by dun-colored sheeting to allow a measure of privacy. The insides were dimly and harshly lit by naked bulbs, throwing huge shadows on the wooden walls and immediately making Alix feel like it was the dead of night rather than midmorning.

Michael was quickly rushed to one of the far alcoves, where she could hear him being deposited on one of the beds. Alix approached the nurse on duty at the entrance station.
"I'm Flight Lieutenant Noble, of 319 Squadron. I was hoping I could check in with some of our people who are in here - that's Flight Lieutenant Arnold, Flying Officer Talbot, and Captain Page."

The nurse looked offhandedly at some documents on a clipboard. "Oh yes. Right, well, if it's a debriefing or something like that you're after, Arnold and Talbot should be all right for it. But Page...now's not a good time."
Her stomach lurched. "Oh no...how bad is it? I mean, will he-"
The nurse cut her off. "It's not his injuries, necessarily. He'll be better in a while, as far as we can tell - his arm's all set and they're treating the rest of his injuries as best they can. It's just that, well...with all the lacerations and breakages and other injuries he's got right now, we had to give him some pretty heavy medication to calm him down."
"Like what?"

The nurse leaned in. "The doctors felt that morphine was justified. Not a lot of it, but it's fairly potent, and with his body in the state it's in, a little goes a very long way."
Alix nodded. At least he's probably not in pain, I guess... "So I don't suppose...he's in any condition to talk right now."
The nurse shook her head. "Not at all. I think he's sleeping it off now, but it was bad earlier."
"How bad?"
That elicited a half-serious, half-mirthful look. "When it started to take effect, he rolled over onto his pillow, and then asked us what he termed a 'two-part question', very, very seriously. First, whether or not his pillow was made of marshmallow, and second, if the answer to the first question was yes, if he could eat it."
Alix tried not to giggle - it really wasn't funny, but she couldn't help it. "Oh dear..."

The nurse kept going."...And when we told him in no uncertain terms that it was not made of marshmallow, he started crying. Well, I say crying, but it was really sort of bawling, in that he kept trying to say something, but it all just came out as blubbery sobs. Don't see that one too often."
"God...that sounds like some powerful stuff."
"Indeed. Thankfully, he was distracted by some dust motes a few seconds later, so that cleared itself up very quickly. But like I said, Talbot and Arnold should be all right - they're in those two spots on that side of the room. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go check in with Flight Lieutenant Marsden to see if he needs any help with our new arrival."

As she got up to leave, Alix approached the two alcoves, each marked with a note signifying who was in which. She internally shrugged to herself and decided to just pick one at random. Knocking at the flap, she pushed it aside and entered Pat's little room.

[The balkens]

(snip)

[Le-Quebec]

In the aftermath of the events only two days before, the Mark I Spitfire P2289 of Castle Bromwich had been perhaps the very last bird to return to its modest nest of RAF Tempsford in Sandy, Great Britain. It had been in fact, dangerously low on fuel as the loud coughing and rasping of its engine sounded in the English winds, the aircraft's wings constantly rocking from side to side as the metallic mass was forced to glide its way down across the asphalt airstrip of the air base. Apparently the Spitfire's pilot had gotten a bit carried away with a fateful reunion with members of his old squadron that afternoon, coincidentally taking place only a day after he had been transferred from it. Hours after departing his old home base at RAF Biggin Hill, Sergeant Adolf von Vegesack planted his aircraft's undercarriage on the tarmac of RAF Tempsford only to find himself taking off from it mere minutes after finding his new post rather empty and desolate minus a meager garrison and a small party of other fresh faces also dispatched there.

It was with this latter group that the Swedish airman virtually assumed control of as they, a motley crew of three Spitfires in varying condition and as well as a singular out of place Hurricane I, were called upon to escort the very squadron that they had been assigned to safety back across the Channel. Coincidentally fighting alongside his old comrades in No. 610 Squadron, Vegesacl and the makeshift Gold flight of 319 Squadron had just barely managed to ward off the most courageous of the Luftwaffe assets pursuing their squadron's main body when they were caught off by a particularly bizarre sight: a mysteriously new German transport aircraft stupidly drifting in the middle of 319's formation. If the occasion wasn't head scratching enough as it was already, things got even more complicated when the friendly RAF fliers were alerted that the German hulk was indeed friendly - it was unbelievably on their side of things as the bullets flew, with the dropping of nearly a dozen "paratroopers" into the cold and unpredictable winds of the Atlantic currents being apparently all part of the plan. But then again, Vegesack himself had seen the strange and presumably Junkers machine; it had looked as if it was going to explode in all its glory any second that it kept on dragging itself in the air, with extensive battle damage and structural fatigue visible and obvious on perhaps every inch of the pathetic thing.

Apart from that, it had been an otherwise satisfying action: with two more tallies of German Bf-109 fighters onto his score of already ten confirmed kills, Vegesack also had the fortune of returning to base with perfectly minimal battle damage to his aircraft - the ground crews had reported that exactly six 7.92 mm rounds had managed to rock into the area around the port tail-wing, logically explaining the culprit behind a minor difficulty in maneuvering the Spitfire once the battle had ended. The excitement of the day had ended climatically as the last of the Luftwaffe airmen still standing above the southern English coastlines withdrew back to the safety of France, their mission rapidly becoming senseless as the RAF began calling up squadron after squadron of score-hungry pilots to do away with them.

Even with the skies becoming silent by the hour, Vegesack had bothered to linger about with his mates in 610 Squadron as they proceeded to make some final patrol sweeps over the coast before returning to their base of RAF Westhampnett. He didn't have to worry about facing charges of mid-air desertion, for he had already given his wingmen permission to head back to Tempsford and the fact that he wasn't even aware of whom exactly was his commanding officer at the moment.

Well, at least until the hours that passed after his boots stamped the firm gray pavement of Tempsford for the second time that day. By the time he had arrived, it became rapidly apparent from the hushed conversations overheard from members of the squadron and as well as the base personnel in general that a certain Flight Lieutenant Noble was in charge of 319. Besides an apparent likeableness in the fellow's surname, Vegesack felt something was off about this Noble from the very second that he had overheard the officer's name. First off, the standardized Squadron Leader who should have been present wasn't; a flash back to the days when a frightened Lieutenant Allistor was forced to take his compatriot McEwan's place in the midst of the Dunkirk evacuations told Vegesack that perhaps said Squadron Leader had been written off as a casualty.

Secondly and most glaringly, the fateful niche opened when Vegesack's ear caught an exchange of words between a hard nosed medical officer and a control tower commandant regarding Noble's whereabouts that she was currently slammed asleep in her bunk. The Swede was more bewildered than horrified to find that No. 319 Squadron was supposedly in the hands of a woman, presumably an officer of the British Women's Auxiliary Air Force, or WAAF for short; the organization responsible for managing the female contribution to the Royal Air Force, whose members primarily consisted of theoretically second line duties that allowed the male population of the UK to be assigned something else besides communications operators, radar handlers, weather researchers, and the like. Apart from flying the heavy crates of a civilian transport service, Vegesack was informed that the WAAF forbade its members from participating in direct and active combat units, lest alone be in charge of one.

---

January 9th, 1941
RAF Tempsford
0925 Hours

"Lord, I am in for something after all."

The Swede grunted as he forced himself up from the icy nylon cushions that formed his sleeping bag. Briefly adjusting the thick scarf wrapped around his head like a mummy, Vegesack glanced at his watch to find that he had apparently taken a nap just after eating breakfast before everyone else at Tempsford; the mess hall had been nearly empty when he had stepped in at around 0330, about half an hour before all of the RAF pilots were to be up and awake at 0400. He had always had the habit of feeling "full" after having slept enough, from there which his eyes refused to stay shut and his mind jammed its ability to shut down completely. Nevertheless, he always found himself drifting back asleep when there was nothing to do outside of an RAF airman's regular routine of standing by for action in between his three daily meals - which technically meant idling a sprint away from his aircraft in boredom and dullness. While his fellow pilots brooded over the latest issues of Lilliput and Picture Post, analyzed the faithfulness (or unfaithfulness for the unfortunate) of their sweethearts, and debated politics over tables of cards, chess and dominoes, the Swedish polar bear of 610 Squadron was busily snuggled into his makeshift "igloo" of a hiking tent that he carried with him in a bulky duffel bag.

However, it wasn't so much that Vegesack slept whenever he could in between meals and fighter scrambles that made him even more of the slight cuckoo that he already was in 610 - it was more so that he eventually came to actually preferring his makeshift den outside in the chilly north Atlantic winds of the English night over the obviously more comfortable and soothing bunk beds of the barracks on the far side of whichever airfield that he happened to be based at. The way he explained it to his wingmen, whom were guaranteed to be scratching their heads as he spoke, was that he was an avid camper and outdoorsman to begin with, not the mention that, being Scandinavian after all, sleeping outside in the Atlantic breezes of England would be a cakewalk compared to the polar vortexes back home. That's not saying that Vegesack condemned himself to being a total hermit however; during the winter months when it snowed, he casually returned to the stale barrack bunks with its three R.A.F. provided "biscuits": a cheaply produced and squeaky mattress, several paper thin sheets, moderately satisfactory blankets and a gum hard pillow.

On this morning however, the barrage of white snow from the heavens was absent, and the black asphalt of Tempsford's runway was dry enough, despite being a little moist, for a man like the Swede to rest a favored one man tent onto it along with himself inside. He used an arm to assist himself in bending his back up in his nylon cocoon, and as the vision of his navy blue eyes came to, he found himself staring down at the tips of his black RAF issue hobnailed boots. He smiled as he lifted his head to see what he had routinely expected to view just above them - just meters ahead of a halfway zippered entrance was the blue, white, and gold roundel of his Spitfire smiling good morning straight at him. He had adopted this position of setting the tent down with the opening aimed in the direction of his plane's canopy back during his days with the Soviets in China; a husky Siberian airman had demonstrated the usefulness of this strategy, as it allowed for even a dazed and drowsy pilot to rapidly dash and enter his aircraft just as fast as his more awake comrades. Unsurprisingly, it proved particularly useful when Vegesack entered service with the British RAF as he joined the ranks of hundreds of other beleaguered airmen tasked with defending the United Kingdom in its "finest hour" against hordes of German air groups due to strike at any moment of the day.

Raising himself up from the ground, he peeked around his tent and rubbed his eyes. He briefly scrounged around the dark environment for his thermos and canteen, also drawing out a metallic container holding his hygiene stuffs; namely, toothbrushes, floss, soap, and shaving kit. He suddenly set the kits aside however, as the memories of brushing his teeth, washing his face, and shaving only hours before came into mind. Fully unzipping the entrance to his den, Vegesack stepped outside into the morning English air and looked around for any updates in activity, of which there were plenty: significantly more ground personnel were up and about now, washing and maintaining the base's aircraft and equipment or simply strolling around whilst waiting for something to do. On the far side of the field was Tempsford's air control tower, a rather insignificant brown box with a messy hairline of communications towers and radio lines protruding from its bald head. Several pairs of men dressed in the signature "Air Force" blue of the standard RAF service dress casually made their way to it, presumably being the new shift of flight controllers relieving the men who had monitored the airspace during the night.

Glancing around, Vegesack noted that the activity taking place within the airbase's modest but sufficient canteen, of which he had never stepped into over the past day, had spiked in his time of his nap. He dumbly stood there for a while, reflecting over exactly what he should do. It was only prolonged by the fact that so much had changed since last autumn, where there was barely an hour's rest for the entire RAF as it stood vigilant to intercept inevitable German bomber formations coming its way. He remembered the legions of bored, tired, and weary airmen such as he spattered down all over the green grass of Biggin Hill, others lazily caked in wooden and canvas chairs with newspapers and magazines in their laps. He recalled seeing these very images reproduced on the newsreels in the theaters and authentic images in the local gazettes, chuckling over the changing progress of the war as he saw of how things had changed since the Luftwaffe altered their strategy and turned to bombing Britain by night instead.

A young man opened the door of the canteen and stepped forward into the crisp morning wind, his head adjusting to take in the chilly environment that surrounded him. And then just like that. . .

His knees crumpled as the man snapped downwards, an eerily poignant crunch of his uniform striking the rocky asphalt rocketing through the icy air. Vegesack couldn't help but stare stupidly for a second, his widely opened eyes struggling to account for what exactly just happened.

"It's only 9:32 in the morning and somebody's already sipped one shot too many." grumbled the Swede as he busily made his way in the direction of the collapsed man. Apparently, someone in the nearby barracks had already taken alert, and busily sprinted to the planking RAF man. Another pilot just exiting the canopy of his Spitfire, whose drone clearly should've woken Vegesack up earlier, dashed forward, inaudibly yelling something at his comrade now kneeling above the downed fellow. Seeing his role in this bizarre chain of events somewhat dismissed, Vegesack allowed his feet to slow down in the moment that a rather elegant WAAF officer, easily distinguishable by her uniform's long tunic, skirt, and distinctive cylindrical service cap, exited the bar to be confronted with the spectacle. The Swede watched interestingly as the WAAF woman took off presumably to call for help, whilst the two men already besides the one that collapsed coordinated their movements as they took up the body and heaved it after her.

Vegesack shrugged his shoulders and decided to follow them - after all, he needed to meet and greet as many of his new squadron members as possible in order to fit into their social sphere. Despite being given a full day of opportunity as this, Tempsford was overstocked with activity as word of a mysterious wave of wounded men were rapidly ferried to the base, and Vegesack felt that a strange majority of the grizzled veterans of 319 Squadron is no less than a friendly mood to chad with him. By the time that he had trailed the frantic crowd to the airbase's medical infirmary, recently packed with the already aforementioned strange hurt men, Vegesack found that the group that he had seen earlier outside the bar had seemingly dispersed in the seconds before; his eyes darted back and forth between the party lobbing the fallen man to a bunk alongside several doctors and orderlies and the lone singular WAAF officer staying firm in front of the entrance station. A perplexed nurse was flipping through several obscured documents while conversing with the WAAF officer, the latter of which Vegesack hurriedly scanned for any distinctive rank insignia. He recognized the twin gold bars of a Flight Lieutenant on the cuffs of her sleeves, coupled with the similar sky blue and black shoulder boards besides her neck.

The Swede was awe struck as he came to the revelation that the "Lieutenant Noble" so burrowed into his ears by surrounding base personnel was very possibly standing only feet in front of him. Yet, even as their conversation continued into rather intricate details regarding the condition of one rather prominent patient, the name of whom Vegesack hadn't arrived in time to hear, who had believed his pillow to be a giant marshmallow in the daze of being injected with morphine, the nurse and the WAAF officer didn't bother to note his presence only meters from them; presumably, the former believed him to be simply another visitor while the latter was completely unaware that he was even standing a distance behind her. The WAAF lieutenant, whose rank was out of place given the fact that he had been informed exactly by one at Biggin Hill herself that their ranks differentiated from that of their male counterparts, then proceeded to head down a hallway. A part of him wanted to take up and follow her in curiosity, but the presence of the nurse standing firm at her post quickly deterred Vegesack. It didn't take long for the young woman to cast an eye of cold and sterile inspection upon the husky black haired man.

"Oh - have you been standing there this entire time?!" she pipped, slightly jumping back in surprise as she cocked her head in the direction of the WAAF lieutenant's venture down the hall, "You probably heard a lot, didn't you?"

Vegesack could sense the sharp blade of her tongue as the nurse seemed to be doing everything to keep herself from sounding hostile; it became immediately clear to him that she was suspecting him of less than friendly intent with the WAAF officer. He decided that he had to act quickly before things got a little too out of control and a misunderstanding would take place.

"Honestly, do forgive me for that." began the Swede, striding forward to look down into the nurse's eyes with his towering and solid six foot height, "I didn't wish to interrupt your conversation, it sounded quite urgent given the tone of that WAAF officer. She must've been anxious to visit someone she knew."

The nurse batted a raised eyebrow in response, prompting Vegesack to sigh as he was forced to rally his second card: "I'm simply here to forward a report to my immediate commanding officer, whom I have not yet met in person due to the fact that I'm a recent transfer to this installation from only the day before. Several of my fellow airmen guided me here stating that she had come here to visit a familiar patient - yes, my OC is a woman; I understand it's actually quite bizarre in an institution divided in regards to gender."

His voice stuttered in full perplexed honesty, "It wouldn't be a long walk to say that a certain Flight Lieutenant Noble of 319 Squadron would be that lady whom you were just talking with right?"

The nurse's jaw dropped and eyes briefly fluttered, prompting Vegesack to step aside for anything that might've happened.

"Ah, er, yes." she began, slyly slanting her lips as she lazily darted a finger in the direction of the hallway, "You just saw her going down the hall, and - Oh! Wait!"

The nurse tinkered with her pen as she prepared to update the hospital log as required, "I'm going to need your name and identification Mr. -"

"Vegesack - Sergeant," smiled the Swede as he caught on, "and predictably of No. 319 Squadron." His dark blue irises couldn't help but notice that the young woman's own delivered a rather suspicious frown as his strong Germanic accent flew into her ears: "I understand that my tongue can be a bit - misleading - at some points. I'll clear it up: I'm the squadron's new Dutch liaison officer you see, and I've been posted here to gain some experience within some British units while my government oversees the foundation of a new air force of its own. Just like the Poles and Czechs you know."

He heard the nurse mutter, "RAF Sergeant Vegesack - Dutchman for note." while she scribed onto the fat check-board in her arms, "Why did they sent you to this outfit instead of with the chaps down south or something? Surely, you Orange fellows would want to have a person like you out gaining some experience at least."

The Swede stood firm amidst the nurse's bold probing, "It's a matter of the will of higher authority I guess; apparently, there's something about 319 Squadron that catches the eye of my superiors and prompted them to ship me over. The rest is, I'm afraid, unavailable both to you and I to discuss."

The nurse gave a reluctant sigh as she waved him over to proceed with his doings, "Lieutenant Noble should be visiting some of the patients in their rooms right now - do please be careful not to bother them in their desperately needed recovery. Otherwise, feel free to report to her as you wish."

Vegesack bowed slightly in deep thanks as the nurse spared him much potential trouble. As he walked past her and into the hallway, it seemed that Noble had entered one of the rooms off to the sides. Only the hard footsteps of his RAF hobnailed boots echoed across the dim lighted air as he made his way forward into the dun canyon. He then came upon two doors that were marked with distinctive tags with names on them, respectively being of several men named Arnold, Talbot, and Page. With three rooms and only one person of interest with the chance of entering each, Vegesack struggled with the notion of what to do as he defeated the urge to simply, but also rudely, knock aimlessly on each of them until Noble opened one. Yet he also didn't wish to just dumbly stand around, and shrugged as he decided that he might as well carefully open each door until the one with the WAAF lieutenant inside came into view.

The names on the doors were organized and displace in alphabetical order, with Arnold first, Page second, and Talbot last. Taking a deep breath, Vegesack stepped up to Arnold's and winced his eyes as he turned the brass knob sideways. The locking mechanism prompted to cough as it unwound itself, Vegesack's breath hung as he peeped his head inside to see exactly whom he had been looking for. As the surprised WAAF woman turned around to meet him, he quickly responded as politely as he could.

"My apologies if I startled you madame, but I honestly didn't wish to knock lest I accidentally awake a patient from their sleep and cause trouble. Anyways, long story short, I've been looking for a certain Flight Lieutenant Noble of 319 Squadron. She apparently is the current commanding officer of 319, the unit that I've been posted to as of the day before yesterday. Apparently, with all this commotion on base that has been taking place since the very hour that I arrived only to take off again under orders to escort the squadron from some bizarre adventure in France, I haven't had the opportunity to be introduced to my new superior. I simply want to see if she could clear some things up with me that I'd like to - know, for lack of a better word, regarding this unit and my actual purpose here."

He rolled his eyes as he added, "I understand that I may seen to be a person of great suspicion: my completely coincidental physical likeliness to 'Dolfo Galland not withstanding, my strong central European tongue points to my Swedish nationality. As to the reports on my dossier, of which I presume that you've already brooded over at some point, my claims of being a Dutchman attache are only so because being honest and explaining of being a neutral country's citizen serving in a warring one's military would prompt some rather unnecessary questions and answers that be a burden to address every single time that I meet someone new."

[Calizorinstan]

Pat smiled when he saw Flight Lieutenant Noble, "Lieutenant Noble, it is great to see you. I have not had the pleasure of anybody's company except the nurses for the past few days." He coughed, and said "I am glad that you all made it back safe." He sighed "I haven't been sleeping the best the past few days I must confess, nightmares and all." He looked down at his lap for a moment and then looked up, "How have you been these last few days?" He asked Alix.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Pat smiled when he saw Flight Lieutenant Noble, "Lieutenant Noble, it is great to see you. I have not had the pleasure of anybody's company except the nurses for the past few days." He coughed, and said "I am glad that you all made it back safe." He sighed "I haven't been sleeping the best the past few days I must confess, nightmares and all." He looked down at his lap for a moment and then looked up, "How have you been these last few days?" He asked Alix.

Alix knelt down by his bedside. He seemed all right, for what he'd been through, but there were definitely signs of the horrors he'd been forced to endure, if you looked for them. Pat seemed much weaker, less substantial, than he had before he'd been captured - his arms were thinner, bonier, and his face seemed more sunken, the lines deeper and more visible - obvious signs of malnourishment. There weren't nearly as many signs of overt violence on his person as there were on Page, though - minimal signs of cutting, stabbing, or actual purely physical assault or battery, which was good to see. Guess he probably didn't get nearly as much attention as Page did.
...Or because he cracked before they got to that point.
"It's good to see you too, Pat," she said in a soft voice, trying to not be obstreperous and wake anybody else in the ward. "I just stopped in to see how you and the rest were doing - make sure you were being treated right here, all of that. I'm sorry you haven't been sleeping well..."
Alix struggled for something to say. "...I imagine it'll get better over time, you know, as you...get back to normality here."
She sighed. "And I'm sorry, but it's starting to look like we didn't all make it out all right. Flight Lieutenant Melody didn't make it back. It seems she got shot down while we were attacking your transport, and...nobody's seem or heard anything from her since, not even a parachute. Besides that...this is a bit of old news, but we lost three people KIA in Spain besides you and the rest of the captured pilots. We got you and the others back, but we took a beating in the process.
"Not that - I mean, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be talking about that now," she stuttered, realizing too late that it probably wasn't a good idea to mention all the other people who hadn't made it out to somebody who had. "It's good to have you back. As for what's been going on..."

Alix spent the next few minutes catching Pat up on what had transpired since that terrible night on the Spanish border. As the began to reach the conclusion, there was a sudden noise behind her. She turned to to see who it was, a bit puzzled that somebody apparently wouldn't even bother to knock at a sick-room door.

As the surprised WAAF woman turned around to meet him, he quickly responded as politely as he could.

"My apologies if I startled you madame, but I honestly didn't wish to knock lest I accidentally awake a patient from their sleep and cause trouble. Anyways, long story short, I've been looking for a certain Flight Lieutenant Noble of 319 Squadron. She apparently is the current commanding officer of 319, the unit that I've been posted to as of the day before yesterday. Apparently, with all this commotion on base that has been taking place since the very hour that I arrived only to take off again under orders to escort the squadron from some bizarre adventure in France, I haven't had the opportunity to be introduced to my new superior. I simply want to see if she could clear some things up with me that I'd like to - know, for lack of a better word, regarding this unit and my actual purpose here."

He rolled his eyes as he added, "I understand that I may seen to be a person of great suspicion: my completely coincidental physical likeliness to 'Dolfo Galland not withstanding, my strong central European tongue points to my Swedish nationality. As to the reports on my dossier, of which I presume that you've already brooded over at some point, my claims of being a Dutchman attache are only so because being honest and explaining of being a neutral country's citizen serving in a warring one's military would prompt some rather unnecessary questions and answers that be a burden to address every single time that I meet someone new."

Alix was taken quite a bit aback by how assertive the (apparent) Swede was. She turned back to Pat.
"I'm very sorry, Lieutenant, but I've got to take this. If you need anything else from me, just let the nurse know and she'll get in touch with me. Again, I'm very sorry."
Alix motioned to the new pilot to follow her, walking out of Pat's room, out of the Nissen hut, and then outside. She turned to him, vaguely recalling his face from his file. It was just as true in person - he really did look like Galland, whose face she was also familiar with from the intelligence summaries off the Luftwaffe's commanders. It was more than a bit uncanny.
"Yes, I'm Flight Lieutenant Noble. I rather wish you would've waited a few minutes to make yourself known, though, I was visiting a few of our pilots injured in the last skirmish, so I hope this is urgent. You're ...Vegesack, right? What specific questions do you have? Or should we stick with generalities?"

[The balkens]

(snip)

[Gibberan]

Carter sat in the bar. He asked the bartender for a scotch. He usually didn't drink, and, to be honest, he didn't even know why he was now. Maybe because of his mood. He had made friends, in the squadron, sure, but as soon as he had turned his back, they had gone. At least he still had Hans, and the swede, but not one single Briton. Well, maybe Charlie of course, and despite the fact that Noble was his superior officer, she seemed to have warmed up to him. Maybe it was Stanford. Yes, it was probably Stanford. Why did he have to focus on that little incident back there? He didn't know. But he was.

Look at me now, he thought. In an airbase in the middle of nowhere. Spending his Christmas, his New Year's miles away from home with no one to celebrate with. It was lonely, it was dangerous, and on top of it all, it was freezing.

And there wasn't even any snow.

Carter smiled. Memories of him and his older sister building a snowman back in Bullfrog, came to mind. He'd always treasure those moments, of laughter of happiness, between the rough times.

He looked outside the window. The clouds outside were looming over the ground ominously. There were two, no three, no six, no, more, little white things coming down from the sky. Carter's eyes widened. Parachutes? And then he realized. How could he be so oblivious to it! his fact lit up and he started to speak loudly in the quiet room.

"Hey, everyone, it's snowing, it's really snowing!"

[Le-Quebec]

Alix was taken quite a bit aback by how assertive the (apparent) Swede was. She turned back to Pat.
"I'm very sorry, Lieutenant, but I've got to take this. If you need anything else from me, just let the nurse know and she'll get in touch with me. Again, I'm very sorry."
Alix motioned to the new pilot to follow her, walking out of Pat's room, out of the Nissen hut, and then outside. She turned to him, vaguely recalling his face from his file. It was just as true in person - he really did look like Galland, whose face she was also familiar with from the intelligence summaries off the Luftwaffe's commanders. It was more than a bit uncanny.
"Yes, I'm Flight Lieutenant Noble. I rather wish you would've waited a few minutes to make yourself known, though, I was visiting a few of our pilots injured in the last skirmish, so I hope this is urgent. You're ...Vegesack, right? What specific questions do you have? Or should we stick with generalities?"

"Oh", gaped Vegesack as he bit his lip, scratching the back of his black haired head as he felt a wave of red embarrassment strike him as Noble began; he certainly did could have waited longer minutes before.

But the notion of seeing you up so close from behind erased that option from my pathetic head for the moment.

His eyes were wide the entire time since she had first turned around in the dimness of Arnold's room, having been awe struck at the sheer youth and fresh faced demeanor of the WAAF officer. Yet it was readily apparent to him that her rumored responsibilities of command were rapidly beginning to catch up to her. It seemed as if Noble was once even more radiant and beautiful than she was now: prominent puffy swells of fatigue were taking root around her eyelids, while it looked like her simple lips were fighting a struggle with maintaining a polite and cheerful appearance from a gaunt and displeased one.

In any case, she hasn't been getting very much sleep - but there haven't been any all night bombing raids here because there's nothing for the Germans to bomb.

Vegesack sighed as he began, his tongue choking on the possibility that his curious honesty would only upstart an even worse reaction from her.

"I'm terribly sorry if I sound a bit pushy, but -" he paused, wondering of how exactly he should put it, "So many things have defied logic ever since the minute I first arrived at this base the afternoon before yesterday that you'd probably take up the entire morning explaining it all. But most importantly among them are of the fact that a never before seen Junkers aircraft was marked as a friendly seconds before 610 Squadron was able to set fire to it, a dozen parachutists bailed out of said aircraft with exactly no mention of it all in the newspapers regarding their identities, a sudden wave of injured men arriving without a full explanation exactly why and where did they come from, the now confirmed rumor that a WAAF Flight Lieutenant, who really should be called a Company Commander the last time I checked, was commanding a front line fighting unit without a regulated Squadron Leader, and now the oddity of an airman apparently falling drunk first thing in the morning."

Suddenly, the Swede laughed for no particularly reason, giving a beleaguered smirk at the WAAF officer, "Well, perhaps you wouldn't have to explain all that if the hypothesis that I made up over the course of yesterday is correct. You see, after I put all of the evidence together, I found the logical explanation over why you're in command of this outfit in the first place: it's because whoever the hell was in charge before ended up "buying the farm" as you British put it. The reason of why that four engine Junkers was tagging along with your lot the day before was because it was trying to defect across the Channel in some sort of pre-planned arrangement - why else would an entire task force of Spitfires, Wellingtons, and single US Catalina (yes, I witnessed this group take off just as I landed here minutes after) be dispatched as a coincidentally useful escort? The reason of why everyone's being so hush hush about those patients sleeping back in the infirmary is because they were the dozen parachutists that bailed out of that wreck over the coastline and presumably terrified the local militia groups along the way. And finally -"

He bit his lip as he looked directly at the female officer, "The reason of why Sword Leader's radio was dead the entire time her squadron made its return flight homewards is because somehow, the method of which God knows and I don't, she was in that Junkers as her silence prompted the fighters from 610 Squadron sent to assist 319 to move to smoke it."

Vegesack was nearly panting as he forced his tone to soften, lest he risk antagonizing his commanding officer the very first time he came face to her, "I don't want to sound like I'm accusing you of something, but if you really were inside that stricken craft, God forbid even piloting it, I'd like to point out the fact of how seriously close the boys in 610 were to adding it to their kill tallies; their squadron leader, whom I actually served alongside before being transferred here, had fully pulled up behind the Junkers with the full intentions of destroying it when a pair of 109's dived at him from the side. If they had come even a full second after, the burst of fire that knocked out the four engine transport's lasting working one probably would've ripped into the fuselage instead. He survived however, and his wingmen dealt with the Germans accordingly."

"Perhaps I should compensate for what I just did." sighed Vegesack, reaching into his pocket where he held his wallet, "I witnessed you step out of the canteen minutes ago, and hopefully a responsible woman such as you isn't into drinking that much. That being said, money for one isn't an option. As my superior in command, I guess it's up to you to decide how to deal with an overtly curious and assertive subordinate. You were mentally using that latter word when I entered Arnold's room weren't you?"

He wasn't sure whether he should be nervous over the lieutenant's wrath, "For a man of 35 years with many hours of flight experience, coupled with being a combat veteran of two armed conflicts of the past decade, three if you count this one that we're all currently in, you'd probably expect me to be much more than the lowly Sergeant that I am; yes, not even without a "Flight" in front."

[Len Hyet]

Silva hobbled into the sick room, pausing to shoot an evil eye toward Noble. He scratched at his stitches again, ignoring the big black haired fellow who appeared to be Swedish for the moment.

He pointedly rapped his crutch against the floor.

"Some of us need a little more time dashing to the side of injured airmen Lieutenant. Pat, good to see you, try to avoid being captured in the future will you? Swede, I'm pretty sure that's classified."

He paused and scratched his stitches again.

"I think that about does it. Lieutenant, is the Captain conscious?"

[Calizorinstan]

Alix knelt down by his bedside. He seemed all right, for what he'd been through, but there were definitely signs of the horrors he'd been forced to endure, if you looked for them. Pat seemed much weaker, less substantial, than he had before he'd been captured - his arms were thinner, bonier, and his face seemed more sunken, the lines deeper and more visible - obvious signs of malnourishment. There weren't nearly as many signs of overt violence on his person as there were on Page, though - minimal signs of cutting, stabbing, or actual purely physical assault or battery, which was good to see. Guess he probably didn't get nearly as much attention as Page did.
...Or because he cracked before they got to that point.
"It's good to see you too, Pat," she said in a soft voice, trying to not be obstreperous and wake anybody else in the ward. "I just stopped in to see how you and the rest were doing - make sure you were being treated right here, all of that. I'm sorry you haven't been sleeping well..."
Alix struggled for something to say. "...I imagine it'll get better over time, you know, as you...get back to normality here."
She sighed. "And I'm sorry, but it's starting to look like we didn't all make it out all right. Flight Lieutenant Melody didn't make it back. It seems she got shot down while we were attacking your transport, and...nobody's seem or heard anything from her since, not even a parachute. Besides that...this is a bit of old news, but we lost three people KIA in Spain besides you and the rest of the captured pilots. We got you and the others back, but we took a beating in the process.
"Not that - I mean, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be talking about that now," she stuttered, realizing too late that it probably wasn't a good idea to mention all the other people who hadn't made it out to somebody who had. "It's good to have you back. As for what's been going on..."

Alix spent the next few minutes catching Pat up on what had transpired since that terrible night on the Spanish border. As the began to reach the conclusion, there was a sudden noise behind her. She turned to to see who it was, a bit puzzled that somebody apparently wouldn't even bother to knock at a sick-room door.

Alix was taken quite a bit aback by how assertive the (apparent) Swede was. She turned back to Pat.
"I'm very sorry, Lieutenant, but I've got to take this. If you need anything else from me, just let the nurse know and she'll get in touch with me. Again, I'm very sorry."

[/quote]

Pat nodded at her words and was quite happy to be caught up to date and thanked her "Thank you so much ma'am." He said softly "I appreciate your visiting me and checking on me and everybody." He sighed "If it is quite alright, I'd like to talk later. That is no problem, you have a duty to perform" He said in response to her apologetic response. As she left, he sighed at the fact they had lost a few friends.

Silva hobbled into the sick room, pausing to shoot an evil eye toward Noble. He scratched at his stitches again, ignoring the big black haired fellow who appeared to be Swedish for the moment.

He pointedly rapped his crutch against the floor.

"Some of us need a little more time dashing to the side of injured airmen Lieutenant. Pat, good to see you, try to avoid being captured in the future will you? Swede, I'm pretty sure that's classified."

He paused and scratched his stitches again.

"I think that about does it. Lieutenant, is the Captain conscious?"

[/quote]


Pat laughed "I will try harder, just give me more mag's for my BAR and I will make sure that will happen. I'm itching to get out on the shooting range again with a Garand, but these nurses won't let me out Silva. They have eyes like hawks." He jokingly complained. "I really want to get out and fly again. I've been stuck in this bed for far too long in my opinion."

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Silva hobbled into the sick room, pausing to shoot an evil eye toward Noble. He scratched at his stitches again, ignoring the big black haired fellow who appeared to be Swedish for the moment.

He pointedly rapped his crutch against the floor.

"Some of us need a little more time dashing to the side of injured airmen Lieutenant."

"Oops, sorry, Lieutenant..."

"Pat, good to see you, try to avoid being captured in the future will you? Swede, I'm pretty sure that's classified."

He paused and scratched his stitches again.

"I think that about does it. Lieutenant, is the Captain conscious?"

On her way out, Alix cautiously nodded.
"He's awake, I think, but I don't think he's to be disturbed yet. He's still on some pretty heavy medication."
Her voice brightened a bit. "Good time to ask for a promotion, though, assuming you can compensate him in marshmallows."

Alix was taken quite a bit aback by how assertive the (apparent) Swede was. She turned back to Pat.
"I'm very sorry, Lieutenant, but I've got to take this. If you need anything else from me, just let the nurse know and she'll get in touch with me. Again, I'm very sorry."
Alix motioned to the new pilot to follow her, walking out of Pat's room, out of the Nissen hut, and then outside. She turned to him, vaguely recalling his face from his file. It was just as true in person - he really did look like Galland, whose face she was also familiar with from the intelligence summaries off the Luftwaffe's commanders. It was more than a bit uncanny.
"Yes, I'm Flight Lieutenant Noble. I rather wish you would've waited a few minutes to make yourself known, though, I was visiting a few of our pilots injured in the last skirmish, so I hope this is urgent. You're ...Vegesack, right? What specific questions do you have? Or should we stick with generalities?"

"Oh", gaped Vegesack as he bit his lip, scratching the back of his black haired head as he felt a wave of red embarrassment strike him as Noble began; he certainly did could have waited longer minutes before.

But the notion of seeing you up so close from behind erased that option from my pathetic head for the moment.

His eyes were wide the entire time since she had first turned around in the dimness of Arnold's room, having been awe struck at the sheer youth and fresh faced demeanor of the WAAF officer. Yet it was readily apparent to him that her rumored responsibilities of command were rapidly beginning to catch up to her. It seemed as if Noble was once even more radiant and beautiful than she was now: prominent puffy swells of fatigue were taking root around her eyelids, while it looked like her simple lips were fighting a struggle with maintaining a polite and cheerful appearance from a gaunt and displeased one.

In any case, she hasn't been getting very much sleep - but there haven't been any all night bombing raids here because there's nothing for the Germans to bomb.

Vegesack sighed as he began, his tongue choking on the possibility that his curious honesty would only upstart an even worse reaction from her.

"I'm terribly sorry if I sound a bit pushy, but -" he paused, wondering of how exactly he should put it, "So many things have defied logic ever since the minute I first arrived at this base the afternoon before yesterday that you'd probably take up the entire morning explaining it all. But most importantly among them are of the fact that a never before seen Junkers aircraft was marked as a friendly seconds before 610 Squadron was able to set fire to it, a dozen parachutists bailed out of said aircraft with exactly no mention of it all in the newspapers regarding their identities, a sudden wave of injured men arriving without a full explanation exactly why and where did they come from, the now confirmed rumor that a WAAF Flight Lieutenant, who really should be called a Company Commander the last time I checked, was commanding a front line fighting unit without a regulated Squadron Leader, and now the oddity of an airman apparently falling drunk first thing in the morning."

Suddenly, the Swede laughed for no particularly reason, giving a beleaguered smirk at the WAAF officer, "Well, perhaps you wouldn't have to explain all that if the hypothesis that I made up over the course of yesterday is correct. You see, after I put all of the evidence together, I found the logical explanation over why you're in command of this outfit in the first place: it's because whoever the hell was in charge before ended up "buying the farm" as you British put it. The reason of why that four engine Junkers was tagging along with your lot the day before was because it was trying to defect across the Channel in some sort of pre-planned arrangement - why else would an entire task force of Spitfires, Wellingtons, and single US Catalina (yes, I witnessed this group take off just as I landed here minutes after) be dispatched as a coincidentally useful escort? The reason of why everyone's being so hush hush about those patients sleeping back in the infirmary is because they were the dozen parachutists that bailed out of that wreck over the coastline and presumably terrified the local militia groups along the way. And finally -"

He bit his lip as he looked directly at the female officer, "The reason of why Sword Leader's radio was dead the entire time her squadron made its return flight homewards is because somehow, the method of which God knows and I don't, she was in that Junkers as her silence prompted the fighters from 610 Squadron sent to assist 319 to move to smoke it."

Vegesack was nearly panting as he forced his tone to soften, lest he risk antagonizing his commanding officer the very first time he came face to her, "I don't want to sound like I'm accusing you of something, but if you really were inside that stricken craft, God forbid even piloting it, I'd like to point out the fact of how seriously close the boys in 610 were to adding it to their kill tallies; their squadron leader, whom I actually served alongside before being transferred here, had fully pulled up behind the Junkers with the full intentions of destroying it when a pair of 109's dived at him from the side. If they had come even a full second after, the burst of fire that knocked out the four engine transport's lasting working one probably would've ripped into the fuselage instead. He survived however, and his wingmen dealt with the Germans accordingly."

"Perhaps I should compensate for what I just did." sighed Vegesack, reaching into his pocket where he held his wallet, "I witnessed you step out of the canteen minutes ago, and hopefully a responsible woman such as you isn't into drinking that much. That being said, money for one isn't an option. As my superior in command, I guess it's up to you to decide how to deal with an overtly curious and assertive subordinate. You were mentally using that latter word when I entered Arnold's room weren't you?"

He wasn't sure whether he should be nervous over the lieutenant's wrath, "For a man of 35 years with many hours of flight experience, coupled with being a combat veteran of two armed conflicts of the past decade, three if you count this one that we're all currently in, you'd probably expect me to be much more than the lowly Sergeant that I am; yes, not even without a "Flight" in front."

Alix's eyes widened. Yes, assertive is the wo...wait...how did he...is he in my head? Dammit!
But he was right on many counts indeed. She put her hands on her hips and looked at the ground, trying to marshal her thoughts. It wasn't made any easier by his mention of how close they'd come to getting shot down by their own people, the thought made her palms sweat.
"You're very perceptive, Sergeant Vegesack, and honestly, that's quite a well-developed...and detailed hypothesis. I can tell you in all honesty that I wasn't flying that particular aircraft, and I think that's all I'm going to say before the actual Squadron Leader's in talking condition. I will tell you that that part of your hypothesis is absolutely correct, we are in a very confused command situation at the moment since our Squadron Leader...sustained some fairly serious injuries in the line of duty. He's still being worked on in the infirmary, but I expect he'll at least be awake and talking soon. If he gives the word, I'll be happy to clue you in on whatever you need to know."
Or at least not talking about eating his own pillow. The poor man...
"And in response to your other question, no, I was not drinking at this hour of the morning, rest assured, I barely drink as it is. I was actually fetching one of my people from in there to see if they wanted to check in with our...injured people. That's all it was. And yes, actually, I'm a bit unnerved, actually, that was the exact word I was thinking to describe...your demeanor. But I'm not the type to mind it, long as it doesn't make for a problem."

She narrowed her eyes. "And that is rather odd. You're 35, and only a Sergeant? I think you may actually be the oldest member of the squadron - oh, sorry. No offense intended or anything...but yes, with all that experience...how would that have happened? I'm sure your file made some note of it, but I can't quite recall it."

[United Kingdom of Poland]

Polanski walked over to the hospital. Something about the way Stanford was acting earlier had him worried. Doug was the calm one of the group the one guy who hadn't flipped out following the events of the past month. Even worst he seemed to blame the rest of the squadron for what happened to his crew.Sorry we couldn't stop 20 fighters with 7 escorts. Over in the hallway he could see Flight Lieutenant Noble talking with one of the new guys, the Swede...Vegesack wasn't it. The Swede sounded like he was questioning her, spinning some bullshit story about how two 109's finished off the transport. You know I could have sworn it was a Spitfire that shot out the fourth engine. Well Matt had a message to pass along to Noble anyways.


" good morning Ma'am, Silva,......Vegesack isn't it. Thank you for saving our rear ends a few days ago by the way, glad you came when you did. Anyway my fiancée in signals said that they got orders from high up to start looking for a missing pilot, and she figures it's one of ours. I didn't confirm that but she asked me to pass on a message to you. they haven't found anything yet but they still have hope." He looked inside and saw Pat. "oh Pat I have some bad news. We had to call off the search for your BAR today, I know how much it meant to you so I figured I would tell you personally." he said barely holding back a laugh. "Maybe we can graduate you to a real machinegun now?"

[Goram]

Ye could say that. Bloomin' came a gutser. Gobsmacked with 'ow fast they got me back 'ere, so I can't knock ye poms fer the service. Though I'm stoked that ye lobbed-in, buts reckon I'll go troppo if I'm stuck in 'ere any longer.

Stanford's left eye brow raised steadily up his forehead as the girl replied. She may as well have been speaking a foreign language and the Flying Officer barely caught a word between the heavy accent and Australian slang.

"Well, if you say so"

Stanford replied, quite clearly bemused.

"What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they make it?"

[Morrdh]

"They got out fine." Kaya answered. "Though I best be fair dinkum deadset with ye..."

"I was galah and decided to give it a burl at sending a SOS 'fore I bailed."

[Le-Quebec]

Silva hobbled into the sick room, pausing to shoot an evil eye toward Noble. He scratched at his stitches again, ignoring the big black haired fellow who appeared to be Swedish for the moment.

He pointedly rapped his crutch against the floor.

"Some of us need a little more time dashing to the side of injured airmen Lieutenant. Pat, good to see you, try to avoid being captured in the future will you? Swede, I'm pretty sure that's classified."

Vegesack squinted in a frown as his conversation with the WAAF lieutenant was cut into by a particularly non-British voice. Swerving around to face the man behind him, his blue eyes came upon lighter greenish counterparts of a shiny blonde haired man. As he scanned this rather blunt newcomer, whom had pegged his way besides the Swede and the female lieutenant on a crutch, Vegesack noticed that he couldn't have been standing higher than the blonde fellow for more than about two inches. Glancing about the unknown man for any obvious signs of rank or identity, the Swede mumbled a frustrated sigh as he saw the same exact twin gold bars shining at him from the man's shoulders - he was a Flight Lieutenant too. The question of rank solved, Vegesack's mind then turned to this stranger's nationality: his tongue was definitely foreign to the British Isles, and there was something unavoidably off about his demeanor that set him apart from the traditional RAF man that Vegesack had seen. If there was one thing that the Swede as instantly sure regarding this newcomer, it was that he was from North America; his accented English lacked the "o's that sounded similar to "a's as in the stereotypical British bloody hell.

He had heard of dozens of Canadian airmen supposedly volunteering to aid the British cause by offering their services to the RAF, coupled with the prevalent rumors of not few citizens of the United States juxtaposing as their northern counterparts as to dodge the restrictions implemented by Washington DC enforcing a current policy of neutrality while the rest of the world caught fire. Vegesack recalled an age old maxim of perhaps the founding father of the Northern American power, in which George Washington had warned his people about the dangers of being overtly involved in affairs overseas. He admired the fact of how the current American government was still adhering to that principle after nearly two centuries, despite the country's somewhat contradictory military interventions in the Philippines and in World War I Europe at the turn of the recent times.

On her way out, Alix cautiously nodded.
Alix's eyes widened. Yes, assertive is the wo...wait...how did he...is he in my head? Dammit!
But he was right on many counts indeed. She put her hands on her hips and looked at the ground, trying to marshal her thoughts. It wasn't made any easier by his mention of how close they'd come to getting shot down by their own people, the thought made her palms sweat.
"You're very perceptive, Sergeant Vegesack, and honestly, that's quite a well-developed...and detailed hypothesis. I can tell you in all honesty that I wasn't flying that particular aircraft, and I think that's all I'm going to say before the actual Squadron Leader's in talking condition. I will tell you that that part of your hypothesis is absolutely correct, we are in a very confused command situation at the moment since our Squadron Leader...sustained some fairly serious injuries in the line of duty. He's still being worked on in the infirmary, but I expect he'll at least be awake and talking soon. If he gives the word, I'll be happy to clue you in on whatever you need to know."
Or at least not talking about eating his own pillow. The poor man...
"And in response to your other question, no, I was not drinking at this hour of the morning, rest assured, I barely drink as it is. I was actually fetching one of my people from in there to see if they wanted to check in with our...injured people. That's all it was. And yes, actually, I'm a bit unnerved, actually, that was the exact word I was thinking to describe...your demeanor. But I'm not the type to mind it, long as it doesn't make for a problem."

She narrowed her eyes. "And that is rather odd. You're 35, and only a Sergeant? I think you may actually be the oldest member of the squadron - oh, sorry. No offense intended or anything...but yes, with all that experience...how would that have happened? I'm sure your file made some note of it, but I can't quite recall it."

Vegesack's attention turned back towards the WAAF lieutenant as she answered. He figured that the very last part of her counter questions would the most trivial and easiest to tackle for the moment, and proceeded to address her reply in reverse order.

"I presume that the - lack of opportunity - regarding a promotion in this air force has to with some political concerns." he sighed, "I'm natively Swedish, thus a citizen of a neutral country at this time - presumably, Stockholm wouldn't want one of its people rising through the ranks of the British military and blasting down Germans lest it anger Berlin in the process. So they might as well weigh me down no matter now many tallies I have in my score."

He chuckled however, recalling that rank wasn't very much of a problem during this time with 610 Squadron; whereas the average RAF airman last autumn was only 18 through 25 years, the 35 year old Swede had stood out among his comrades so much that he had eventually been revered as an officer in their own way.

"It's the least of my problems here however; most of your flying countrymen are so young and I'm so old that even my last squadron's officers looked up to me in some way - pardon me if I sound like I'm boasting. I'm not."

"You're very perceptive, Sergeant Vegesack, and honestly, that's quite a well-developed...and detailed hypothesis. I can tell you in all honesty that I wasn't flying that particular aircraft, and I think that's all I'm going to say before the actual Squadron Leader's in talking condition. I will tell you that that part of your hypothesis is absolutely correct, we are in a very confused command situation at the moment since our Squadron Leader...sustained some fairly serious injuries in the line of duty.

He smiled and rolled his eyes as the lieutenant flattered him, but sniffed up something blatantly out of place in her explanation.

"That's clearly understandable regarding the current OC's situation." nodded Vegesack, "But, and I'd hate to be blunt, but what on earth does a wounded commanding officer have to do with hijacking a German transport all the way behind enemy lines? Unless if the two circumstances are separate; he, presuming that your OC's a man, simply could've been wounded before the operation the day before, and that the objective of aiding that defecting aircraft was so urgent that 319 Squadron had to make do without him."

A second, more bleak thought, came into mind: "You're not saying that this unit specializes in capturing intact pieces of enemy equipment are you?"

" good morning Ma'am, Silva,......Vegesack isn't it. Thank you for saving our rear ends a few days ago by the way, glad you came when you did. Anyway my fiancée in signals said that they got orders from high up to start looking for a missing pilot, and she figures it's one of ours. I didn't confirm that but she asked me to pass on a message to you. they haven't found anything yet but they still have hope."

A rather pale faced man entered the scene, his speech being filtered through a web of what seemed to be an Eastern European language that Vegesack recognized instantly. It was known that around several hundred exiled Polish airmen were currently serving within the RAF, with many of these airmen becoming infamous as some of the most battle hardened veterans the British air force could field during the battles of last summer and autumn; a decent quantity of these pilots had formerly survived the German invasion of their homeland, mainly by soaring into neutral countries with their aircraft as the defense put up by the Polish military collapsed in only a week's time.

Having served alongside elements of the venerated 303 Fighter Squadron during the fierce early September onslaughts over London, Vegesack had become familiar with the Polish airmen to have adequately recognized their accents over the static crackles of the radio airwaves; not to mention an interesting conversation with an actual member of the famed squadron whom had been forced to bail out south of the city and sent to Vegesack's post at Biggin Hill to await transport orders.

The Swede winked as the Pole thanked him and his hodge podge band of new transfers for their efforts on January 7th.

"It was nothing. Plus, with only five total aircraft in our group, it was the full arm of 610 Squadron that did the lion's share of the fighting that day."

He leaned forward in observation, "This squadron seems to have an unusually large combination of foreign nationals: I've caught on several Poles, several Canadians or Americans, a South African . . ."

He froze as he found himself pondering out loud, " . . . and what's next? Perhaps an Indian of the Raj? Or even a Muslim. I've never seen such diversity before all in a single group."

[Calizorinstan]

Polanski walked over to the hospital. Something about the way Stanford was acting earlier had him worried. Doug was the calm one of the group the one guy who hadn't flipped out following the events of the past month. Even worst he seemed to blame the rest of the squadron for what happened to his crew.Sorry we couldn't stop 20 fighters with 7 escorts. Over in the hallway he could see Flight Lieutenant Noble talking with one of the new guys, the Swede...Vegesack wasn't it. The Swede sounded like he was questioning her, spinning some bullshit story about how two 109's finished off the transport. You know I could have sworn it was a Spitfire that shot out the fourth engine. Well Matt had a message to pass along to Noble anyways.


" good morning Ma'am, Silva,......Vegesack isn't it. Thank you for saving our rear ends a few days ago by the way, glad you came when you did. Anyway my fiancée in signals said that they got orders from high up to start looking for a missing pilot, and she figures it's one of ours. I didn't confirm that but she asked me to pass on a message to you. they haven't found anything yet but they still have hope." He looked inside and saw Pat. "oh Pat I have some bad news. We had to call off the search for your BAR today, I know how much it meant to you so I figured I would tell you personally." he said barely holding back a laugh. "Maybe we can graduate you to a real machinegun now?"

Pat scowled at this news. "Gosh darn it. I was hoping to have recovered my BAR, but the more important thing to me was to get me out alive." He shook his head "Perhaps I can borrow a Garand in the meantime? I hear we just received more Garands from the States." He suggested. "How are you doing Matt?" He asked kindly.

[Len Hyet]

Flight Lieutenant Benjamin Silva looked around the room, quietly noting everyone around. He looked around again, and counted again. Then again, stubbornly refusing to believe that his count was one short. Accounting for those that were and should be in bed, and those who were outside, he was still coming up short. So he did the math again, because Silva is a stubborn motherfucker when it comes to things like this.

He hobbled toward Lieutenant Noble and quietly spoke up. "Ma'am, was Lieutenant Melody injured in the Operation?"

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Vegesack's attention turned back towards the WAAF lieutenant as she answered. He figured that the very last part of her counter questions would the most trivial and easiest to tackle for the moment, and proceeded to address her reply in reverse order.

"I presume that the - lack of opportunity - regarding a promotion in this air force has to with some political concerns." he sighed, "I'm natively Swedish, thus a citizen of a neutral country at this time - presumably, Stockholm wouldn't want one of its people rising through the ranks of the British military and blasting down Germans lest it anger Berlin in the process. So they might as well weigh me down no matter now many tallies I have in my score."

Alix thought about it for a moment. it seemed to be a sensible explanation - keeping a national from a neutral country on the quiet side of things so that the Germans wouldn't take notice. It did seem a little unfair, though. Apparently, the Americans didn't have the same restrictions holding them back.

"It's the least of my problems here however; most of your flying countrymen are so young and I'm so old that even my last squadron's officers looked up to me in some way - pardon me if I sound like I'm boasting. I'm not."

Alix cracked a grin. "Glad to hear it's not an issue. You have my sympathy, though, it still seems like a bit of a shame you can't get recognized adequately for your skills."

"That's clearly understandable regarding the current OC's situation." nodded Vegesack, "But, and I'd hate to be blunt, but what on earth does a wounded commanding officer have to do with hijacking a German transport all the way behind enemy lines? Unless if the two circumstances are separate; he, presuming that your OC's a man, simply could've been wounded before the operation the day before, and that the objective of aiding that defecting aircraft was so urgent that 319 Squadron had to make do without him."

A second, more bleak thought, came into mind: "You're not saying that this unit specializes in capturing intact pieces of enemy equipment are you?"

"Erm...well...not as such. That's to say, we have rather a large number of specializations."
Alix was getting increasingly uncomfortable with the assumption of confidentiality. Vegesack was asking a lot of questions, and she didn't want to shut him down entirely, but she wasn't sure exactly how much she should give away just like this.
Oh, the hell with it. He's in the squad, and he's going to find out sooner or later from somebody. I think it would be justified.
She lowered her voice. "Sergeant, the connection between us hijacking that aircraft and the OC being wounded is that the OC, as well as the other two men in the infirmary, were on that transport. They've been in German captivity for almost two months, and we believe they were being flown from a holding facility close to the location of the capture, to Berlin. By the time we got a fix on their location, it was almost too late to save them at all - I think you'd agree that if they'd reached Berlin, or just the German frontier at all, we'd likely have never seen them again. We couldn't afford to let them vanish into Germany, probably forever. That's the connection."

He leaned forward in observation, "This squadron seems to have an unusually large combination of foreign nationals: I've caught on several Poles, several Canadians or Americans, a South African . . ."

He froze as he found himself pondering out loud, " . . . and what's next? Perhaps an Indian of the Raj? Or even a Muslim. I've never seen such diversity before all in a single group."

"We're open to recruits from all the Allied nations - or even friendly neutrals, as you've seen yourself, provided they have the bona fides and pass their security screenings. Haven't seen an Indian yet, but it's possible if one with the skills were to apply."

Flight Lieutenant Benjamin Silva looked around the room, quietly noting everyone around. He looked around again, and counted again. Then again, stubbornly refusing to believe that his count was one short. Accounting for those that were and should be in bed, and those who were outside, he was still coming up short. So he did the math again, because Silva is a stubborn motherfucker when it comes to things like this.

He hobbled toward Lieutenant Noble and quietly spoke up. "Ma'am, was Lieutenant Melody injured in the Operation?"

Alix turned to Silva. Why does it always come down to me to give the bad news...?
"...I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Lieutenant, but Melody didn't land after the end of the operation. It looks like she went down over France."

[Grenartia]

Jimmy had walked away and gone to the bathroom, for only a few minutes, and emerged to find the hall near him empty, but with voices coming from one end. He began walking towards where they were coming from, and got to the group just in time for Silva to ask about Lt. Melody's status.

Flight Lieutenant Benjamin Silva looked around the room, quietly noting everyone around. He looked around again, and counted again. Then again, stubbornly refusing to believe that his count was one short. Accounting for those that were and should be in bed, and those who were outside, he was still coming up short. So he did the math again, because Silva is a stubborn motherfucker when it comes to things like this.

He hobbled toward Lieutenant Noble and quietly spoke up. "Ma'am, was Lieutenant Melody injured in the Operation?"

"She wasn't injured that I knew of the last I spoke to her. Then again, that was when she gave me permission to disengage and escort one of the Wellingtons home." Jimmy said, calmly on the outside, though on the inside he was greatly concerned. Immediately after he said that, his concerns were confirmed by Noble.

Flight Lieutenant Benjamin Silva looked around the room, quietly noting everyone around. He looked around again, and counted again. Then again, stubbornly refusing to believe that his count was one short. Accounting for those that were and should be in bed, and those who were outside, he was still coming up short. So he did the math again, because Silva is a stubborn motherfucker when it comes to things like this.

He hobbled toward Lieutenant Noble and quietly spoke up. "Ma'am, was Lieutenant Melody injured in the Operation?"

Alix turned to Silva. Why does it always come down to me to give the bad news...?
"...I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Lieutenant, but Melody didn't land after the end of the operation. It looks like she went down over France."

"Is there any word from the French Resistance as to whether or not she's made contact with them?" Jimmy asked.

[Kouralia]

Outside the hospital, Smythe was finally working on squaring away things after the mission, in order of importance naturally. This saw him turning in the impeccably clean revolvers he'd borrowed from the armoury, carbon and blood having been removed over the last few days, a light lubricating and then a bottle of scotch for the Armourer himself, even if that wasn't strictly necessary. That done and a not inconsiderable amount of spit and polish applied to numerous pieces of uniform, however left him with one task left, which he found himself strangely apprehensive about. Keeping his pace purposeful and the regimental cane tucked smartly under his arm, he was surprised to see Noble, a stranger, Silva and Jimmy standing around outside. Walking up, he snapped off a sharp salute to Noble, deciding he might as well get a preliminary on Page before he went in there. "Good morning, Ma'am, Sirs..." He glanced at Vegesack, "Sergeant. Ma'am, do you know the status of the Squadron leader?"

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Outside the hospital, Smythe was finally working on squaring away things after the mission, in order of importance naturally. This saw him turning in the impeccably clean revolvers he'd borrowed from the armoury, carbon and blood having been removed over the last few days, a light lubricating and then a bottle of scotch for the Armourer himself, even if that wasn't strictly necessary. That done and a not inconsiderable amount of spit and polish applied to numerous pieces of uniform, however left him with one task left, which he found himself strangely apprehensive about. Keeping his pace purposeful and the regimental cane tucked smartly under his arm, he was surprised to see Noble, a stranger, Silva and Jimmy standing around outside. Walking up, he snapped off a sharp salute to Noble, deciding he might as well get a preliminary on Page before he went in there. "Good morning, Ma'am, Sirs..." He glanced at Vegesack, "Sergeant. Ma'am, do you know the status of the Squadron leader?"

"Still out, but stable. Nobody's to disturb him."

[Le-Quebec]

Alix thought about it for a moment. it seemed to be a sensible explanation - keeping a national from a neutral country on the quiet side of things so that the Germans wouldn't take notice. It did seem a little unfair, though. Apparently, the Americans didn't have the same restrictions holding them back.

The Swede breathed easily as the lieutenant nodded her chin gently, seemingly accepting his explanation of why he was in the RAF in the first place. Yet there were other things in Vegesack's mind that he had wished to bring up, but felt that what the mysterious Öberg had elaborately sworn to him would be out of the WAAF officer's reach of clearance. Ever since that fateful meeting at a restaurant in Stockholm, Vegesack had forced himself to admit that if there was at least one man that he most feared, it would be the gaunt and piercing face of that shady supposed businessman who seemingly derived pleasure from speaking in riddles. He was in the midst of nearly questioning himself regarding the British agent when the lieutenant cut into mind.

Alix cracked a grin. "Glad to hear it's not an issue. You have my sympathy, though, it still seems like a bit of a shame you can't get recognized adequately for your skills."

"Sometimes I think it's better off not," shrugged the Swede, his tone somewhat lifting as he quoted Nigel Thomson, a Flying Officer from his days in 610 Squadron, "With stars and bars comes the bad two R's: reputation and responsibility. Seeing half your wingmen getting swiped off the mess list in a single hour is going to bring some severe repercussions if you happen to be the poor smuck in charge of them."

He paused, "Not that I was demoted, in case if that idea came into mind; it was just a figurative scenario."

"Erm...well...not as such. That's to say, we have rather a large number of specializations."
Alix was getting increasingly uncomfortable with the assumption of confidentiality. Vegesack was asking a lot of questions, and she didn't want to shut him down entirely, but she wasn't sure exactly how much she should give away just like this.
Oh, the hell with it. He's in the squad, and he's going to find out sooner or later from somebody. I think it would be justified.
She lowered her voice. "Sergeant, the connection between us hijacking that aircraft and the OC being wounded is that the OC, as well as the other two men in the infirmary, were on that transport. They've been in German captivity for almost two months, and we believe they were being flown from a holding facility close to the location of the capture, to Berlin. By the time we got a fix on their location, it was almost too late to save them at all - I think you'd agree that if they'd reached Berlin, or just the German frontier at all, we'd likely have never seen them again. We couldn't afford to let them vanish into Germany, probably forever. That's the connection."

"We're open to recruits from all the Allied nations - or even friendly neutrals, as you've seen yourself, provided they have the bona fides and pass their security screenings. Haven't seen an Indian yet, but it's possible if one with the skills were to apply."

The morning air suddenly became stale as Vegesack found himself being dragged down a tunnel of supposedly shady affairs by the WAAF officer. As she went through the whole ring of events that took place on January 7th - 319 Squadron's commander being among several prisoners of war captured during an unexplained hellhole, the squadron managing to trace their locations just barely in time to supposedly intercept the four engine Junkers aircraft carrying them to Germany, and . . .

It hit him there - the young woman stopped without explaining more.

Vegesack suddenly felt a burst of different emotions churning in his heart as his brain was being torn apart in a civil war between the sheer bewildering circumstances about what this squadron had been up to and the horrible urge to ask the WAAF officer to carry on. His nerve already told him that the lieutenant's darkened tongue obviously meant that there was a certain limit that she could divulge to him, yet a small but boisterous minority inside felt outraged over the woman's omission over some vital details that would've been quite satisfying; namely, exactly how was the RAF squadron able to hijack a German aircraft off its own fiercely protected airfield? How had the operation been executed just so precisely as to catch the plane with its human cargo on the very day that it presumably was to set off? Also, what was the use of three bulky and heavy two engine aircraft in this whole stunt?

Of course: the British have their spies and agents as does any competent power does in times of war. They must've raided the airfield using paratroops held in the larger aircraft.

Yet the presence of the Catalina maritime aircraft was still a puzzle to the Swede, and his pondering wasn't many any more efficient by the woman's mention of the race against time before the prisoners were due to be transferred to inferred imprisonment in Germany. Vegesack bit his lip as he was forced to confront the cold memory of being threatened with deportation "over into Copenhagen with your hands tied behind your back and a sack wrapped over your head," as the damned shadow named Öberg had put it a year and summer prior to this day. He flashed back to the cloudy and stormy horizon over Jamara, the frequent stingy conversations with comrades regarding the brutal efforts to crush the Basque insurgency, and the smoldering fires of a modest town named Guernica set alight in the first place for its presumed role in aiding a notorious band of guerillas behind a devastating raid that decapitated the headquarters of a major friendly brigade not far from it.

Well, or so said his squadron's briefing before embarking on that fateful assignment set to evolve the ways of war in the course of history; the explanation by the hard lipped intelligence officer and his Spanish liaison seemed logical, Vegesack recalling his personal participation in providing close air support to an archaic cavalry regiment during a vengeful "pacification" sweep of the Basque countryside in the days after Guernica.

The Swede snapped out of his trance as he did his best to stop himself from turning white in front of the WAAF officer.

"Well. . .that is quite an impressive feat." piped Vegesack, "Especially all conducted under the banner of a single fighting formation. I mean -"

The Swede struggled for a moment to convert his intended question into a statement; it was becoming apparent that the lieutenant had sealed a lid over the jar of information that could be released from her mouth.

"Pardon the pun, but it's a very noble exploit for a squadron to rescue its own commander and comrades from all the way behind enemy lines," his voice paused and broke, "I mean, it's unheard of for that to happen in any other squadron that I've been posted with all these years; almost always, a captured fellow pilot was simply at the mercy of his captors for as long as hostilities lasted - the very thought of "rescuing" him would've been considered mad at first glance."

Upon the lieutenant finishing her answer, Vegesack stepped aside and bowed to her as he felt a distinctive sense of dampness on a minute speckle on the skin of his hand. He raised it up to see one of many splurges of white cream colored flakes dancing downwards towards the ground from the heavens. It was unmistakably snow, and apparently Demeter was still mourning for her daughter Persephone with the shedding of icy tears.

"It's been a pleasure talking with you, lieutenant. I suppose that I'd be wise to leave you to tend to your affairs now before I become a burden."

Vegesack stroked his black hair in a desperate search for his fur cap, mumbling in frustration upon realizing that he had left it inside his tent the entire time. Taking a final glance at the lieutenant and nodding to her companions, who had begun to assemble around their current commanding officer in the midst of his and her conversation, Vegesack withdrew from the area just as quickly as he had first entered it. The Swede proceeded to pace off to the sidelines and back in the direction that he had come as the rest of his grounded wingmen began to go over the topic of the last action's casualties. Deciding that there'd be little use for participating in a discussion about their dead that he hadn't even gotten greet, Vegesack felt a rapidly rising urge to reach into the breast pocket of his leather jacket.

"God dammit, you promised yourself to quit it in times like this!" he briskly sighed, nearly crumpling his green and white pack of Woodbines and forcing it back into its domain. He silently concluded that he had asked the lieutenant, whom seemed to be most of all at least a decent person - albeit being a bit shadowy and careful of tongue, enough questions for the day, even if it was only mid-morning. He gritted his teeth as he wondered what kind of outfit had he been sent to, if Oberg had something to do with this - unsurprisingly, he always did up to now; the entire scenario that the WAAF officer had explained to him was plausible and logical but also absolutely outrageous in potential risk and execution, with the woman explicitly stating that 319 Squadron had “ . . . rather a large number of specializations." One of the North American airmen had also hissed that many aspects of them were “classified”, and for Vegesack, to an unprecedented degree more than unheard of in a conventional fighter squadron such as 610.

The Swede found himself reexamining his surroundings at RAF Tempsford, and took a deep breath as Oberg shot into his mind again. His vision jumped behind to that malicious chess game at Trafalgar Square, with the two men discussing the layout of one’s future career the day after Vegesack had set foot in the harbor of London’s West India Docks. He remembered Oberg slyly charging his king forward into battle, the cold and calculating agent forcing him to commit a decree to memory.

“Just like the pieces on this board between us, Mr. Vegesack; you will encounter many a situation demanding answers of whatever the bloody hell’s going on. Only a few can be delivered, so choose them wisely. Only some will even bother sending you them - but I am the one appointed by the word of higher power that shan’t never.”

“That damned fool going to have a lot to say about this.” groaned the Swede, his eyes unemotionally watching the dancing flame of his lighter invite the acetone and cyanhydric acid butt of the Woodbine now clasped between his lips to a tango of gray smoke and gold fire.

[United Kingdom of Poland]

"Last I saw of her ma'am was after she flew through a hail of lead meant for the transport. She was smoking pretty bad the last I saw her. Didn't see her go down though, I was to busy shooting down the bastard who was attacking her. I swear I must have put 10 cannon rounds and god knows how many machinegun bullets into his fuselage and cockpit and he still managed to bail out.

Polanski walked over to the hospital. Something about the way Stanford was acting earlier had him worried. Doug was the calm one of the group the one guy who hadn't flipped out following the events of the past month. Even worst he seemed to blame the rest of the squadron for what happened to his crew.Sorry we couldn't stop 20 fighters with 7 escorts. Over in the hallway he could see Flight Lieutenant Noble talking with one of the new guys, the Swede...Vegesack wasn't it. The Swede sounded like he was questioning her, spinning some bullshit story about how two 109's finished off the transport. You know I could have sworn it was a Spitfire that shot out the fourth engine. Well Matt had a message to pass along to Noble anyways.


" good morning Ma'am, Silva,......Vegesack isn't it. Thank you for saving our rear ends a few days ago by the way, glad you came when you did. Anyway my fiancée in signals said that they got orders from high up to start looking for a missing pilot, and she figures it's one of ours. I didn't confirm that but she asked me to pass on a message to you. they haven't found anything yet but they still have hope." He looked inside and saw Pat. "oh Pat I have some bad news. We had to call off the search for your BAR today, I know how much it meant to you so I figured I would tell you personally." he said barely holding back a laugh. "Maybe we can graduate you to a real machinegun now?"

Pat scowled at this news. "Gosh darn it. I was hoping to have recovered my BAR, but the more important thing to me was to get me out alive." He shook his head "Perhaps I can borrow a Garand in the meantime? I hear we just received more Garands from the States." He suggested. "How are you doing Matt?" He asked kindly.

"Did you just say you were going to train with a non automatic weapon? We may need to check your medication, or perhaps check to see if you suffered some sort of head trauma. Any way I'm good thank you. I got engaged while you were on your all expense paid vacation to Southern France. Any news on how our car racing, Vera Lynn loving "German spy" is doing." Talbots "encounter" with the local farmers was already making the rounds at the base and Matt was going to make sure he never forgot it.

[Len Hyet]

Alix turned to Silva. Why does it always come down to me to give the bad news...?
"...I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Lieutenant, but Melody didn't land after the end of the operation. It looks like she went down over France."

Silva coughed slightly, then again, harder. When he spoke back up his voice was hoarse and quiet. He was conflicted about his emotions. He wasn't heartbroken, that was not what he was feeling. But it wasn't as simple as grief or the loss of a friend. There was something else there. Just shy of the sort of grief that comes from losing a loved one, but still harsher than the loss of a squadronmate. Which was an apt descriptor Silva's view of Melody. Not together by any means, and not quiet a romantic interest, but more than just a squadronmate.

"Ah, I... I see. Did, did you see a chute?"