Operation FOXCHASE (ES ONLY IC - SEMI-REBOOT)

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Operation FOXCHASE
An Excalibur Squadron Joint

“The three German pocket-battleships permitted by the Treaty of Versailles had been designed with profound thought as commerce-destroyers. Their six 11-inch guns, their 26-knot speed, and the armor they carried had been compressed with masterly skill into the limits of a 10,000-ton displacement. No single British cruiser could match them…the presence of a single raider in the Atlantic called for the employment of half our battle-fleet to give sure protection to the world’s commerce.”
- Winston Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty

---

Relevant Force G Signals

DATE: 0615 hours, 13/12/39
FROM: COMMODORE HARWOOD, OFFICER COMMANDING SOUTH AMERICAN DIVISION RN, AMERICAN AND WEST INDIES STATION
TO: FORCE K, FORCE X
IMMEDIATE: One pocket battleship 034 degrees south, 049 degrees west course 275 degrees.

DATE: 0847 hours, 13/12/39
FROM: COMMODORE HARWOOD, OFFICER COMMANDING SOUTH AMERICAN DIVISION RN, AMERICAN AND WEST INDIES STATION
TO: HMS CUMBERLAND, ADMIRALTY
IMMEDIATE: HMS Ajax, HMS Achilles, HMS Exeter have been heavily engaged. Have withdrawn from daylight close action owing to shortage of ammunition. HMS Exeter hauling away due to damage, two turrets out of action in HMS Ajax.
Pocket battleship has been hit badly. I am shadowing.

DATE: 0941 hours, 13/12/39
FROM: COMMODORE HARWOOD, OFFICER COMMANDING SOUTH AMERICAN DIVISION RN, AMERICAN AND WEST INDIES STATION
TO: ADMIRALTY, FREETOWN STATION
MOST IMMEDIATE.
Position, course, and speed of pocket battleship 034 degrees, 44 minutes south, 051 degrees 40 minutes west, 260 degrees, 22 knots, using call sign Don-Toc-George-Sugar.
HMS Ajax, HMS Achilles shadowing. HMS Exeter very badly damaged. One gun in local control remains in action. Speed reduced maximum eighteen knots.
Have directed her to proceed to Falkland Islands. Aircraft reports twenty-five to thirty hits obtained on pocket battleship, but he still has high speed.

DATE: 1815 hours, 13/12/39
FROM: STAFF OFFICER (RN INTELLIGENCE), MONTEVIDEO
TO: ADMIRALTY
Pocket battleship sighted fifteen miles east from Punta del Este, being engaged by two cruisers.

DATE: 2359 hours, 13/12/39
FROM: STAFF OFFICER (RN INTELLIGENCE), MONTEVIDEO
TO: ADMIRALTY
MOST IMMEDIATE: German pocket battleship anchored in Montevideo Roads 2350 today Wednesday.

DATE: 0050 hours, 14/12/39
FROM: STAFF OFFICER (RN INTELLIGENCE), MONTEVIDEO
TO: ADMIRALTY
German armored ship understood locally to be the Admiral Graf Spee now anchored in Montevideo.

---

Somewhere off the River Plate estuary
2213 Hours
December 13th, 1939

“…Watch it! Watch it! Get me more ether! Good God, he’s coming out too early!”

With a guttural grunt of pain, Kapitänleutnant Ferdinand Muller emerged from his chemically-induced fugue, coming back to the nightmarish reality of the Graf Spee’s medical bay. Through his bleary eyes and the fug of acrid smoke hanging in the room, he could hardly see anything. His entire body felt like it had been hit by a huge hammer, and it was at its worst in his legs, which felt like they had been swarmed by hornets. Working through his groggy stupor, he tried to force himself upright, only for his arms to weakly push himself against the slope of the bed, a sensation that was as unfamiliar as it was unsettling. The dull moans and cries of wounded men reverberated around him.

Realizing where he was, a horrible feeling of panic erupted from his gut, seizing his chest and hitting his brain like lightning, cutting through the fog of the ether.
How did I get here?

“What…” he muttered through gritted teeth, the words coming only with great effort, “happened to me?”

The indistinct blur in front of his eyes gradually resolved itself into the sweaty, reddened visage of Leutnant Wachtel, one of the Spee’s surgeons, stress and barely-contained exhaustion written all over his face.

“You were on the forecastle when the enemy fire intensified,” the surgeon explained. “You must have been knocked unconscious by sudden concussive shock…don’t you remember? You were in a bad way- we must have pulled half a kilo of shrapnel out of your legs-”

Wachtel picked up a small basin from the tray mounted next to Muller's surgical bed, and tilted it so Muller could see. Inside was an impressive number of jagged metal splinters, blood still coating some of them.
"This is all the shrapnel we've managed to find so far. We may not have gotten all of them. You shouldn't be walking for another-"

Ignoring the surgeon, Muller successfully pulled himself upright, and looked around him. To his immeasurable relief, he could see and move his arms and hands – albeit weakly – and both his legs were still in position in their proper places. Every second that passed, he felt just slightly stronger as the ether wore off. Seeing no need to stay down, Muller winced as he swiveled himself in the bed, trying to take to his feet.

Practically in a panic, Wachtel tried to hold him back. “Lieutenant, you cannot stand up yet! Your legs have practically been eviscerated! You’re lucky to be-“
Muller looked down at the surgeon’s hands trying to keep him in the bed, looked at the fully occupied room around him momentarily, and then stared into the man’s face with withering intensity.

“Where are my men?”

The surgeon reluctantly removed his hands from the Lieutenant's massive shoulders – trying to restrain Muller would have been futile anyways – and tried to wipe the sweat from his face.
"I couldn't say, Lieutenant. Please, you must lay back down, your injuries are significant."

To this, Muller only sneered in response, as his muscled arms, now feeling more or less functional, heaved his hulking frame upright, and he swiveled himself back onto his feet. For as long as Muller could remember, his physical fitness had been his crowning pride, and the thought of being an invalid in any capacity was physically repulsive to him, no matter the reason. All his life, he'd taken as much pride in scorning pain inflicted on him as he had in inflicting pain on others - as a champion boxer, as a street-fighter for the National Socialist Party, and as a soldier for Germany. His current position as an Officer in the Reich's Naval Infantry, the leader of the Graf Spee's platoon-sized marine contingent, only made showing weakness that much more unacceptable.

As the ship's surgeon looked on in a mixture of puzzlement and disbelief, Muller quietly donned his boots and proceeded to carry on like he hadn't been lacerated to within an inch of his life, losing a formidable amount of blood in the process.
"Lieutenant, didn't you hear me?" the surgeon muttered hopelessly. "I must insist-"
"What happened? Who won?"

For a moment, the surgeon didn't know what Muller meant. Finally, he blinked and tried to come up with an answer.
"Our Captain broke off the combat. He said that at least one English cruiser has been sunk, but two more still pursue us, and we have sustained serious damage. The last I heard, he was taking us into one of the River Plate ports - to Buenos Aires or Montevideo, I couldn't say."
Muller narrowed his eyes at this unpleasant news, his face otherwise as expressive as an iron mask.
"The Plate...there's nothing for us there. No friendly ports."
"I don't like it either. But perhaps he can still pull us out from this situation. He's lead us well, this far."

Lost in his own memories of the battle, the surgeon suddenly snapped back to awareness.
"But all the same, Kapitänleutnant, you must rest. I will not force you to stay here, but I fear you'll do permanent damage to yourself if you try and exert yourself so quickly."

For a moment, Muller's sneer returned. Retrieving his Mauser sidearm and his trench knife from the table, he fastened it securely in his holster.
"Unfortunately, Leutnant Wachtel, I'm not inclined to relax on my ass while the British run us down. Thanks for the help."
And with that, Muller turned on his heel (the surgeon practically wincing in sympathetic pain as he did so) and marched out of the infirmary, his head held high and his nerves screaming in pain.

Grimacing freely now that nobody could see, he knew he'd have to work hard to conceal his pain. But on another level, this was the first time in months that he'd been confronted with any kind of real physical danger or challenge. For months now, the Spee had endlessly ranged the vast Atlantic and Indian Oceans, the monotony only broken up by the occasional discovery of an enemy merchant vessel. As the leader of the Spee's boarding parties, Muller had relished these little skirmishes for all they were worth - but they were a thin gruel to a man as accustomed to violence as he was. All his life, as long as he could remember, he'd loved to fight, and had built his body and mind accordingly. But this was no advantage when every single boarding since the war began had been quick, clean, and bloodless, without even a shot being fired in anger to get the heart pumping and the adrenaline rushing. At times, the frustration and boredom had been too much, and endlessly training and drilling the men could only stave off Muller's lust to get the enemy in his hands and wring their necks himself.

And now, the Spee had certainly found some combat. Muller intended to make the most of it, even if it hurt like hell.

Fighting as hard as he could to keep any trace of pain off his features, Muller couldn't help but recoil internally at the state of the vessel. Debris from the battle littered the hallways, shards of metal and glass crunched and skittered under his boots, and the air still reeked bitterly of fuel oil and cordite discharge. At several points, the interior wall of the Graf Spee had been visibly breached by the fire of the enemy cruisers, with the sea and darkened sky visible beyond. Oil and blood stained the floors, and the handful of sailors Muller passed seemed to be half-dazed from shock. Even the omnipresent vibrations of the Spee's engines felt off, more tremulous and unsteady than usual. Trying to get to the deck, the closest door was stove in - Muller had to put his shoulder behind it to force it open.

"Gott im Himmel..."

As he gazed around in shock, it was obvious that the interior devastation was nothing compared to the state of the once-proud battleship in the outside. Whole AA installations had been blasted into charred heaps of metal. Some were simply missing altogether. The burned-out carcass of the ship's Arado spotter plane hung loosely from its catapult, only the twisted metal of the undercarriage holding it in position. Everywhere - from the wooden decks, to the delicate sensor arrays, to the heavily armored conning tower - seemed to be perforated with shell-holes, their size ranging from about the size of a coin to the size of a large dinner plate. The paint had melted and peeled off of the barrels of the Spee's remaining cannons, and the entire superstructure had been blackened. Smoke still curled upwards from the hull Muller had never seen anything like it. Sailors were attempting repairs on some of the damage, but the sheer scale of the Spee's wounds were clearly beyond their capacity to fix on their own.

Muller checked his watch, somehow still functioning through the battering he'd took. It was almost 2000 hours. He'd been out for almost thirteen continuous hours since the battle. True to the doctor's word, the ship was heading west, towards the Plate - and Argentina and Uruguay.
The doctor's words about the battle reverberated in his mind, and something didn't make sense about them.
Why did the Captain quit the battle?

It was a strange move. While Muller's memories of the battle were far from complete and the damage to the ship was clear, the idea that the Captain would pull back from the engagement and try to hide instead of pressing the advantage and seizing victory at any cost rankled him deeply. While the last few months had been an extremely successful cruise for the Spee, Muller had always suspected that Captain Langsdorff was perhaps too much of a soft hand for his position. And now that the Spee faced its first true test, Langsdorff had turned tail.
It did not bode well for the future.

"Kapitänleutnant Muller!"
Muller turned towards the call to see one of the men of his platoon, Leutnant Gottschalk, approaching. Gottschalk looked to be in bad shape himself, with an arm in a sling and bandages shrouding his hands.
"It's good you've awakened. Captain Langsdorff has sent me to check on you and see how your recovery was-"

"I am recovered," Muller interjected brusquely. "Was just knocked off my feet for a moment. What does the Captain want?"

"Right, sir," Gottschalk stuttered, tactfully ignoring that Muller had been incapacitated for over half a day. "He - he has called an immediate meeting on the bridge of all the senior officers onboard the ship to discuss our strategy for the next few days. He wants you there, if you're fit to attend."

"Very well," Muller grunted. "While I'm there, rally the men in our ready room. I'll speak with them after the conference is concluded."
And there, Muller thought to himself, we shall see what kind of man our Captain Langsdorff really is.

[Goram]

OOC: Getting the ball rolling, so to speak. Will delete as necessary.

[hr]

The uniform hung from a clothes hanger on the wardrobe door. It was a blue/grey garment, adorned with insignia and the ribbons of medals that commemorated actions fought long ago. It wasn't the same khaki uniform that the man who sat on the bed had once worn, but it was a uniform none the less. He had never thought to wear one again, yet here he was. He sat on the edge of a bed, in a country hotel room in Manston, Kent. His journey from Brooklands had been pleasant enough, and he had spent a comfortable night. Yet now, he would put on the uniform again and in such fashion, his second war would begin.

The dress shirt was less scratchy than he remembered, but then, the last time he wore one was twenty years ago and perhaps the materials had been changed. He stood in front of the thin, floor length mirror, and slowly, meticulously, tied his thin black tie. He reached for the blue/grey battle dress jacket and paused, letting his finger tips brush over the embroidered wings and medal ribbons. The 1914 Star was there, along with a British War medal and the Allied Victory medal. The board was capped off by the white and purple ribbon of the Military Cross. He had won it in October 1915. He had been a young Lieutenant, barely old enough to shave, but he had found himself repulsing a German trench raid at the Battle of Loos.

They had come quietly that night, with blackened faces and dulled bayonets moving through the dark. The sentry didn't see them until it was too late, and the raiders fell on the sleeping men in the trench below. The young Lieutenant had walked out of a dugout and straight into a raider. He didn't remember much of the ensuing struggle, but he could vividly recall the dull report of his pistol, the surprise in the German's eyes and how warm the freshly split blood felt on his hands. He remembered seeing the light go out of the mustachioed soldier's eyes as he slumped down, but how the gun came to be in his hands and how he brought the barrel to bare he would never know. From there, he had rallied the defenders to repel their attackers with rifle, bayonet and fists. They had been entirely successful, driving the raid back empty handed and taking a pair of prisoners themselves. However, one of the raiders left a grenade for the Guardsmen that came for him. When it exploded, it peppered the young officer's left leg with shards of wood and metal. Even now, twenty years on, the leg seemed to twinge when he thought about it. For his action that night, he was recommended for the Military Cross and in 1917, he met King George V to receive that decoration.

It was often he thought of what might have become of his life, had he not been wounded that night. He was taken back to a field hospital for treatment, and then onto light duties in the rear to suitably recover. It was here that he met and befriended a Captain in the Royal Flying Corps. In the high summer of 1916, whilst the Somme raged at the front, the young Lieutenant was treated to a joy ride by his RFC friend. He spent twenty minutes in the observer's spot of a B.E.2, but that was all he needed to catch the flying bug. Later that week, he put in a transfer to the RFC and to his immense surprise his application was accepted. He spent the rest of the Great War in the clouds, flying SPAD VIIs and Sopwith Dolphins. By the time of the armistice, he had managed to tally 28 victories and firmly entrenched himself as a capable airman. Demobilisation and a twenty year career as a test pilot followed. It was all but a certainty that his life would have been extremely different had he not caught fragments of exploding grenade, that night in October. Certainly, he wouldn't have been in this hotel room, preparing to start his second war.

The bicycle ride from the inn to RAF Manston took less than fifteen minutes. He pedaled at an amiable rate, as fast as he dared in the dark of a winter's morning. It had been a fine summer, he reflected and it had gone on into the early autumn. He recalled the day war had been declared. The trees had been a vivid green, and the sky so blue it hurt your eyes just to look at it. You could almost be forgiven for forgetting the chaos about to consume Europe, it all seemed so idyllic. But now the long nights of winter were here, and he huddled his great coat a little tighter against the wind. He was snapped back to reality by the sudden roar of an aero engine, and almost immediately the machine passed low over head, light up only by landing lights, as it made it's final approach to land. He recognised the roar of the Merlin that powered the Hawker Hurricanes, native to Manston, immediately. If you were to flick though one of his many log books, you would find well over 600 hours on the type. Indeed, you would be surprised by the sheer number of different types and the thousands, upon thousands of flight hours accrued. The man was no longer the young Lieutenant of 1 Scots Guards, that he had once been. Now he was a middle aged man of 46, and a Flight Lieutenant in His Majesty's Royal Air Force. Older than most he certainly was, but his advancing age had not diminished his skill as a pilot. He fancied he could show these young chaps a thing or two yet.

The pedal bike coasted around a corner, and came face to face with Manston's gate.

"Papers, please Sir."

The gate Sergeant said, with a distinctly uninterested air.

The Flight Lieutenant handed over a folded piece of paper - his orders - and an Air Force identity card, the name on which read "Flight Lieutenant Henry. K. White".

The Sergeant glanced at the card, and at the papers, before nodding the man on the bicycle through the opening gate. Flight Lieutenant White waved a friendly wave as he pedaled slowly through the gate, and into his second war.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

RAF Manston, Officer's Quarters
0421 Hours
December 14th, 1939

It was the fourth month of world war for the United Kingdom, but in the Kentish countryside, the winter nights were still eerily peaceful. Even at RAF Manston Heath, one of the Royal Air Force's most active fighter stations, the idea of mortal danger felt strangely unreal. It was like the newspaper stories of war in Poland and battles on the high seas were just faraway fictions, as real as a bad pulp novel. A new blanket of snow covered the landscape, and a freezing wind blew across the forests and pastures, shaking the trees and making the cottages, farmhouses, and villages that dotted the landscape seem impossibly cozy. On the Manston flight line, the night crews kept a sleepy vigil out for danger, as unlikely as it seemed, the Hurricanes and Spitfires that protected Britain's skies tucked away off the flight line or in their hangars. In the officer's quarters, someone or other had put up Christmas decorations - minus the lights, of course, to avoid the ire of the blackout measures.Even the old hands had to admit that things hadn't changed all that much from the peacetime Christmas of 1938.

But tonight, something strange was afoot to break the early morning calm. Moving quickly and quietly from the airfield's operations center, a small squad of RAF aides and flunkies raced towards the pilot barracks, splitting into smaller groups as they did so. Gingerly entering so as not to alert others to their presence, the aides converged on the quarters of RAF Manston's most curious and mysterious guests, the outfit officially designated as "No. 319 (Special Operations) Squadron", but informally dubbed "Excalibur Squadron" - and even more informally labelled as "the Mental Ward" by wags for their odd composition and lack of activity compared to the other squadrons.

Today, however, something would be rousing Excalibur from their prolonged inactivity.

In the section marked off as officer's quarters, one aide rapped quietly but firmly on a door marked "SQ. LEAD - 319". After waiting for a few seconds and hearing no answer, he tested the knob and found it unlocked. Opening it softly, he crept inside the room and closed the door behind him. Inside, the room was in viciously proper order - uniforms hung precisely, footlocker secured, no messiness at all - with the one exception being the bed. Within the sheets, the man in question was caught up in a deep sleep, his eyes visibly moving at a mile a minute beneath his eyelids, the blankets tossed every which way from his somnolent exertions.

The aide shook his shoulder, trying to rouse him.
"Captain, wake up."

His plane had been holed right through the radiator, he was coming down fast, right onto the desert floor at an impossible angle-

"Captain Page? Can you hear me?"
He looked up and he could see dozens of bombers approaching the ancient town, little black flecks emerging from their bellies, his feet were rooted to the ground-

"Very well then, you leave me little choice."
The fear and desperation hung so heavy in the camp that you could smell it, as he rushed past cell after cell, but there was nobody there, no one to-

In an instant, Captain/Squadron Leader* Robert Page's fear-tinged dreams were suddenly shattered by a sudden torrential blast of cold water falling on his forehead. Before his groggy brain could even begin firing, instinct took over, and he flung himself up and onto his feet in a split-second, taking up a half-remembered fighting stance to confront whatever watery intruder had infiltrated his room.

Blinking back the sleep and droplets from his eyes, Page found he was confronted by nothing more threatening than an apologetic-looking clerk with an empty canteen in one hand and an envelope in the other.
"My apologies, sir, but it's urgent."

Page swallowed heavily, still trying to come to grips with reality.
"Wha...what's going on? Bombers coming?"
The clerk offered him the envelope. "No, there's no attack. But your squadron's shipping out inside of one hour, without your planes. You're to be on the flight line, combat-ready and prepared for boarding, by then."

Still wondering if this was a dream, Page reached out to take the sealed envelope.
"W...wait. Where are we going? And what kind of-"
"It's all there, sir. Good luck."

And with that, the clerk was gone, leaving Page alone with his orders, a bad headache, and a sick feeling of fear and excitement balling up in his guts as he slowly realized what he was holding. Slowly, he opened the letter and read it, but to his surprise, it only expanded on the vague details the aide had mentioned.

Gather squadron, assemble on flight line for transport, prepare for immediate combat operations. Expect further directives upon arrival...

For months, Excalibur had sat on their laurels, with endless training, paperwork, and other banal preparatory work being the only relief from the unreleased strain of war. Every day, the radio spouted news from Europe about atrocities in Poland and all-quiet-on-the-Western-Front, and every day, it seemed to Page as though this war was a little more unreal and a little further away. Months of enforced idleness had taken another toll on him, too - he could feel it. The further removed he was from the danger of combat, the less effective and focused he got. It had been odd, but the further away he was from Excalibur's first - and so far, only - operation in Poland, the worse his tension became. The old nightmares of Iraq and Spain, which had only just begun to fade in recent months, were returning again in force. Page knew what could clear his mind, and it sure as hell wasn't sitting around filling out equipment-request forms and waiting for teatime.

Combat was what it took. And now, finally, Excalibur had the chance to do what it was made to do...
...even if Page wasn't sure at this point exactly what that was.
Nevertheless, he was all right with that, at least for the moment. The mystery made a nice change of pace from the endless stalling.

"Well," Page breathed to himself as he opened his footlocker, revealing a weathered Webley revolver atop the folded uniforms and assorted books, "It's good to be back."
*Never retconning that. Ever.

[Grenartia]

Thursday, December 14, 1939. RAF Manston. O-country. Approximately 0430.

Flying Officer Zeke Thomas was in the middle of his favorite dream. Several scantily-clad women, serving him the biggest stack of pancakes he'd ever seen, drowning in maple syrup, with biscuits and gravy, bacon, and scrambled eggs on the side. He tried requesting biscuits and gravy once, since being in Britain, only to be consistently met with the same dumbfounded look. It took him 3 weeks to learn that "biscuit" had a very different meaning on this side of the Atlantic, and to a lesser extent, so did "gravy". It took him even longer to discover that they didn't even have biscuits, at least in the form he was familiar with, on this side of the pond. He often wondered what the point of transatlantic flight was if a man couldn't even get a decent breakfast on the other side.

Suddenly, his state of slumbering bliss was disturbed by a surprise earthquake, knocking over the pancakes into his lap, and then, his eyes opened, and he was back in reality. He turned towards the direction of the shaking to see Matthew, one of the clerks on base, one of the few people Zeke had come to know since being assigned to 319 a week ago.

"Dammit, I was having the best dream ever." Zeke said softly, as he quickly roused himself.

"I'm sorry sir, orders just came in. I just got done waking up Squadron Leader Page. You need to look at this." Matthew said, handing an envelope to Zeke.

"You don't have to call me sir, Matthew." Zeke said offhandedly while opening and reading the orders.

"I'm sorry, sir, its a force of habit."

"Do you know what this is about?"

"No, sir. I don't read the orders,I just hand them out." "Sir."

And with that, Matthew was out the door, presumably to rouse the other squadron members.

As Zeke got dressed and gathered his equipment, he considered that he'd finally get to meet his CO, Captain Page. Apparently, the man was constantly bogged down in paperwork. Which is probably related to why everyone around here alternates between referring to him as Captain or Squadron Leader. Grabbing his Winchester Model 1912, his M1911, and his grandpappy's Peacemaker (which he concealed under his uniform as a spare sidearm), Flying Officer Thomas stepped out of his quarters and headed towards the flight line.

[Len Hyet]

RAF Manston, Officer's Residences
0425 Hours
December 14th, 1939

"JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH!" Came the bellowing shout from inside one of the Officer's quarters, hard on the heels of a rough splashing sound, and followed quickly by the scurrying of a Royal Air Force aid out of said quarters. This particular aid had the unfortunate luck to be waking a particularly heavy sleeper with a canteen full of water, followed by rapid-fire instructions.

Inside of the still-dark room, a tall American glared at the door till the sounds of other pilots being woken filled the halls, along with variations on the same basic instructions.

"Excalibur has been activated. You ship out in one hour, sans planes, and are to be prepared for a boarding action."

The pilot grunted in satisfaction that he'd thoroughly explained the faux pas of waking one's superior officer with a canteen of cold water to that aid. The aid of course was under no such consideration, and in fact believed that the process had gone rather well discounting an ear-splitting shout or two. Still, he was awake, so the pilot turned to his sink and mirror and quickly scraped away the morning's growth from his cheeks. As he toweled off the remaining lather and quickly began to dress, he paused as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He was thirty two years old, some would say too old to be flying fighters over Britain. Of course, this particular pilot had never been a fan of listening to others, especially those outside of his chain of command.

Benjamin Silva turned away from the mirror as he finished putting on his flight uniform, and buckled on his Colt Model 1911A1. A relatively recent upgrade from the old Model 1911, it was ever so slightly easier to use, which in the field made a world of difference. Turning towards the door, Silva paused. A boarding action. Against a ship unless the aid had been deliberately obtuse in his wording. Which meant close quarters fighting. Silva returned to his chest and pulled out a 12 inch knife, a member of the famous Arkansas Toothpick family, and attached the knife and sheath both to his belt across from his sidearm.

Finally dressed, Silva turned and marched from his room, it was time to go to war.

[The Two Jerseys]

Reims Air Base, France
0430 hours
14 December 1939

Talbot groaned as the door to his room burst open and someone shined a light in his face. “Wake up, sirs!” went the voice of the batman as he started assembling the contents of Talbot’s kit bag.

Talbot groaned as he rolled over in his cot. “I swear to God, Robinson,” he mumbled, “if you weren’t already at the lowest rank possible, I’d have you busted to it...”

“Get up, sir!” implored AC2 Robinson as he continued to pack Talbot’s bag, “You’ve got orders!”

The door burst open again. “Talbot! Macdonough! Rise and shine!” boomed the voice of the Squadron Leader as Robinson snapped to attention; the two junior officers started rolling out of bed as the Squadron Leader removed a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Carry on, Robinson,” he said as he grabbed the torch and shined it on the paper. “A-hem... ‘Flight Lieutenant 34107 G.M. Talbot to report immediately upon receipt of message to RAF Manston for special duties. Report to Commanding Officer, 319 Squadron upon arrival. Expedite travel to Manston, 319 Squadron to move out 0530 hours 14 December. Signed, C.L.N. Newall, Chief of the Air Staff.” He folded the paper back up and handed it off to Robinson with instructions for the batman to put it in the pocket of Talbot’s tunic. “I don’t know whose ear you have at Air House, Geoff,” he continued, “but they apparently want you bad. Sandy, you’ll fly him over, ground crew is wheeling your ship onto the flight line as we speak. If you firewall the throttle the whole way you just might make it in time. Right, get dressed you two, I’ll be out to see you off.”

As the Squadron Leader left, the two pilots gave each other a “what do we do now?” look as the information sank in, then quickly sprang into action. Quickly pulling on his trousers and flying boots, Talbot grabbed various uniform articles and virtually threw them at Robinson. “Just throw the necessities in there, I’ll finish dressing on the way. The rest you can send on later...no, don’t put my flying kit in there, I'm wearing that!” He stood and grabbed his Irvin jacket and service dress cap. “Finish that up and get it out to the ship, I’m hitting the latrine before we go...” Exiting the room, Talbot suddenly stopped and poked his head back in. "And grab the gun case too, that's coming with me!"

[United Kingdom of Poland]

RAF Manston, Officer's Residences
0430 Hours
December 14th, 1939

Henri Vodat was in the middle of his usual sleepless night. It was the same each night, with the only difference being which war he was remembering. If it wasn't Russia, it was Morocco or Spain. It was something he had grown accustom to though.

Being a light sleeper, Vodat woke up as soon as he heard someone open the door. "Who is it?" he asked, pausing after he realized he had asked the question in Russian. At the door stood a clerk, sealed folder in one hand and a open canteen in the other. "Well don't just stand there." he said, switching to French accented English and holding out his hand.

"They need you to report to the flight line in an hour, full kit." The aid said putting the folder in Henri's hand. Before heading out the door he paused. "was that Russian I heard sir?"

"Fought the reds, lost to the reds, joined the legion" was Henri's reply. While that wasn't true Henri... who's real name was Marat Korenov, knew he could never fight in the west if he admitted to fighting along sides the likes of Lenin and Stalin. Waiting for the aide to leave, Henri showered and changed into his uniform before grabbing his Lebel rifle, Nagant 1895 revolver, and headed to join the rest of the squadron.

[Altito Asmoro]

Thursday, December 14, 1939.
RAF Manston.
Quarters
Approximately 0432.

Martin Gauthier, the name's sound ringing to him over and over again. He had just arrived from Canada to United Kingdom, fresh from the oven. Oven as in the field of Spain, Catalonia, bulls. The riding bulls ride along in his mind as he got up from where he rested upon. A part of RCAF and eligible to be part of Excalibur, and to a majorly extent, aiding the Commonwealth on the onset of new European War, one that may find themselves to encroach the entire world in the process.

Perhaps not now, but being caution is not good. Ever since the Germans started attacking, all parts of Commonwealth, including Canada. Excalibur being a multi-national team, perhaps comprised more than just British and Canadians and the members of Commonwealth. Perhaps. Or is it just a strictly Commonwealth team? Quebecois still kind of resisting their participation, but if this is for the security and peace of the world, he'll do it, even if it means compromising his own supporting view against Quebecois' participation while facing against his own patriotism.

Picking up his Browning Hi-Power and Lee-Enfield SMLE Mk. III, anticipated what would be considered as a briefing, and after a brief clean of himself, he decided to went out from his room to join the rest.

[Heavonia]

Officers' Quarters, RAF Manston

Gareth Cowell had groaned at first when they'd woken him to inform him of the sudden moving out. That had of course been more at the fact that he'd had to wake up at such an early hour in the morning, not the fact that he might finally get to fight the Germans. After a few minutes sat on the bed being thoroughly unable to cope with mornings - something he'd never been able to shake, even twenty years past when he served at war in the Royal Navy. Eventually however, today he'd rubbed his eyes and read through the note to see what it said: report to the flightline in 60 - he checked his watch - 50 minutes to prepare to go somewhere and hopefully to actually do something. It wasn't that he couldn't move fast, it was more that if he'd been given 15 minutes to be ready he'd've been ready in 15 minutes - except they gave the slim Londoner a whole hour and then expected him to rush about. Rising from the bed, he began to hum quietly to himself to cover the noise of everyone and their mum finishing packing and the stuff he'd barely started since being woken up quarter of an hour ago.

At least he'd woken up and had the letter nearly shoved down his throat, unlike one of the Americans he guessed judging by the yells from down the corridor. Continuing he pulled on his uniform and calmly brushed his teeth. Pausing a moment he grinned to the mirror and showed his teeth, a ritual he'd been doing for years out of pride at the complete set of pearly-white 'ampsteads he'd retained since being a young child. That finished he pulled his jacket and hat on, before dragging his kit bag out from under the bed and quickly pulling it open to check inside. Yes, everything was in there from last time he checked, and the check before that, and even it was still there from when he'd put it all in there - but it never hurt to make sure. Spare clothes, ammunition and cleaning kits for the dual Double- and Single-Action Enfield revolver holstered on his belt - all of these were essential of course, though at the bottom of the kit bag was something quite significantly less so. Along with two boxes of ammunition sat a leather belt able to hold 25 12 gauge shells and a sawn-off shotgun. Gareth didn't know where his father had bought it from, neither did he know what shotgun it actually was for all markings had been fastidiously removed to the point that no man could note an identifying mark about it. Stockless, and with a barrel only a few inches long, it was a proper hand-cannon rather than one of the pistols it had been modified into a vague facsimile of.

Satisfied that his prized possession was safely stored away, Gareth quickly drew the top of the bag together and let himself out of his room before locking it and slipping the key into his pocket as he made his way down to the flightline. It had been half an hour since they'd first said to rouse himself, and bar brushing his teeth everything Gareth had done he could easily have done much faster if he'd been able to be bothered. Instead even his walking continued the theme of very-much-lacking-haste as he strolled along the paths of Manston to the flight-line, calling out to some of the squadron members who were already there as he approached. "Orright there 'Enry!" He said, "Lovely morning for it, eh?"

[Gibberan]

Thursday, December 14, 1939.
Somewhere Nearing RAF Manston
Approximately 0410.

The staff car rattled quietly throughout the still Kentish countryside. Twin RAF roundels emblazoned the sides as it bounced from pothole to pothole. Although the driver couldn't have been more concentrated on his early morning driving, the bouncing did not bother the rough young man sitting (or rather, sprawled out) in the back seat with his eyes closed. Was he asleep? No, he hadn't slept in nearly a day or so, for the simple reason he didn't need to (although he might have liked to). His chauffeur pressed down on the pedal furiously; they were late, mainly because of the confusion in London, as well as the fact that RAF Haifa had been under siege (or what was called a siege, instead of being called a few fanatics with rifles shooting up into the sky and then disappearing in thin air) for the better part of a week. Nothing serious, but the Arab terrorists did succeed in delaying Flying Officer Cliff McTavish's departure for his new assignment for a few precious hours. This was a matter complicated by the fact that apparently this was the sort of assignment you didn't want to be late for.

Cliff's mental images of the New England sea blurred as the car slowed to a stop. Setting his cap back over his head, he reached for the door and pulled himself out, being met with a large sign framed by tall barbed wire fences: RAF MANSTON - HOME OF No 3 SQUADRON. He looked down at the transfer papers in his hand: it clearly read 319 SQUADRON. Is this even the right place?

Tossing a few coins to his driver in the car, his approach apparently perked up the two armed guards in front of the gatehouse, who took his papers and examined them with their lantern-light. "Flying Officer Cliff McTavish, reporting to Cap'n Page, 319 Squadron." He expected them to be surprised by his thoroughly foreign Boston accent, as many of his RAF comrades had, but they continued reading unfazed. Was it because the rest of his squadron was foreign, too? He didn't know.

The men showed no sign of caring what he thought. In the cold silence, Cliff took out a Lucky Strike from his overcoat and lit it. As they stood in the night, he could see lights turning on in one of the buildings. "I'm late," he said, trying to hurry them up. The taller one glared at him, but instead of saying something, returned his papers. "Everything checks out." The smaller one gestured down the dirt road with his gloved hand. "Main barracks, officers' quarters. They'll be expecting you, methinks."

Cliff saluted his thanks, then walked briskly down the path, hands in his pockets, his lit cigarette illuminating the way. Officer's quarters... Entering the building, he heard a few yells from the quarters, and a few men scurrying about past him. Fuck, I really am late, aren't I, he thought, while putting a little more into his step. At the door to his quarterswas waiting a young, fresh-faced RAF aide, evidently not enjoying the task of waking the squadron. "You're late," said the kid frowning.

"Yeah, sorry about that." He wasn't really, for the cause of his tardiness had been out of his control. Looking at his face told the aide all he needed to know, and satisfied, he continued:

"The squadron's forming on the flightline; if you give me your kit I can sort out your essentials and have it back to you before-"

"Thanks but no thanks," Cliff said, holding his palm out to the boy. "These are my essentials." With a grin he nodded to the aide, swiveled on his heels, and headed out the door and out of the building, his cigarette still illuminating the way.

[Goram]

Flight Lieutenant White pedaled slowly through Manston, ambling through the barrack and administration areas, towards the hangars and flight line. He had been here once before, in 1918, and he reflected that the station had changed very little in the time. Indeed, most of the buildings looked just the same as he remembered. The only real difference that White could notice was in the aircraft types that were operating. Two wings had given way to one, but wooden formers and stringers, and doped linen skins remained the same.

The Hawker Hurricane was the culmination of biplane development - even if it didn't have two wings. It was faster and far more advanced than the aircraft that had come before it, but the design philosophies that were common to Hawker aircraft remained true. It was an aircraft White adored. He'd managed to get some time in the brand new Spitfire, and one couldn't deny the excellence of that aircraft's flight performance, but Harry's heart remained bound to the Hurricane. It was easy to fly, and forgiving to land. It was reliable and easy to maintain. When the guns were fired, as White had done once or twice, the aircraft seemed remarkably stable. In nearly 800 hours of Hurricane flight time, he had never once suffered from engine trouble - although whether that was down to the aircraft, the engine, the ground crews or a combination of all three, was difficult to say.

He rounded the corner, turning towards the runway, and he noted a collection of men in the same uniform as him. Perhaps men from the resident Hurricane squadron or perhaps new arrivals like himself.

"Orright there 'Enry! Lovely morning for it, eh?"

He knows my name, White thought. Must have been expecting me.

"Oh, my dear old thing, good morning!"

He called out as he cycled closer.

"Yes, it is lovely day for it, isn't it? Although, one can't be too sure of what exactly 'it' is!"

[Heavonia]

Strolling down the path toward the flightline, Flying Officer Cooper had quite honestly not even heard the approach of the slowly cycling officer behind him. Turning around quickly he could only see a figure lackadaisically cycling towards him in RAF uniform, and it took a few seconds before he could distinguish the features well enough to tell that he was definitely not someone he'd seen before. Stopping and dropping his kit bag by his feet he peered for moment before nodding to the new officer, distinguishing at least one important thing about him. "Sorry, sir. Didn't realise you were called 'enry too: I was calling to Mr Vodat on account of 'ow his name is 'enry."

He nodded and stepped slightly aside from the path so the more senior officer could cycle unimpeded. "A lovely dark winter's morning true that sir." He said before turning his curiosity to the new arrival. "Not seen you around here before." Gareth said, "You a new arrival ready to join us on this sudden jaunt?"

[Goram]

White pulled up his bicycle close by to the men in uniform. He put out his leg to keep from toppling over.

"Ah. Mr. Vodat, you say?"

"In any case, do accept my apologies. I'm a Henry too."

He dismounted his bicycle, and held it up by the handlebars. In truth, he hadn't really known what to do with himself. He wasn't certain these men did either, but it seemed better to be confused together than apart.

A lovely dark winter's morning true that sir. Not seen you around here before. You a new arrival ready to join us on this sudden jaunt?

"Just arrived, actually. Air Ministry asked me here to help sort out a - "

He fished in his pocket for his orders,

"Ah yes, a Number 319 Squadron, Royal Air Force, under one Squadron Leader, no...Captain? Both? How peculiar. Either way, under the command of one Robert Page. So, indeed, I am joining this sudden jaunt."

White held out his hand to the other man

"Oh, my word. I do apologise. I have yet to properly introduce myself. Flight Lieutenant Henry White - but please, call me Harry. Or Chalkie, if you rather. Everyone does!"

[Grenartia]

White pulled up his bicycle close by to the men in uniform. He put out his leg to keep from toppling over.

"Ah. Mr. Vodat, you say?"

"In any case, do accept my apologies. I'm a Henry too."

He dismounted his bicycle, and held it up by the handlebars. In truth, he hadn't really known what to do with himself. He wasn't certain these men did either, but it seemed better to be confused together than apart.

A lovely dark winter's morning true that sir. Not seen you around here before. You a new arrival ready to join us on this sudden jaunt?

"Just arrived, actually. Air Ministry asked me here to help sort out a - "

He fished in his pocket for his orders,

"Ah yes, a Number 319 Squadron, Royal Air Force, under one Squadron Leader, no...Captain? Both? How peculiar. Either way, under the command of one Robert Page. So, indeed, I am joining this sudden jaunt."

White held out his hand to the other man

"Oh, my word. I do apologise. I have yet to properly introduce myself. Flight Lieutenant Henry White - but please, call me Harry. Or Chalkie, if you rather. Everyone does!"

At around this point, Zeke was within reasonable hearing distance of the group on the flight line.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Flight Lieutenant, but did you just say you're with 319 Squadron?" he asked, as he stopped and saluted White. Zeke considered that he might be being overly polite, but, at the same time, his prior experience in the Army Air Corps taught him that being impolite to officers you don't know, even if they don't outrank you by much, can have disastrous results.

[Gibberan]

Interesting little gathering we have here, thought Cliff, hands deep in his overcoat pockets. So this is 319 Squadron? As far as he could tell, there were three men gathered in the darkness conversing, two with just their kit bags and one on a bicycle, of all things. Eh, I've seen stranger. England's a funny country; there's a reason we rebelled, after all.

He shifted his Lucky Strike to the corner of his mouth as he neared the group of pilots, snapping off a weary salute to the other fliers. "Moawning, gents—eh, sirs, excuse me," he corrected himself, noticing they were officers like himself, the bicycle one considerably senior to him (not just in rank, but in age...it was wise of him not to let that show on his face). However, officers as they were, none of them held the ranks of Captain or Squadron Leader.

He drew on the cigarette one more time, careful not to blow the smoke into the faces of the others (as he had found out in the Navy, it was also unwise to do that to someone who outranked you). "Any of you fine sirs know wheah a Capp'n Page is? Commandeh of Three-One-Nine?"

[United Kingdom of Poland]

"Orright there 'Enry!" Henri heard. "Lovely morning for it, eh?"

Henri turned to talk to Gareth only to be cut off by the fellow with on a bicycle among others. He didn't know a couple of them but could tell at least one of them outranked him. He could also tell at least one wasn't English or French, most likely American by the accent. It seemed weird given America's attempts to avoid the war, but how many young americans had he met in The Legion

Walking up to the group, Henri waited for a gab in the conversation to introduce himself. "Sorry to interrupt gentlemen. Henri Vodat, Armee de Air at your service."

[Heavonia]

"Well, glad to 'ave you Chalkie." Gareth said, taking the flight lieutenant's hand firmly. "Flying Officer Cowell, but you can call me Gareth, or... Well, about anything which gets me attention is good enough for me."

Before he could say anything more to Chalkie, a group of others crowded into the conversation, some he knew some he didn't. "Ullo." He said, nodding to the new man who had walked in and saluted before turning to the foreigner. "Yeah, I think we're all Excalibur Squadron," he said, putting on a dramatic voice to say the name, before waving toward a small hut near the flightline which was totally and absolutely not one of the groundskeeper's tool sheds. "Yeah, Mr Page is in there just sortin' some last minute paperwork. Why not poke your head 'round the door and say hello before he comes out." He said, winking at Henri to encourage him not to give it away.

[Morrdh]

HMS Cumberland, South Atlantic
0430 Hours
December 14th, 1939

Dawn was breaking over the waters of the South Atlantic and found the Cumberland steaming northwards at a steady 30 knots, having departed the Falklands the previous day at noon after receiving a garbled indication that a contact had been made. The County-class heavy cruiser had steamed all through the night at high speed to reinforce the light cruisers Ajax and Achilles after Exeter had been forced to withdraw after suffering heavy damage in the engagement with a lone German pocket battleship. Royal Marine Captain and Fleet Air Arm pilot Patrick Henshaw was up on deck as the sun came up enjoying a pipe, his Supermarine Walrus was being prepared for a sortie later that morning to fly out emergency supplies for Exeter. Some of the Cumberland's own medical store had been raided to help with the wounded on Exeter, in addition extra rations and a few bottles of rum had been gathered by the crew to lift the spirits of their battle blooded comrades.

Despite the declaration of war some months earlier and the sinking of merchant shipping, the realization that there was a war had only now sunk in especially after word of the pounding that the three British cruisers had received at the hands of just one German warship. It had a sobering effect on the Cumberland's crew as the prospect of going into battle finally hit them after weeks of enjoying the warm weather of the southern hemisphere at this time of year. Now the County-class cruiser was unquestionably on a war footing as the crew manned battle station round the clock and kept extra lookouts, Henshaw himself was expecting to fly extra sorties to take advantage of the long days after flying out to the Exeter. Word had been received during the night had the German warship had holed up in Montevideo, perhaps to lick her wounds as she waited for help to arrive?

That was the problem, nobody knew whether she was a lone wolf or was operating as part of a larger pack. Hence the extra lookouts and Henshaw's extra patrols in his Walrus, to make sure that there weren't other German ships that could distract the small British force and thus allow their comrade to slip out quietly.

[Gibberan]

"Yeah, I think we're all Excalibur Squadron," said one of them, in a rather strange, melodramatic way. Was that supposed to be 319's name? As if these squadrons had official names anyway; it had previously struck him that the British were a deeply, remorselessly unimaginative people. Excalibur. He tasted the word in his mouth. Wasn't that from some sort of old tale or something? Shakespeare, maybe? Cliff chuckled at the thought, smoke blowing between his teeth as he did so.

"Hmm. Well you limeys certainly do have some concept of melodrama, after all." He inhaled on his cigarette one more time.

The Flying Officer he was talking to waved toward a small hut near the flightline. "Yeah, Mr Page is in there just sortin' some last minute paperwork. Why not poke your head 'round the door and say hello before he comes out." Cliff turned his head to look in that direction: tiny wooden hut, no lights, all the way across from the main officers quarters or any other large building of note. Why the hell would the Captain be sorting paperwork there, in the middle of the night, when they were apparently supposed to ship out within less than half an hour?

Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a small twitch from the officer to another. Was that...? Yes, it must have been. A wink. So that's what the game is. He pivoted back to face the others. There was a pause.

The American airman shook his head. "No, no, no...not this Yank." Cliff said, grinning through his clenched teeth, his cigarette illuminating his face. All in good fun; we might get killed within the hour, anyway. He put his hand on the Brit's shoulder. "I like you, limey...I think we'll get along just fine."

[The Tiger Kingdom]

After grabbing a quick shave and shower, Page only had a few things to put in order before he left. Not exactly sure what he was in for, he went with his standard combat gear - an RAF-issue flying jacket with the heavy lining cut out, a khaki dress shirt with a single, easily-removed RAF patch left on (just to dodge any "espionage" charges - you never could be too careful), dark trousers, and combat boots blackened with shoe polish. A wool scarf, a flight cap, and a well-cared for pair of Ray-Bans completed the look. When it came to armament, his trusty .455 Webley took pride of place on a left-hip holster, accompanied by a trench knife slung on the opposite side. These were further augmented by a second knife concealed in the lining of his right boot, an emergency measure that had come in handy several times in the past.

But all these were mere appetizers to the main course, which was carefully packed away in Page's combat bag. Choosing a reliable and versatile go-to weapon for an outfit that was as unpredictable and multi-purpose as Excalibur Squadron had been quite a difficult endeavor, and one he'd put a lot of time and thought into throughout the previous months. After evaluating what felt like countless military and civilian rifles, SMGs, and other sundry killing tools, Page had reluctantly come to an unconventional choice - the Schmeisser MP40, the emblematic weapon of the Nazi regime. While it galled him a little to pick the weapon of the enemy, there were a number of good reasons for it. First, given that the MP40 was nigh-omnipresent in the hands of Kraut soldiers, ammunition in the field would be relatively easy to come by. Second, unlike a rifle, the MP40 was fairly small and compact, making it easy to pack, conceal, and carry around low-profile, if need be.

But the prime reason, Page had to admit, was that the Schmeisser was simply too useful and well-designed to ignore. There was just nothing quite like it in Allied hands, yet - the French equivalent, the MAS-38, was too awkward and underpowered to compare, the Thompson 1928 was too heavy and clumsy, and nothing remotely comparable was in service yet from British sources. In Page's experience, most "commando" work was done at close range, or was best done at close range, which meant a good room-clearer was always appreciated. The MP40 was light, adaptable, accurate, fired a decent round, and didn't tend to break down.
It was a sleek, efficient, infuriatingly German piece of engineering.

Remind you of anyone? Page thought sardonically to himself for the thousandth time as he threw the bag over his shoulder and took one last look, to ensure he hadn't left anything of use behind.
From the mirror, he caught a glimpse of himself. Everything looked in place, save for a few strands of long brown hair that were out of place hanging over his eyes, easily tucked back in.

Into the jaws of fate...
And with that happy thought, Page extracted a Lucky Strike, lit it, and walked out to meet his squadron.

---

A few minutes of stalking through the empty halls of Manston's barracks, out into the freezing morning, and there they were, all out on the flight line - a motley collection of pilots and soldiers from all over the world, chatting amongst themselves in low voices as they awaited for their transport to arrive.

"Morning, lads. Everyone ready? Wouldn't want to be caught on the wrong foot, now that it's finally time for some action."

[Grenartia]

"Well, glad to 'ave you Chalkie." Gareth said, taking the flight lieutenant's hand firmly. "Flying Officer Cowell, but you can call me Gareth, or... Well, about anything which gets me attention is good enough for me."

Before he could say anything more to Chalkie, a group of others crowded into the conversation, some he knew some he didn't. "Ullo." He said, nodding to the new man who had walked in and saluted before turning to the foreigner. "Yeah, I think we're all Excalibur Squadron," he said, putting on a dramatic voice to say the name, before waving toward a small hut near the flightline which was totally and absolutely not one of the groundskeeper's tool sheds. "Yeah, Mr Page is in there just sortin' some last minute paperwork. Why not poke your head 'round the door and say hello before he comes out." He said, winking at Henri to encourage him not to give it away.

Zeke stifled a laugh at the obvious joke being made at his fellow American's expense. He remembered when his first squadronmates tried to pull a fast one on him. It led to a week long prank war (all in good fun, though), that had to be stopped by his old Squadron Leader.

"Yeah, I think we're all Excalibur Squadron," said one of them, in a rather strange, melodramatic way. Was that supposed to be 319's name? As if these squadrons had official names anyway; it had previously struck him that the British were a deeply, remorselessly unimaginative people. Excalibur. He tasted the word in his mouth. Wasn't that from some sort of old tale or something? Shakespeare, maybe? Cliff chuckled at the thought, smoke blowing between his teeth as he did so.

"Hmm. Well you limeys certainly do have some concept of melodrama, after all." He inhaled on his cigarette one more time.

The Flying Officer he was talking to waved toward a small hut near the flightline. "Yeah, Mr Page is in there just sortin' some last minute paperwork. Why not poke your head 'round the door and say hello before he comes out." Cliff turned his head to look in that direction: tiny wooden hut, no lights, all the way across from the main officers quarters or any other large building of note. Why the hell would the Captain be sorting paperwork there, in the middle of the night, when they were apparently supposed to ship out within less than half an hour?

Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a small twitch from the officer to another. Was that...? Yes, it must have been. A wink. So that's what the game is. He pivoted back to face the others. There was a pause.

The American airman shook his head. "No, no, no...not this Yank." Cliff said, grinning through his clenched teeth, his cigarette illuminating his face. All in good fun; we might get killed within the hour, anyway. He put his hand on the Brit's shoulder. "I like you, limey...I think we'll get along just fine."

"At least he's not gullible." Zeke thought to himself, as he put his hand out for his fellow American to shake, and introduced himself.

"Good job not falling for it. I'm Flying Officer Thomas, by the way. But most people just call me Zeke."

A few minutes of stalking through the empty halls of Manston's barracks, out into the freezing morning, and there they were, all out on the flight line - a motley collection of pilots and soldiers from all over the world, chatting amongst themselves in low voices as they awaited for their transport to arrive.

"Morning, lads. Everyone ready? Wouldn't want to be caught on the wrong foot, now that it's finally time for some action."

Before Zeke could say anything else, or even before the other American could respond, a voice behind him spoke. Turning around, Zeke noticed the man wearing a Squadron Leader's insignia. Promptly realizing who this man most likely was, Zeke saluted him.

Zeke began doing a last minute mental checklist of everything he'd probably need.

Guns, his flight jacket (which was his USAAC jacket, as opposed to an RAF jacket, which his former superiors had no problem with, as it meant one more flight jacket for some other pilot), toiletries, Swiss Army Knife (a Wengerinox Allsport, which he found quite useful), Ray-Bans, and a mechanical pencil (a graduation gift from his favorite professor at TN Polytech), everything he could think of was with him.


"I assume you're Squadron Leader Page then, sir." Zeke stated, after confirming his mental checklist.

[Len Hyet]

It is far too early for this Silva thought to himself as he walked across the dew-covered early morning grass towards the group of squadron members. As he came along he made notes of the faces and accents he could recognize. A surprising number of Americans, some Brits, a Pole unless he missed his guess, and sundry others crowded around in a circle. Silva was the oldest among them by several years, time spent in Spain and outside the USAAC had tied him to the rank of a much younger man, though he regretted it not a whit. The time in Spain had been the scariest, bloodiest, muddiest years of his life, and he yearned with all his heart to return to those blood-spattered skies. Occasionally he still wondered how his old CO was doing, Anatoly Serov from the 1^a Escuaderilla de Vuelo Nocturno.

Now however was hardly the time for getting lost in the past. Silva looked over the squadron quietly, and nodded. All new faces, nobody who'd been in the shit with him or Page before. But if they were in the 319... well. They'd be the best that could be begged borrowed or stolen from their respective nationalities.

The other difference between Silva and the rest of the squadron was that every last one of them was wielding a long gun of some sort. Shotguns and rifles abounded, whereas Silva's only firearm was the well oiled Colt 1911A1 kept at his side. A few extra magazines and a box of loose rounds were the only accompaniments to it. That and two knives, a long one at his belt and another knife that was only short by comparison in his boot sheath.

As the thought crossed his mind, he turned to the sound of a familiar voice and let a smile split his set features.

"Morning, lads. Everyone ready? Wouldn't want to be caught on the wrong foot, now that it's finally time for some action."

"A good 'n cold morning to you Captain Page."

[The Two Jerseys]

RAF Manston
approx. 0515 hours
14 December 1939

The sound of a Rolls-Royce Merlin at full song filled the Kent skies as a Fairey Battle approached the airfield in the darkness; following a brief chatter over the radio and some signals from the tower's Aldis lamp, the plane's landing lights switched on as the pilot throttled back and eased her down onto the grass field. As she slowed to a crawl, another burst of light erupted from the Aldis lamp, and the Battle swung left and began taxiing to the indicated position, the landing lights slowly illuminating the group of men standing on the flight line directly ahead.

As the Battle came to a stop and the pilot cut the engine, the rear canopy opened, and its occupant chucked a duffel bag out onto the port wing before exiting tot he same side; climbing forward to the now-open forward canopy, the observer reached in and shook hands with the pilot.

"Thanks for the lift, Sandy!"

"My pleasure, Geoff. Good luck with whatever it is they've got you here for!"

"Oh, don't worry, I'll be fine! You take care of yourself!"

As the pilot called for the fuel bowser, the observer slid down the wing and landed on the ground; pulling off his flying helmet and well-worn Mk II goggles, he swapped them with the SD cap in the duffel bag, then threw the bag over his shoulder as he made his way over to the assembled group.

"Morning, chaps. Can any of you direct me to the CO of 319 Squadron?"

[Goram]

Flying Officer Cowell, but you can call me Gareth, or... Well, about anything which gets me attention is good enough for me

"Gareth, yes. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance!"

By now, others had come, possibly attracted by the low murmur of conversation. One Pole, and two Americans. In all his years, Flight Lieutenant White had never met a Pole before. Plenty of French, a smattering of Italians and even the odd German, but never a Pole. Americans, on the other hand, he had met on a multitude of occasions. He had known them in France, in 1918, and to a man he had found them to be an insufferable bunch. They had been loud and cocksure, boastful and arrogant. White had been civil to them, as decency demanded, but he had not liked them and he had found himself disposed against the bloody Americans ever since.

"Yet"

He thought,

"One must never judge a book by it's cover. Not even an American one. Maybe these chaps will be different."

He cast his mind back to 1918, and for the first time in 20 years, he felt nostalgic for it. Not for the fighting, nor the killing - those things had never appealed to him like it did to some men - but for the camaraderie that came with operational life with the battalion or squadron. He suddenly found himself thinking of friends long dead or men he hadn't seen since demobilisation at the end of the last war. The memories came back to thick that he could practically hear the roar of the engines, or the bark of a CSM from Aberdeen. These were thoughts he'd barely had since those days; perhaps it was these young men around him that brought it back. Perhaps it was the growl of aircraft on operational aircraft. Just possibly, it was the uniform he was once again wearing. Bizarrely, he felt almost melancholy that the role he expected to play was to help train these men and get their unit underway - not to go into action with them. Although perhaps that was a good thing. All these men were armed to the teeth with all manner of exotic arms. White, on the other had, had a pen knife in his pocket and a vintage service revolver in his luggage.

Morning, lads. Everyone ready? Wouldn't want to be caught on the wrong foot,

It was a fairly soft voice. Not shouted, but not whispered either. It had an easy confidence about it, and White turned to see who it was. The man was dressed bizarrely, in a mix of uniforms and civilian clothes. Yet he wore an officer's cap, and toted a mean looking submachine gun.

Ah, yes. Captain/Squadron Leader Page.

He thought to himself.

now that it's finally time for some action.

The last words caught White off guard. Time for some action. The thought occurred that if he wanted to, he could keep quiet. Stand at the back, and blend in. He was wearing an immaculate uniform, with medal ribbons to boot. Medal ribbons that certainly gave away his age compared to the others. Yet, if he did his best to blend in, perhaps he could blag his way onto their transportation, but he suspected he had only moments to decide. Go, or stay? The decision chased itself around his head. Could he defy orders and go? But then, he realised, I never actually had orders. The ministry had said to report to No. 319 Squadron at Manston this morning, no more, no less. It had been White himself that assumed his role would be one of training and administration. In that moment, he decided. He decided he would not stay at home whilst other men fought. He had done it once before and lived, and so he would do it again. He felt in his breast pocket, and withdrew a package of cigarettes. He didn't smoke, hadn't since the end of the last war. But he had brought them to give to the members of the new Squadron, in order to break the ice. But today was a day of going back to old habits, and without really even knowing what he was doing, a match flared up in the darkness. And so, in such fashion, the 46 year old Flight Lieutenant White would go to war.

One thing was sure though. If the Germans didn't kill him, his wife probably would.

[Heavonia]

Gareth eyed Cliff silently for a moment before laughing and clapping the man on the shoulders too. "I'm going to like you mate." He said, nodding a greeting to Zeke as he came over too. Before anyone could do owt else, he turned at the voice of the Captain Page and smiled a greeting. "Mornin' sir." He said cheerily before picking up his bag and slinging it over a shoulder. "Ready to get this show on the road and kick Jerry up the backside damned soonish." He added with a grin on his face.