Operation FOXCHASE (ES ONLY IC - SEMI-REBOOT)

[The Tiger Kingdom]

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

Page nodded and idly tapped his rank insignia. "You must be Mr. Thomas, the barnstormer. Good to finally meet you. I tried to catch you sooner, but things have been so chaotic around here of late that I've hardly been able to get outside my door."

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.

"Morning, Cowell. Same here."

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."

"Not quite like how it was back in the Brigades, is it?" Page chuckled. "Well, if our man is on time, we shouldn't be out in the wind for too long, at least. Then, things can get properly good and hot once we get to whatever battle they plan on sending us into."

While Page didn't know most of his new recruits very well, outside of their assembled intelligence profiles - the squadron was too new for that, really - Silva was the prime exception. They'd run into each other several times back in northern Spain, during their service with the International Brigades - Silva serving with the Lincoln Brigade and the Soviet air detachments, Page with the British Battalion's fighter squadron and, after a rather severe crash, with a band of Trotskyite partisans in the foothills of Navarre. If Silva had been able to hang through duty that intense and dangerous and come out wanting more, Page knew that he was the kind of fellow the squadron would need in order to work.

As Page waited idly for something to happen, the sudden low growl of a Merlin engine approaching from the direction of the nearby Channel split the calm silence of the morning.
That's coming this way. I wonder...?
With a distinct sense of theatricality, the intruder - a sole Fairey Battle - streaked overhead, turned a slick circle, and put down on the grass in seconds flat as the squadron watched.

"No idea who that is," Page muttered to himself through his cigarette, "but he's sure in a damn hurry."
Practically before the Battle had stopped its rolling, its passenger threw back the canopy, climbed onto the wing, exchanged a few words with the pilot, and then jumped down to earth.

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

Page stuck out his hand to the newcomer. "You've got good timing, my friend. I'm Page, officer commanding the 319th. I guess you must be...Talbot, if I remember right. Glad to meet you, especially considering we're shipping out in a few minutes."

Almost as if on cue, the newly-restored quiet of the morning was broken again by the rumble of an approaching Bedford truck, which pulled up next to the assembled squadron.
"Three-nineteen?" the driver asked in Page's general direction.
"That's right...?"
The driver jerked his thumb in the direction of the canvas-shrouded cargo bed. "Back there, and zip up once you're all in. Orders are that you're not to be seen on the way out."
"Any hints as to our destination?"
"Margate. Beyond that, I couldn't tell you."

Page raised an eyebrow. Margate was hardly the peak of exoticism - it was about a half-mile from the airfield - but who could say what lay beyond.

"Understood."
Page turned to the squadron - now, with their newest arrival, entirely turned out and ready to go.
"Load up, boys, and quick. Wouldn't want to get our beach holiday started late."

[The Two Jerseys]

Page stuck out his hand to the newcomer. "You've got good timing, my friend. I'm Page, officer commanding the 319th. I guess you must be...Talbot, if I remember right. Glad to meet you, especially considering we're shipping out in a few minutes."

Talbot dropped his bag and snapped to attention as he rendered a stiff salute. "Flight Lieutenant Geoffrey Talbot reporting, sir!" he said briskly before dropping the salute to shake Page's hand.

Almost as if on cue, the newly-restored quiet of the morning was broken again by the rumble of an approaching Bedford truck, which pulled up next to the assembled squadron.
"Three-nineteen?" the driver asked in Page's general direction.
"That's right...?"
The driver jerked his thumb in the direction of the canvas-shrouded cargo bed. "Back there, and zip up once you're all in. Orders are that you're not to be seen on the way out."
"Any hints as to our destination?"
"Margate. Beyond that, I couldn't tell you."

Page raised an eyebrow. Margate was hardly the peak of exoticism - it was about a half-mile from the airfield - but who could say what lay beyond.

"Understood."
Page turned to the squadron - now, with their newest arrival, entirely turned out and ready to go.
"Load up, boys, and quick. Wouldn't want to get our beach holiday started late."

Safely loaded onto the truck, Talbot unzipped his flight jacket and reached into the inside pocket of his tunic, pulling out the sheet of paper he had received an hour ago. "Beg pardon, Squadron Leader," he said, addressing Page, "I know it's mere formality, but here are my orders." He leaned forward and held them out so Page could reach them. "By the way, sir, I don't believe I got your name..."

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Safely loaded onto the truck, Talbot unzipped his flight jacket and reached into the inside pocket of his tunic, pulling out the sheet of paper he had received an hour ago. "Beg pardon, Squadron Leader," he said, addressing Page, "I know it's mere formality, but here are my orders." He leaned forward and held them out so Page could reach them. "By the way, sir, I don't believe I got your name..."

Page accepted the sheets, glanced over them, and tucked them into his breast pocket.
"Thanks, Mr. Talbot. The full name's Robert Page, Squadron Leader...and technically Captain in the Army, as well. It's complicated."

Practically as soon as the squadron was seated in the Bedford, the truck was off across the runway. With all the squadron and their equipment packed in, it was quite a tight fit, and Page quickly found himself mashed up against the back of the driver's seat as the truck trundled out of the airbase and onto the sleepy Kentish backroads, now bathed in greyish predawn mist.
From the cab, Page could just overhear the radio over the roar of the engine.

"...BBC World Service. And now, our morning bulletin. The top story today...According to the latest dispatches from the offices of the Admiralty, a cruiser squadron of the Royal Navy last night successfully engaged a German pocket battleship, believed to be either the Admiral Graf Spee or the Admiral Scheer, off the coast of Argentina. The German battleship was reported to have been badly damaged in the engagement, and is believed to have fled up the nearby River Plate in a desperate attempt at escape. At this time, no Allied ships are reported to have been lost as a result of the engagement, and the Admiralty reports that numerous elements of the Royal Navy are even now converging on the River Plate-

"Well, that's damn good news, isn't it?", Page asked around the cabin. "Just our luck, though - two and a half months of no action at all, and the Navy grabs all the glory overnight!"

---

Montevideo, Uruguay - Pier 42
0231 Hours
December 14th, 1939

"...That is the light damage. However, there are several more hits that have caused a worrying degree of damage. Allow me to fetch my diagrams..."

His eyes bloodshot and his ordinarily-immaculate white uniform wrinkled and sweat-stained, Captain Langsdorff of the Graf Spee watched as Korvettenkapitan Klepp, the Spee's chief engineer, prepared his grim presentation on the condition of the Spee after the battle with the British cruisers.
"Take your time, Klepp."

Arrayed around the engineer were the chief officers of the battleship, their faces covered in grime and their expressions equally downcast. Several of them sported injuries - burns and cuts, for the most part. Even Langsdorff himself had been struck by British shrapnel while on the bridge. But it was clear that Muller- here in his capacity as the head of the Spee's marine detachment - had probably gotten the worst of any of them, with rivulets of blood still occasionally running from the gauze shrouding his legs beneath his uniform. While the officers had been asking questions, Muller had remained silent, staring straight ahead at the engineer, unblinking.

"As you can see," Klepp continued wearily, "this is only a preliminary assessment of the damage, but it's possible more could be found once the main inspection begins tomorrow. While the main structural integrity of the ship remains basically sound, as far as my men could tell, several installations and important pieces of equipment have been wrecked. The first is the galley - a shell penetrated through there, annihilating the ovens and most of the food stores, as well as knocking out the electric supply to the forward turret ammunition hoists. Another hit has put the searchlight array totally out of action, along with an adjacent sickbay..."

The engineer flipped his diagram over, noticing that the faces of the officers were becoming even more distraught as the magnitude of the damage began to dawn on them - all but Muller who remained disturbingly unfazed.

"...There is a hole approximately three feet high by six feet wide almost along the waterline, presenting a serious flooding risk. Another British shell, which apparently did not detonate, has blasted through and knocked out the starboard torpedo loading room, as well as most of the electrical uplinks for the Damage Control department. The forward AA gunnery control station is entirely out of action. The radio photography room has been destroyed, as has the rangefinder for the forward conning tower. Our spotter aircraft was hit and has burned to a useless hulk, disabling the catapult as well. More or less all of our radar apparatuses are also inoperable. We also suspect that the ship's fuel-processing mechanisms may have been damaged, which would limit our sailing range severely."

Klepp faced the Captain. "That concludes the assessment of major damage."
"And what's your conclusion, Klepp?"
"My conclusion?"
The engineer sighed and ran a hand though his thinning hair.

"My conclusion is that we're not cruise-ready, sir. The damage we have sustained is considerable, and I doubt we will have the time to even begin repairing before we're forced back out to sea. We have no idea how this tub will stand up to high-seas sailing with so many flooding risks, and that's notwithstanding the English out there."

A barely-audible snort could be heard from Muller's direction of the room.

Langsdorff didn't look surprised. "Very well."
He motioned to Leutnant Wachtel (representing the Graf Spee's medical contingent) without looking at him, his eyes still lost in thought, his hand over his mouth.

"Wachtel, your casualty report?"
The medical officer squinted at his papers. "Er...well, there are approximately sixty men currently in the various medical bays with sustained injuries from the battle, including about four officers. The total mortality toll, right now, is at thirty-seven, including seven officers."

Langsdorff sighed. "A third of our officers are wounded or dead. Our supplies are low, even if we replenish from the Tacoma. We may not be able to make the open sea. And to top it off, the British are no doubt closing in on us here as we speak."
The statement hung over the assembled officers, nobody commenting or responding as Langsdorff was still far away. Finally, the silence was broken by Muller.
"Sir? Question."
"Go ahead."
"What can my men do to get us ready to go back out there and beat the English?"

There was an awkward silence. For the first time, Langsdorff seemed to stir.
"Well," he started, "I very much appreciate your question, but if Klepp's report is correct, there may be nothing we can do-"
Muller cocked his head. "Well then, do we intend to do anything at all? Or shall we count ourselves defeated right now? "

The awkward silence now became positively arctic.

"Kapitänleutnant Muller," Labngsdorff said heavily, drawing himself to his feet. "I can assure you - and all of you here - that I intend to do everything in my power to save this ship and its crew. If we are to meet with the crew of the Tacoma tomorrow in order to replenish our food stores and begin to repair the damage, we will need security to cover for our work and to keep civilians back. Your men will be integral to that work. You will also be needed in order to facilitate prisoner transfer ashore. That will be more than sufficient to play your role until we know more about our situation and how we shall return to the Fatherland. Is that clear?"

Muller's jaw was locked as tight as if it had been screwed shut. "Yes, sir."
"Very well. I advise you all to grab a few hours of sleep, if possible - Doctor Langmann from the Consulate will be here at 0500 hours with news from the Uruguayan government regarding our stay here. In the meantime, absolutely nobody is to be allowed off the ship until he clears us to do so. Dismissed."

As Muller left, he could hardly keep his frustration to himself, his huge fists clenched in anger. The Spee had fought off three British cruisers and was still afloat - and Langsdorff was acting like it was a death sentence. Muller could see it in the Captain's blank stare that he had been completely used up in the battle, that he had become so used to preying on weak enemies with no protection that the first smell of gunpowder sent him into conniptions.
And now...what would Langsdorff do next? Go back out and fight? Come up with a cunning plan?
...Surrender the ship?
The thought made Muller sick to his stomach.

I've been in fights before. I've fought men twice my size, fought two-against one, fought four-against one. I didn't always win, but I never, ever quit.

It was true. From a young age, he'd been drawn to violence, to imposing his will. He'd had it drummed into him by his father in a quite literal manner - a drunken veteran of the Great War, the old man hadn't spared either his mother nor the young Muller from his savage anger. But even in his alcoholic stupor, the old man had been right about something: backing down and showing weakness would never be an option for him. He'd carried that with him through his whole life. It had gotten him into no end of trouble, including getting kicked out of the Wehrmacht for fracturing an instructor's skull, but it had also kept him going. It had defined him.

And now, with his first shot at real glory - not the tawdry glory of the boxing ring or the passing glory of the street fight - some milquetoast, hopelessly weak-willed officer might just throw it away for him.
In his mind Muller began making a list of people he knew he could count on - and those he knew he couldn't...

[Grenartia]

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

Page nodded and idly tapped his rank insignia. "You must be Mr. Thomas, the barnstormer. Good to finally meet you. I tried to catch you sooner, but things have been so chaotic around here of late that I've hardly been able to get outside my door."

At this, Zeke silently nodded in acknowledgement, and waited for the Captain to get the other formalities out of the way.

Almost as if on cue, the newly-restored quiet of the morning was broken again by the rumble of an approaching Bedford truck, which pulled up next to the assembled squadron.
"Three-nineteen?" the driver asked in Page's general direction.
"That's right...?"
The driver jerked his thumb in the direction of the canvas-shrouded cargo bed. "Back there, and zip up once you're all in. Orders are that you're not to be seen on the way out."
"Any hints as to our destination?"
"Margate. Beyond that, I couldn't tell you."

Page raised an eyebrow. Margate was hardly the peak of exoticism - it was about a half-mile from the airfield - but who could say what lay beyond.

"Understood."
Page turned to the squadron - now, with their newest arrival, entirely turned out and ready to go.
"Load up, boys, and quick. Wouldn't want to get our beach holiday started late."

At that, Zeke picked up his bag, and hopped into the bed of the truck, sandwiched between one of his fellow squadronmates and the cab, and waited for the rest of them to get in.

"Well, that's damn good news, isn't it?", Page asked around the cabin. "Just our luck, though - two and a half months of no action at all, and the Navy grabs all the glory overnight!"

"Think the Navy's gonna win the war singlehandedly, sir?" Zeke asked, jokingly.

[United Kingdom of Poland]

Henri settled into the truck with the others, mentally going over the rest of the squadron. At least two of his comrades had served in Spain like himself. He could tell by how the captain used the term "the brigades". The only men who used that term were the men who had fought in them during the war. It comforted him to learn that their squadron leader had been there, the last thing he wanted was to be apart of a commando group lead by someone who hadn't gotten his hands dirty before.

"Well, that's damn good news, isn't it?", Page asked around the cabin. "Just our luck, though - two and a half months of no action at all, and the Navy grabs all the glory overnight!"

Henri couldn't help but laugh at that. "What do you expect sir? If they don't grab headlines the government might take their shiny toys away."

[Goram]

White hauled himself up into the rear of the truck, following the others.He sat down next to the Flying Officer who'd turned up only minutes before, courtesy of a Fairy Battle. So far, so good. No one was questioning what he was doing. He looked around the cab as the others filed in, and to his immense horror, Page seemed to be edging his way towards him. It seemed the game was up, he thought. He'd be unceremoniously tossed out of the truck and left to sit out the war teaching boys to fly and filling out paper work. In that moment, all the excitement and adventure that had seemed so possible barely minutes ago dissipated. He watched glumly as the Captain inched closer, and didn't say a word when he sat down almost opposite him. He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment, the engine slipped into gear and the truck moved off.

He glanced up to see the Officer next to him, Talbot he thought his name was, had Page his orders. There seemed to be some talk of a naval action having been fought, and how the Navy seemed set to steal all the glory. White had met only a few Navy men in his time and liked well enough those he knew in a professional capacity. But he had seen many, including a cadre of officers from Beatty's Battle Cruiser Fleet in 1915. White had been on a two week leave at the time and he had crossed the Channel, bound for London. Evidently these officers had had the same idea. They had been playboys, White thought. Arrogant playboys. It galled him that they got the headlines and attracted the praise of a grateful nation, whilst the poor bloody infantry did the fighting and the dying outside of the public eye.

Page was sat close by and hadn't said anything. What's more the truck was already on the move. Perhaps he was in the clear? He decided to chance it.

"The Navy grabs all the glory."

He said dismissively

"Sounds about right for those chaps. They did it in the last war too. We do the dying and they get the plaudits!"

[Organized States]

RAF Manston


"STOP RIGHT THERE!" screamed a man's voice, that of one of the sentries, as the white light filled Carson's eyes, causing him to tear up slightly as he put his hands up and looked away slightly from the light. The sound of a round being chambered in a Lee-Enfield was not at all a good sign. So this is what it feels like on the other end, thought Carson to himself. Despite being dressed in full Blue-Grey War Service dress, showing up in the early morning still greatly increased the likelihood of getting yourself shot.

"PULL YOUR BLOODY PAPERS OUT OR I'LL PUT A ROUND IN YOUR ARSE!" sounded off another voice, distinctly older, and definitely more weathered. Carson slowly dropped his left hand towards the front pocket of his uniform coat, unbuttoning it and slowly removing his ID papers and orders for 319, before slowly lifting them back up again. A helmeted sentry, rifle at the ready, approached him slowly, as a tired and far-younger man followed him, who was struggling to hold up the flashlight and the heavy Lee-Enfield rifle at the same time. The older sentry, a weathered and worn NCO, with whitened hair and messy facial hair snatched Carson's papers out of his hands and read them over intently.

"319 Squadron, eh? I've never heard of any 319 Squadron here." grumbled the NCO, before turning to address his younger counterpart, "Stewart, what do you think the odds are that we've caught the first bloody Jerry infiltrator?"

"I heard they pretend to be bloody Canadians all the time." replied the younger sentry excitedly. His face still had breakouts of acne. He couldn't have been older than 21. "Where are you even from, Flying Officer Carson?" he sneered.

"Vancouver, asshole." smirked Carson. "Just call 319 Squadron or something."

"I'll tell ya what, I'll call this 319 Squadron of yours, and if I found out they don't exist, I'll fockin' shoot ya." mocked the older Sentry, walking back towards the guardhouse intently.

After maybe two minutes, the NCO returned, walking very rapidly, Carson's papers in hand. He quickly handed the papers and orders back to Carson in a very courtly manner. He raised his hand in salute, prompting a confused look on his subordinate's face and a sharp salute in return from Carson.

"Terribly sorry, sir. I sincerely apologize for the confusion. I have made contact with the officer on duty at 319 Squadron, and they will promptly be sending someone down to the gate to escort your onto the base. I am once again, terribly sorry about the confusion, sir." he quickly rattled off, extremely nervous seeing as how he had raised his rifle towards and threatened an officer, an offense that could result in a summary court martial.

Carson didn't respond. Instead, he smirked, and walked towards the guardhouse, duffel still slung over his shoulder, and simply waited for someone from 319 to appear to escort him.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

"Think the Navy's gonna win the war singlehandedly, sir?" Zeke asked, jokingly.

"Let's reserve our judgment until they finally seal the deal with that Hun battleship, Mr. Thomas. If they can polish this off, then we'll see if they can work up to finding a way to parade a fleet through Berlin!"

Making excellent time, the Bedford sped across the bumpy backroads until the ride suddenly became much slower and smoother - an obvious sign that they'd crossed into the town of Margate, invisible beyond the canvas draped over the truck's frame. They continued heading north - towards the coast.
Wonder what the game is... Page mused to himself. Are we getting in a ship? Or-
With almost no warning, the truck quickly heeled to a stop, throwing everyone inside around a little bit (or as much as they could be thrown, given how cramped the inside was).
"All out!"

Clambering over the equipment, the squadron hastily debarked. A rather impressive sight awaited them.

"Oh..." Page said, surprised. "That's...erm...I suppose this is the plan, then."

In front of them, floating and bobbing at the quayside on the gray morning tide, was a huge flying boat, practically the size of a house. While Page could recognize the type easily from his spotting guides, anyone who'd ever seen a tourism poster for Australia in a train station, or watched newsreels about the exploding newfangled market of "trans-oceanic flight". It was a Short Empire, the bird of choice for the elites of British society to travel in style from Britain to the farthest corners of the Empire. Page couldn't help but admire the ungainly thing - all the best designers in the world couldn't make a beauty out of such a massive, chunky machine, but it had a definite charm nonetheless.

Not a military aircraft, though, that's strange...
This one had a strange look about it, however. Some of its civilian markings had been obliterated, but some were still in place, and the gaily painted name - "Constantine" - still remained right underneath the portside windows of the cockpit.
...Why're they sending us in a civilian crate? And where the hell are we going, anyways?

Before Page could voice his suspicions aloud, someone popped out from the Empire's cabin - a crew member, apparently - and beckoned Excalibur forward He cupped his hands around his mouth.
"ALL ABOARD! DEPARTURE IN FIVE MINUTES!"

"Bloody hell," Page muttered. "Well, you heard the man, everyone. Thanks to whichever one of you booked us all a surprise winter holiday, but I wish you'd have let the rest of us have a little bit more warning."

[Heavonia]

As they'd gotten on to the small lorry Gareth had been careful to slightly take up a little more space than he needed, so once everyone else was on he could squash himself away with a bit of breathing room around him. Slinging the kit bag behind himself to use as a cushion against the jerking metal sides of the lorry was simply something he'd learned to do after far too many banged heads and itty bitty pieces of metal jammed into his ribs when sitting in the back of lorries - especially those going places in a hurry. Hearing the radio and the Squadron Leader's remark, he laughed. "Perhaps I should've been more forceful with wanting to stay with the Fleet, then I might have earned some of the money yuu've been giving me."

Smiling, he laughed at the others responses before calling across to Chalkie. "'Course we did 'arry!" He said jovially. "Navy was the best, is the best, and always will be the best. Me 'pa knew it, me brothers knew it, and I knew it when we signed up. Only one who didn't were me grandad, but I barely knew him and he were dead by the time it started!"

Soon enough, however, Gareth slid aside into an American as the lorry slammed its brakes on and came to a sudden stop. Following the rest of the squadron out he stood and nodded appreciatively at the flying boat. "Well, 's looking good - hopefully they've kept all the good seats inside the beast and not replaced them with some god-awful army spec benches." He said. "Anyone got preferences: aisle or window eh?" Gareth added, grinning.

[Grenartia]

"Think the Navy's gonna win the war singlehandedly, sir?" Zeke asked, jokingly.

"Let's reserve our judgment until they finally seal the deal with that Hun battleship, Mr. Thomas. If they can polish this off, then we'll see if they can work up to finding a way to parade a fleet through Berlin!"

Zeke stifled a laugh at the Captain's comment. So far, he seemed to be the good kind of CO, the one who didn't have a stick up his ass.

Before Page could voice his suspicions aloud, someone popped out from the Empire's cabin - a crew member, apparently - and beckoned Excalibur forward He cupped his hands around his mouth.
"ALL ABOARD! DEPARTURE IN FIVE MINUTES!"

At the sight of the flying boat, it was all Flying Officer Thomas could do not to hurl at its obscene form.

"What a piece of junk." The American muttered, under his breath, and before he could say anything else, Captain Page spoke up.

"Bloody hell," Page muttered. "Well, you heard the man, everyone. Thanks to whichever one of you booked us all a surprise winter holiday, but I wish you'd have let the rest of us have a little bit more warning."

"I'm sorry, sir, that was my fault. I figured we could take a trip to Hawaii." Zeke said, hefting his bag from the truck.

"Anyone got preferences: aisle or window eh?" Gareth added, grinning.

"I'll take a window. Who knows, I might be able to shoot a jerrybird." The Flying Officer replied, as he headed towards the boat/plane hybrid.

[Morrdh]

South Atlantic
0602 Hours
December 14th, 1939

It took Henshaw round an hour or so to fly his aircraft from the Cumberland to the Exeter's position where he found the York-class cruiser in a sorry state. From bow to stern she was pockmarked with holes, still fresh scars of the pounding she'd received during the battle. In addition she had a slight but noticeable list and her turrets were sorched and dented from the hits that had been made upon them, plus amidships she was still smouldering from a fire that had broken out during the battle. Henshaw had seen Exeter some weeks prior when she seemed like a jewel of the Navy and ready to fight, now she was half-wrecked and limping across the ocean like some wounded animal.

Henshaw flew a lazy circuit round the Exeter as his wireless operator used a signal lamp to exchange messages with the cruiser, his observer busied himself with sorting out the Walrus' cargo of emergency supplies to be air dropped into the ocean. It would take a little bit of skill and Henshaw's bombing training but the idea was to drop the supplies in front of Exeter to make it easier for her crew to retrieve them as he launches had been smashed beyond repair. The Walrus circled round and Henshaw lined the aircraft up to pass some distance in front of the cruiser, he called out "Now!" when he judged the moment right and the observer passed the supplies out of the aircraft's side.

"Exeter says 'Cheers old chap' skip." Reported Richard the wireless operator.

"Right, our work here is done." Nodded Henshaw. "Contact Cumberland and let her know we're on our way back."

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Ducking down through the entranceway, Page led the squadron aboard the Constantine, feeling rather odd to be carrying a rucksack full of military equipment aboard the aerial equivalent of a luxury liner. That feeling only became more pronounced as he looked around the interior as they were hustled along to the aft cabins. Whatever quick conversion job the new operators of the boat had done, it clearly hadn't been finished - the floors were still covered with lush red carpeting, severe-looking portraits of dead royals and aristocrats still glared out from the wall, and large, overstuffed chairs, a far cry from standard military minimalism, still filled the cabin.

In ordinary times, Page would have dawdled and taken his time to explore, but with the engines idling (muffled behind the plush wall paneling, of course) and the rest of the squadron right behind him, it was all he could do to snag a window seat and stow his gear. While the rest of the group was following suit, one of the boat's crew - wearing a Fleet Air Arm insignia - stepped into the aisle.

"You lot must be 319 Squadron. I'll keep the introductions brief. I'm Sub-Lieutenant Moore, and as of six hours ago, I'm the commanding officer of this vessel. I must say, you fellows have had all the stops pulled out for you - the Navy's pulled this old girl out from BOAC just last night to fly you wherever you're going.

"I've been instructed to tell you that we're going to Lisbon, refueling, and then immediately hopping somewhere beyond that - I can't be more specific, because I haven't been told. However, if they decide to cut you in on the situation, you're to keep it completely to yourselves. This little party is very, very, utterly top-secret. The flight crew are good lads, but they're all civilians, and are to know as absolutely little as possible about what exactly you all are up to."

He sighed, clear his throat, and consulted a small, crumpled sheet of notes.
"And with that out of the way, you're all advised to sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight. Washrooms are located up the main gangway, through the forward cabins, immediately on the right and left. Do mind your seatbelts, and take care to dispose of your tobacco in the convenient receptacles, located in your forward tray tables. Refreshments and a light breakfast will be forthcoming within the hour."

He re-crumpled the spiel and stuffed it in his pocket.
"And keep your bloody voices down," he muttered, half to himself, as he shuffled off.

[The Two Jerseys]

Talbot followed Page onto the flying boat, stowing his bag in the baggage compartment as he walked past on his way to the passenger compartment, where he grabbed a forward-facing seat.

"You lot must be 319 Squadron. I'll keep the introductions brief. I'm Ensign Moore, and as of six hours ago, I'm the commanding officer of this vessel. I must say, you fellows have had all the stops pulled out for you - the Navy's pulled this old girl out from BOAC just last night to fly you wherever you're going.

"I've been instructed to tell you that we're going to Lisbon, refueling, and then immediately hopping somewhere beyond that - I can't be more specific, because I haven't been told. However, if they decide to cut you in on the situation, you're to keep it completely to yourselves. This little party is very, very, utterly top-secret. The flight crew are good lads, but they're all civilians, and are to know as absolutely little as possible about what exactly you all are up to."

He sighed, clear his throat, and consulted a small, crumpled sheet of notes.
"And with that out of the way, you're all advised to sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight. Washrooms are located up the main gangway, through the forward cabins, immediately on the right and left. Do mind your seatbelts, and take care to dispose of your tobacco in the convenient receptacles, located in your forward tray tables. Refreshments and a light breakfast will be forthcoming within the hour."

He re-crumpled the spiel and stuffed it in his pocket.
"And keep your bloody voices down," he muttered, half to himself, as he shuffled off.

After the Navy man disappeared, Talbot addressed the assembled squadron: "Is there going to be a drinks service, or are we on our own?"

[Grenartia]

Talbot followed Page onto the flying boat, stowing his bag in the baggage compartment as he walked past on his way to the passenger compartment, where he grabbed a forward-facing seat.

"You lot must be 319 Squadron. I'll keep the introductions brief. I'm Ensign Moore, and as of six hours ago, I'm the commanding officer of this vessel. I must say, you fellows have had all the stops pulled out for you - the Navy's pulled this old girl out from BOAC just last night to fly you wherever you're going.

"I've been instructed to tell you that we're going to Lisbon, refueling, and then immediately hopping somewhere beyond that - I can't be more specific, because I haven't been told. However, if they decide to cut you in on the situation, you're to keep it completely to yourselves. This little party is very, very, utterly top-secret. The flight crew are good lads, but they're all civilians, and are to know as absolutely little as possible about what exactly you all are up to."

He sighed, clear his throat, and consulted a small, crumpled sheet of notes.
"And with that out of the way, you're all advised to sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight. Washrooms are located up the main gangway, through the forward cabins, immediately on the right and left. Do mind your seatbelts, and take care to dispose of your tobacco in the convenient receptacles, located in your forward tray tables. Refreshments and a light breakfast will be forthcoming within the hour."

He re-crumpled the spiel and stuffed it in his pocket.
"And keep your bloody voices down," he muttered, half to himself, as he shuffled off.

After the Navy man disappeared, Talbot addressed the assembled squadron: "Is there going to be a drinks service, or are we on our own?"

Zeke piped up next. "I thought drinks were the refreshments. They don't expect us to do this sober, do they?"

[The Two Jerseys]

Talbot followed Page onto the flying boat, stowing his bag in the baggage compartment as he walked past on his way to the passenger compartment, where he grabbed a forward-facing seat.

After the Navy man disappeared, Talbot addressed the assembled squadron: "Is there going to be a drinks service, or are we on our own?"

Zeke piped up next. "I thought drinks were the refreshments. They don't expect us to do this sober, do they?"

"Either way, I'm covered!" said a grinning Talbot, a metallic "clink" emanating from the lower right pocket of his tunic as he slapped it twice.

[Goram]

The truck ride passed easily enough, and when the wheeled vehicle ground to a halt, White hopped down from the tail board with the others. Tied up to the pier they were now standing on, was a great silver painted flying boat. He recognised it is a Short Empire, and judging by it's paint scheme it was recently in the service of BOAC. It wasn't a particularly ungainly aircraft. It had clean lines. It was attractive in it's own way, White decided.

Yet, if the outside wasn't so much to look at, the inside certainly was. Apparently the aircraft wasn't so long out of BOAC service, as the forward cabins looked as though they were fit for royalty. The aft cabins, however, were something of an anti-climax. They had been stripped of their regal upholstery, and penny to a pound that's where the newly formed No. 319 Squadron would be spending what would probably be a long flight.

White sank down with the rest of the squadron, as a Sub-Lieutenant from the Royal Navy, of all places, addressed them. Something out Portugal and a drinks service which may or may not be coming around. White couldn't decide if the Naval officer was being factious on that point. Portugal piqued his interest though. The country was neutral, but had an alliance with the UK. White would lay money on the newly formed, and apparently secret unit wouldn't stay long in a neutral country. So where to after that? Ascension? Perhaps a ship to the Falklands? And then what? White tried to think about what was going on in that part of the world - the Graf Spee? Hadn't she just fought an action with some British cruisers somewhere in the South Atlantic? Maybe that was what they were going to do. Maybe they were off to sink the Graf Spee. White didn't exactly know how they would do that, but it seemed as good a theory as any.

The Flight Lieutenant turned is attention back to the fuselage of the aircraft, and the other men in it. He fished in his pocket for his cigarettes. This would be his second in twenty years.

"Chaps? Cigarette?"

He held the package open to the others.

[Grenartia]

Zeke piped up next. "I thought drinks were the refreshments. They don't expect us to do this sober, do they?"

"Either way, I'm covered!" said a grinning Talbot, a metallic "clink" emanating from the lower right pocket of his tunic as he slapped it twice.

"Would you happen to have any to share, sir? I've got a bottle of authentic Tennessee moonshine back at base in it for you.", the American offered.

The Flight Lieutenant turned is attention back to the fuselage of the aircraft, and the other men in it. He fished in his pocket for his cigarettes. This would be his second in twenty years.

"Chaps? Cigarette?"

He held the package open to the others.

"No thanks, I never could get a taste for the stuff. Which is strange, considering I grew up in a family that grows it." Thomas continued.

[Len Hyet]

"Either way, I'm covered!" said a grinning Talbot, a metallic "clink" emanating from the lower right pocket of his tunic as he slapped it twice.

"Would you happen to have any to share, sir? I've got a bottle of authentic Tennessee moonshine back at base in it for you.", the American offered.

The Flight Lieutenant turned is attention back to the fuselage of the aircraft, and the other men in it. He fished in his pocket for his cigarettes. This would be his second in twenty years.

"Chaps? Cigarette?"

He held the package open to the others.

"No thanks, I never could get a taste for the stuff. Which is strange, considering I grew up in a family that grows it." Thomas continued.

Silva opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and looked to Captain Page. Formerly the the Second-in-Command of a Russian squadron in Spain, he'd been about to voice his own attitudes towards liquor, especially the bottle of Russian Vodka, or as some would call it paint thinner, he had stored back in his quarters.

The Brits weren't a dry force by any means, unlike the American squadrons he'd been a part of before the Spanish Civil War, but openly talking about drinking in front of one's commanding officer seemed... in poor taste. Silva tapped one finger on the butt of his Colt for reassurance, then paused again. With a shrug he pulled an oily rag wrapped around a piece of plywood from out his knapsack, and set to disassembling his pistol. It was clean, obviously, but the action of caring for his arms was so deeply ingrained in him that it had become second nature to do so whenever he had no other pressing matters.

[Goram]

Blue grey smoke danced in front of White's eyes as the cigarette flared up and died to nothing more than a dull orange glow. He fixed his eyes towards the two men opposite him. Talbot, tapping on his flask, and the American who had refused his offer. Another man, another American who White had not yet met, glanced from Talbot to Page and back again, almost as if he didn't approve of the alcohol the British officer was blatantly carrying. White thought that curious. He'd seen men drink in front of senior officers often - he'd done it, he'd even served it, himself. In that moment, he remembered the sickly smell of the rough rum that filled the bellies of his Guardsmen before action. His memories of battle during the Great War came only in snippets. A fragment here, a fragment there. Battle had always been an out of body experience. It almost felt as if it had happened to someone else. Thus his memory of those actions was less than clear. But certain fragments stuck, and the smell of rough rum was one of them. The smell, the very idea of drinking before battle, took him back to Mons, to the Marne, to Ypres and to a dozen other engagements. The faces of men long gone came unbidden into his mind. He saw them lying in the grass, bodies torn by artillery fire. Some begged for help and others simply to be put out of their misery, whilst others lay motionless, their blood slowly congealing as it leaked into the mud. Yet an 18 year old White had let his Scotsmen onwards, in the teeth of enemy resistance. In years since, he had heard some men had called it glorious, honourable combat, but the ageing Flight Lieutenant could not agree. Those men had not been there. If they had, they wouldn't talk of it in such a fashion. In those few seconds, more faces appeared before him. More men that hadn't entered his mind in years, and for the first time that day he felt almost dirty for having donned the uniform again. He felt worse, however, for forgetting why he'd taken it off in the first place. He blinked twice, whilst the smoke from the newly lit cigarette danced upwards. He used a metaphorical hand to brush the thick memories away from his face.

"Didn't touch them myself until this morning!"

He said, half laughing, to the American who refused him. He took a shallow drag,

"The son of tobacco farmers? Virginia, I shouldn't wonder?"

He didn't wait for an answer

"Now, my dear old thing, I must ask. What brings you into his majesty's service, all the way from the United States?"

[The Two Jerseys]

"Either way, I'm covered!" said a grinning Talbot, a metallic "clink" emanating from the lower right pocket of his tunic as he slapped it twice.

"Would you happen to have any to share, sir? I've got a bottle of authentic Tennessee moonshine back at base in it for you.", the American offered.

"Best ask me again when we're off duty, old boy. King's Regs and all, wouldn't want to get brought up on a charge first day here..."

[United Kingdom of Poland]

Interesting Henri thought. He was beginning to understand why he had been pulled from ADA for this unit. While not the most experienced member in the air, not many of his compatriots could boast about having 10 years (well almost 20 if you count what he did before joining The Legion) of ground combat experience to go with their flying. He had to admit the trip was going to be a first for him. The Bolshevik in him silently raged about heading into the fight in such comfort, But for the most part he was simply wondering where they were going.

"Chaps? Cigarette?"

"I'll take one." Henri replied. Unlike the others her preferred to not drink on duty, but the same could not be said about smoking.

[Gibberan]

"And keep your bloody voices down." said the irritable young man speaking to them, crumpling his speech into his pocket. As he shuffled off behind them, the squadron began looking around their new transport. He was expecting a Spitfire or at least a Hurricane, not so much this huge, ungainly floatplane they had so unceremoniously been given.

It's no Pan Am Clipper, but it'll do.

Cliff relaxed in his seat. For a British plane, it wasn't too bad at all. He glanced at his watch; the hour was still ungodly for anyone but men fighting a war. Or whatever the hell they were supposed to be doing, anyway. Lisbon...that was in Spain, right? No, Portugal; despite being well trained in navigation and cartography, Cliff had never been great at geography beyond his own immediate location at any given moment. That wasn't important when you were pulling up fishnets in Boston harbor or flying Devastators off of rattletraps in the middle of the Pacific; any distraction in either case would give you a quick ticket to the bottom of the ocean. But now it would be important.

What could possibly be after Lisbon? Africa? No, then they would have gone through France. Across the Atlantic? The US certainly had the capability to deal with its own problems, and everyone near them's as well (as they often did). That left...South America.

Didn't they say something about South America? That's right, the radio said something about a Kraut boat holed up in Argentina...the Graf Spee?, was it?

The door shut with a crash as the Navy sub-lieutenant exited.

I'll find out when I get there.

He was about to lean his cap over his head, making a mental note to himself to wake up before the breakfast and drinks service, if they ever materialized, when the older F/L turned around to the group, holding a package.

"Chaps? Cigarettes?"

Cliff motioned a no thanks, and gestured to his breast pocket."Always carry a pack of Lucky Strikes with me. Call me a Boy Scout, but I like to be prepaahd." His thick Boston accent bounced off the the walls of the cabin. He was, however, about to ask for some of the Englishman’s liquor (he didn’t have a high opinion of English alcohol, but liquor was liquor, and it would either help him stay up or make him crash faster, both of which, considering their current situation, he was fine with), but he mumbled something about “King’s regs” to the other American who had asked before him.


“That’s a shame, sir, although our own Navy unfortunately has the same regulations. Except for the admirals, of course, they're free to do whatever they goddamn please...if you'll excuse my language, sir.”

[Grenartia]

Blue grey smoke danced in front of White's eyes as the cigarette flared up and died to nothing more than a dull orange glow. He fixed his eyes towards the two men opposite him. Talbot, tapping on his flask, and the American who had refused his offer. Another man, another American who White had not yet met, glanced from Talbot to Page and back again, almost as if he didn't approve of the alcohol the British officer was blatantly carrying. White thought that curious. He'd seen men drink in front of senior officers often - he'd done it, he'd even served it, himself. In that moment, he remembered the sickly smell of the rough rum that filled the bellies of his Guardsmen before action. His memories of battle during the Great War came only in snippets. A fragment here, a fragment there. Battle had always been an out of body experience. It almost felt as if it had happened to someone else. Thus his memory of those actions was less than clear. But certain fragments stuck, and the smell of rough rum was one of them. The smell, the very idea of drinking before battle, took him back to Mons, to the Marne, to Ypres and to a dozen other engagements. The faces of men long gone came unbidden into his mind. He saw them lying in the grass, bodies torn by artillery fire. Some begged for help and others simply to be put out of their misery, whilst others lay motionless, their blood slowly congealing as it leaked into the mud. Yet an 18 year old White had let his Scotsmen onwards, in the teeth of enemy resistance. In years since, he had heard some men had called it glorious, honourable combat, but the ageing Flight Lieutenant could not agree. Those men had not been there. If they had, they wouldn't talk of it in such a fashion. In those few seconds, more faces appeared before him. More men that hadn't entered his mind in years, and for the first time that day he felt almost dirty for having donned the uniform again. He felt worse, however, for forgetting why he'd taken it off in the first place. He blinked twice, whilst the smoke from the newly lit cigarette danced upwards. He used a metaphorical hand to brush the thick memories away from his face.

"Didn't touch them myself until this morning!"

He said, half laughing, to the American who refused him. He took a shallow drag,

"The son of tobacco farmers? Virginia, I shouldn't wonder?"

He didn't wait for an answer

"Now, my dear old thing, I must ask. What brings you into his majesty's service, all the way from the United States?"

"No, sir, I'm from Tennessee." The American stated, before moving on to answer the other question. "I wanted to fight. My dad fought in the last war, and now its my turn."

"Would you happen to have any to share, sir? I've got a bottle of authentic Tennessee moonshine back at base in it for you.", the American offered.

"Best ask me again when we're off duty, old boy. King's Regs and all, wouldn't want to get brought up on a charge first day here..."

The Flying Officer's mind clicked at the mention of regs. While he wasn't a boozehound by any means, he was fond of the firewater, although the last time he'd had any opportunity to drink while on duty was back when he was still in the Air Corps. His CO from back then was pretty lax about those regs, as long as you weren't about to fly, and during the barnstorming days, some of the pilots he knew took off with a flask to their mouths. At this point, Thomas realized he'd been a civie for too long.

Cliff motioned a no thanks, and gestured to his breast pocket."Always carry a pack of Lucky Strikes with me. Call me a Boy Scout, but I like to be prepaahd." His thick Boston accent bounced off the the walls of the cabin. He was, however, about to ask for some of the Englishman’s liquor (he didn’t have a high opinion of English alcohol, but liquor was liquor, and it would either help him stay up or make him crash faster, both of which, considering their current situation, he was fine with), but he mumbled something about “King’s regs” to the other American who had asked before him.


“That’s a shame, sir, although our own Navy unfortunately has the same regulations. Except for the admirals, of course, they're free to do whatever they goddamn please...if you'll excuse my language, sir.”

Another American, what his mother might call a "damn Yank" spoke up, interrupting Zeke's musings.

"Navy, huh? I was in the Army, myself. My last CO in the Air Corps was drunk himself half the time. Weirdest thing, though, was that he could act perfectly sober when he wanted to." he noted.

[Gibberan]

"Navy, huh? I was in the Army, myself. My last CO in the Air Corps was drunk himself half the time. Weirdest thing, though, was that he could act perfectly sober when he wanted to."

Cliff laughed as he turned towards the other American. "Really? Well that makes one of ah countrymen who can keep themselves sober. In the Navy, the only way you can fly properly is when you've had some of the good stuff." Realizing what impression this might give to someone who had never seen him fly before, he glanced towards Captain Page, trying to read his facial expression. "Of course, that was peacetime. This is war. And war isn't in that sort of business, from what I undestahnd."

He shifted in his seat once more. There was a brief silence, and if one concentrated, one might be able to make out the sound of the waves faintly crashing against the hull. Cliff glanced down at his watch again; it had barely moved. The engines hadn't started yet so it seemed like they were, for the moment, just waiting.

As good a time as any to ask.

Cliff turned towards Captain Page. "Sir, while we're waiting for takeoff, are there any details you can share with us about the operation? You know, the top secret one they're taking us to God-knows-where for to do God-knows-what without God-knows-who noticing? Because, well, I can't speak for anyone else, but I have no idea what in the hell we'll be doing when we get there, if you don't mind my saying so."

[Goram]

I wanted to fight. My dad fought in the last war, and now its my turn.

White nodded. He'd known a handful of Americans during the last war, but the odds of one of them being this man's father were remote to say the least. "Now it's my turn". The words resonated within his head, and it suddenly dawned on him that the American opposite him probably hadn't even been born during the last war, but here he was, marching off to war. The reality of sitting in that flying boat, with these young men, hit him. It was all happening again, for the second time in twenty years. What had this boy's father fought for in France? What had White himself fought for in France? All that had happened was that Europe, perhaps soon the world, was being plunged back into the turmoil of war yet again.

He looked around the cab, at the carefree young men. They reminded him of himself, in 1914. It had all been one great adventure then. A game almost. Until the Marne. White had been there, fought and killed there. He'd seen near 82,000 allied troops killed in action over the course of a few days, along with God only knew how many Germans. Suddenly, the fun and the great sense of adventure had worn off and the reality struck home. He sat back heavily in his seat, almost oblivious to the cigarette slowly burning down in his hands.

"They're just like we were."

He said quietly, half to Zeke the American, and half to no one in particular.

"You're all just like we were the first time. My God, it's really happening again, isn't it?"