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by Grenartia » Wed Jun 14, 2017 5:49 am
by Hothnia » Wed Jun 14, 2017 5:50 am
The Tiger Kingdom wrote:Monfrox wrote:App later in the week
I want you to know I've been reading a lot of Tom Clancy and am also getting into some of Nelson DeMille's books.
I will give Tom Clancy limited credit in that he did actually write two pretty good books in Red Storm Rising and Red October.
But, of course, he actually wrote about 20% of the stuff that has his name all over it...
The intro will be early September '39. Then, we can do a team-assembly montage as all your guys' intros and the actual op will occur in very late September or early October of '39.Mestovakia wrote:Is there a rule on gender or type of image?
This is a question with a kind of difficult answer.
At the moment, for PILOT characters, it would be seriously implausible for female military pilots to be in the squadron, especially at this point in the war. But, of course, there is room for cinematic license and all that, so I won't say no (it would make me a hypocrite down the line too, I'd wager).
It would have to be a REALLY REALLY good explanation for it, tho.
For non-pilot characters - spies, resistance fighters, noncombat characters, etc. - the standards would be much lower because those saw much higher proportions of women in those fields, of course.
As to type of image...not sure what you mean, exactly?
TJ, GOram, Gib, and Gren are accepted. Pretty much all of you ES alums are safe, as you all well know.
Hothnia - we're not in the Battle of Britain yet! We're starting right at the beginning, in 1939.
Also, Sergeant 1st Class isn't an RAF rank - check here; flying ranks usually started at around Flight Sergeant or so.
http://www.military.cz/british/air/war/ranks.htm
(although not a hard and fast rule - damn these irregular RAF interwar practices)
Is there something weird going on with the bolding on the app template? Did I copy something over wrong? I'm seeing that show up in a lot of apps.
by Monfrox » Wed Jun 14, 2017 6:07 am
The Tiger Kingdom wrote:Monfrox wrote:App later in the week
I want you to know I've been reading a lot of Tom Clancy and am also getting into some of Nelson DeMille's books.
I will give Tom Clancy limited credit in that he did actually write two pretty good books in Red Storm Rising and Red October.
But, of course, he actually wrote about 20% of the stuff that has his name all over it...
by Morrdh » Wed Jun 14, 2017 8:57 am
Morrdh wrote:Name: Patrick Wade
Date of Birth: 22nd January 1901
Rank: Warrant Officer
Physical Description/Picture:
Place of Origin: Munster, Ireland
Flight/Flight Combat Experience: Enlisted in the RAF in 1920, qualified as a sergeant pilot in 1922. Served with Imperial Airways after leaving the RAF in 1932, also joined the Auxiliary Air Force at this time.
Ground Combat Experience: Seconded to No.2 Armoured Car Company RAF in the mid-1920s, oh and the 'occasional' bar brawl.
Specialities: Can speak Irish Gaelic, qualified on the following aircraft; Avro 504 (RAF), Airco DH.9A (RAF), Westland Wapiti (RAF), de Havilland Hercules (Imperial Airways), Hawker Hurricane (AuxAF).
Weapons of Choice: Enfield No.2 Revolver
RP Experience: Only the greatest and second greatest RPs of all time...over than my own!
Personal History/Bio:
by Cylarn » Wed Jun 14, 2017 9:00 am
"I'm from the Transvaal, in South Africa. A beautiful, strong place, one that is ideally suited to Afrikaners like myself, and there is no doubt in my mind that the Vaal will forever be my home. I was the eldest of four children - three boys and six girls - to Jan Ulysses Verhoefen and Stefanie Janssens Verhoefen. A few years shy of a decade prior, my parents were embroiled in the closing years of our peoples' long-running quest for independence from the English. My maternal and paternal great-grandparents came here during the Great Trek to escape the Empire, and fought the Matabele in order to stake out a land promised to us by God, much in the way that Americans talk of "Manifest Destiny." My grandfathers fought the British later on at Laing's Nek and Majuba, where the most powerful army in the world was routed by courageous farmers."
"I was not born during the Second Freedom War, and that makes me quite fortunate. My father rode in a Commando - comprised of local farmers and a small cadre of Americans - that waged a mobile guerrilla war against the British. My mother, who has long been my father's most trusted friend and companion, played the role of spymaster. The Janssens ran an inn near Lydenburg that was popular with British officers, and she listened closely for secrets betrayed by loose lips. The inn was practically beside of a British encampment, and alcohol coupled with a physically safe environment does a lot to disarm a man. For one year, until the British finally broke us down, she endured the stresses of a concentration camp. Starved, diseased, often beaten, the war was the chief reason that I was never able to truly connect with her."
"I grew up a farmer, learning to till fields and take care of livestock. Boers like myself also distinguish themselves as marksman, and my father ensured that I would carry on the tradition. My first weapon was a Martini-Henry breechloader that my grandfather had taken from Majuba, and when seven-year-old me fired it for the first time, I was knocked to the ground. Undeterred, I continued to practice with that old rifle, whether I be pretending to storm Majuba or shooting bottles from a fencepost. I learned to prepare my body, to entrust it with the responsibility of guiding my bullet. For a Boer, a missed shot means that something is gone, be it a bullet or a buffet. I embraced hunting as an adolescent, and often ranged miles from home as I tracked my own game on horseback. As my brothers, and even my sister, grew up, I often passed on my skills to them, just as I had learned from my elders."
"My mother was damaged, but she hid her woes behind a shield of rigged sternness. She taught me how to read and write from an old Bible, and kept a switch for when I grew frustrated and refused to learn. While my father was calm and jovial, my mother was often easily-irritated, and often launched into tirades, followed by her own self-isolation from the family. In public, she acted friendly; genuinely even, because she would often act kind towards us when others were around. She never talked about the camp. It was never brought up around her, and I only found out about it when she committed suicide. I was fourteen, but I held back my tears, shrouded my feelings, and helped my father dig a six-foot-deep grave for her, overlooking the vast rangelands that we called home."
"At sixteen, I became a member of the local militia. We call them "Commandos;" don't get confused, because it's actually our word. The Commandos were mounted infantry who knew the land they were fighting on, who knew the value of mobility and accuracy compared to occupation and superiority. They fought the Zulus, the Matabele, Basutos, and the British, the latter of which was a beast that South Africa could not quell. We were all locals, armed with bolt action rifles and often bereft of any distinguishable uniforms. Oftentimes, were threw on khaki coats and orange scarves to identify ourselves, bringing a policeman or two in order to haul bandits in. For the first two years, all I did was shovel horse shit and count bullets. Our commandant at the time, Krupp, was a fat, lazy fuck that had drunk away what little glory he had retained from fighting in the Freedom War. He never trained us as a unit, he often got drunk prior to important formations, and in addition to cronyism in Lydenburg and favoritism among the command staff, he inspired not real esprit de corps with me."
"Two years later, Krupp dies in some mysterious circumstances. The way I heard it, one of his farmhands chopped his leg off out in his field, and let a lion get him. Makes me shiver just thinking about it, honestly. I've been on the wrong side of a lion; hell, at least two or three. Killed one with a shot in the head with my Martini-Henry, and drove the other two off. I see these Hollywood movies where lions and men are fighting up close and wrestling. If a lion gets as close to you as close as Johnny Weissmuller gets to tigers, then don't expect to walk away alive."
"Forgive me for that tangent, but let's get back on track. Reisdorf takes over, and he was a fair commandant to have. He allowed me to ride out to confront the banditry that existed in the Vaal. The land had been tamed long ago, though armed gangs of blacks and whites roamed the rangeland, robbing and killing anyone unlucky enough to cross their paths. The miners, inspired by Communist propaganda, often went on strike,
supposedly for "better rights." They chose to burrow themselves underground, and they're going to complain about it. It is what it is, if you ask me."
"My first action was a farm robbery, and it would set the tone for most of my skirmishes fought with the Commandos. I was woken up late in the night by a fellow Commando, who told me to grab my rifle, webbing, and horse, and ride out to a farm some ten miles away. I hastily got dressed, saddled up my horse, and rode out to the farm. It was a nighttime raid by bandits, and by the time we had arrived, the scuffle was over.
Man killed, wife and daughter running off and narrowly escaping capture, livestock gone. Under torchlight, I went with three other Boers and a native tracker to pursue the bandits. We followed cattle tracks some ten miles north of the farm, and caught them in transit with the cattle. We rode ahead, dismounted, and took to the ground as we waited for them. We were outnumbered, but we had fire superiority and surprise on our side. Upon the first crack of gunfire, the bandits began to break. Some pulled old rifles and pistols, attempting to make a stand against men concealed by rocks and brush. Time felt a bit slowed down, as I went full-focus into the fight. Sighting shapes - not people, charging my weapon, bracing myself, exhaling, firing, repeating; I got into the motion of it, and my fears were lost to the motion."
"The five of us were mentioned in a dispatch, which garnered me a reputation boost within the community. I joined the regular army shortly after that, got trained properly, and sent sent into South-West Africa to put down native revolts. It was not a notable time for me, as I remember spending a considerable amount of downtime. I left the Army at twenty-two, and although I attempted railroad work, I did not enjoy it and thus found myself out of work. So, I went back to the Commandos and began running safaris for wealthy clients. I had a good team - a Basuto tracker named Biko, an English driver named Simmons, and a Portuguese lady cook that called herself Esperanza, or something like that - and we wined and dined the wealthy European aristocracy that had been deposed of during the Great War."
"During this time, I learned how to fly. This desire was motivated after I took an aeroplane flight from Lydenburg to Cape Town. My homeland -
seen from the view of an eagle - was the most spectacular sight that I have ever witnessed. To view the Earth - to view South Africa - from God's perspective was truly a defining moment for me. I learned the basics from a Sopwith Camel that had been shot down once before by the red Baron, from the very ace that had flown the plane. Geert, he called himself. He taught me the basics of flight - pedals, stability, movement. He also gave me pointers on how to pull tricky maneuvers without getting killed. Geert liked to pretend that we were flying over Flanders, and he would continuously shout in my ear that the 'Huns' were closing in on us. He'd draw out his Webley and fire it just near my ear, and then tell me to do better at avoiding enemy fire."
"It was unorthodox, but it worked. I often scouted ahead of our game trails with Biku, up in that Camel. The Commandos and the police began to call on me for assistance as the Thirties began, asking me to search for criminals above the rangeland. An army officer approached me in thirty-one, and asked me if I would put a pair of Vickers guns on the bastard, in order to strafe rabble-rousers. I did not refuse him, and before long, they had me strafing anti-government rebels in order to support the infantry. I abandoned all moral questions that I might have had, and committed myself fully to my task."
"In 1936, I got bored of the safari. It had been fun, though it had grown monotonous after a time. I celebrated my thirtieth birthday in London,
and then left for Spain. During my vacation in Seville, something happened. I was enjoying a glass of brandy at a local pub when I heard commotion down the street. Approaching from a bend was a gaggle of leftists, waving their red flags and chanting in a language that I did not known. Confronting them was a wall of soldiers, Mausers leveled and waiting to sate their blood lust. The Spaniard leading the soldiers shouted 'zona prohibito' a few times, and then let those Mausers loose. I spit out my brandy when I saw the front line of leftists fall down after the crack of the rifles. I was gone at that point."
"Seville was insane. Many folks started fleeing the city; others approached the fighting. I ducked through alleys and hid behind whatever would encompass my body, watching as the city tore itself apart. I told myself not to intervene, but intervene I did, eventually. As I ran down those old streets of Seville, I heard a woman's voice call out. 'Aqui, aqui," she shouted. I looked to see a tanned beauty leaning out from behind a wooden door, beckoning me to come in. I had nowhere else to go, so I took her up on the offer. Her name was Marta, and she offered me food, drink, and a place to stay. She offered me - a stranger - a place to stay. Over glasses of brandy, we talked and talked in order to escape from the chaos outside. I was surprised to find that she spoke fluent English, odd for someone from a working-class background."
"Marta was an anarchist, keen on the political situation. I was a tourist, unaware of anything going on in Spain. I'll admit, I've never been much of a Red, but Marta opened up my eyes a bit. She came from a working-class family of six, with five brothers who slaved away in factories. Although she wanted to work, she was expected to marry herself off to a man. Instead, she labored in a factory for years and joined the National Confederation of Labor, an anarchist group. I listened, and refrained from adding fire into the conversation. I thought about the long struggle that Spain seemed to be on, a clash between the people and the systems that had been in place for ages."
"For almost three weeks, I lived among Marta and her CNT compadres as Seville grew less and less safe with the Nationalists in charge. Eventually, Marta's brother Juan hatched an escape plan: steal a Junkers Ju-52 and fly to Madrid. Although I kept my personal feelings to myself, I felt that it was a suicidal gamble. Indeed, we stormed a Nationalist airstrip with nothing but revolvers and shotguns and lost all but four of our number: myself, Marta, and two guys whose names escape me. It was perhaps the most precarious takeoff of my career; new plane, new place, and troops shooting at the plane. The guys sat down, praying to God and shaking in their seats. Rather than buckle herself down, Marta stood behind my seat, her hands on my shoulders throughout the whole ordeal of me piloting that plane. I was scared beyond belief, but she kept telling me do 'just do it.'"
"We made it safely behind Republican lines - until they mistook us for Nationalists and shot us down. One of the men died, but three of us walked out from the crash-landing alive and celebrated our luck in a pub. Marta passed on word to some Republican officers, and I was approached four days later with an offer to fly. I took a moment to think about it. On one hand, I was running a successful business back home and living like any young Afrikaner should. On the other, I was thirty, in Spain, given a chance to participate in not only a major historical event, but a chance to have hot, passionate sex with Marta. Forgive my candor, but that woman really got my Jolly Roger all full-mast, if you know what I'm saying."
"Ahem, we hadn't had any sex, if that's what you're asking. She's a classy, independent lady, and I honestly can't fault her for that. Anyways, I flew for the Republicans, who put me in an attack squadron that flew Vickers Vildebeests. It's not a bad aircraft; unlike the Camel, it's designed for attacking men on the ground. The first three months with the attack squadron had me caught up in a euphoria; my veins were pumping with bravado and adrenaline, and I felt on top of the word. Sure, guys were dying by the platoon and we had little aircraft to use, I was having fun. I'd bomb all day up in my sky-office and just might get chased around by a 51, but then I'd land my plane and waltz over to a bar in town. I drank and bragged and screwed, because I genuinely felt like I was having fun. I wrote Marta at times, but she never responded."
"Reality kicked in near Segovia, in September. My squadron was flying its usual attack raids on the Nationalists, and with our payloads gone, we were flying back to Madrid. I don't know where we were exactly, but we got intercepted by a pair of 51s, shipped in straight from Germany. Hell, I bet those were Hun pilots behind the stick, because half our number was gone before any of us knew what the fuck was going on. I honestly thought it was AA fire, because they attacked low, kind of at an angle. I put up a bit of a fight, but I ended up getting chased. I climbed and zig-zagged until the engine gave out, and then I started falling."
"Being caught up in something like that...a situation in which you have hardly any control over the outcome, that's true terror. We had no parachutes, so jumping out was not an option. The only thing I could do was glide the bitch down. My navigator, a man named Velez, literally pissed himself as I attempted to control the plane for a landing. The wind was bad that day, and every part of that plane was fighting me. Not to mention, we were being pursued. Velez was too fucking scared to use the Lewis, up until I grabbed him by the head and slammed him into the frame. He caught on after that, and started working that Lewis."
"We hit the ground hard. I got knocked out by ironically getting knocked upside the frame, and fucking Velez broke his left leg. I woke up after some time to his awful screaming, and the once-amber Spanish sky was now black and marked with glowing diamonds, with the bottom of the sun casting a dying glow over the landscape. Although I was still groggy, I wanted to know where I was. First thing you do to determine direction is to look at the sun; rises in the east, sets to the west. I knew where I was flying around and I sure as shit wasn't in Madrid, so thus I decided my best bet was to try heading south. Using some techniques I picked up from a doctor back in Lydenburg, I put a splint on Velez, gave him a large stick to balance himself on, gathered up what gear we could from the plane, and started marching south, hopefully towards Madrid."
"My flight commander warned me months prior that the lines moved at will, and since we didn't have working radios, we were on our own if we survived getting shot down. I was in the worst possible circumstance that I could be in; shots down and rattled over potential enemy lines, hauling an injured guy. All we had between us was my .45, his .38, sixty rounds for each of us, and a fixed-blade fighting knife. No light, no water, nothing much to help us out. We did the only thing we could do; we walked south. Velez was of no help whatsoever, complaining and whining and praying. Long story short, he died because he had given up all hope after we crashed. We avoided the towns and population centers all through the night, and I often had to pull Velez down into ditches and cover his mouth, to hide his pained screams from the Nationalists."
"We caught a lucky break when we stopped to rest. Not even two hours after we sat down, a Republican motorized patrol began to approach. I was tired, hungry, thirsty, but ready to sprint towards our salvation. I flagged down the vehicles and managed to find a medic in the patrol, but when we returned to Velez, he had succumbed to his injuries. They put him on the hood of the truck I was in, but I doubt they had any idea what they were doing to me. I could see anger and disbelief in his cold, lifeless, blue eyes. I had made the call to leave the plane and hopefully avoid death at the hands of the Nationalists, but I decided instead to splint Velez and force him to march towards Madrid with me. The broken bone in his leg managed to sever his aorta, though the medic said that he probably would have lost the leg anyway."
"I had killed men before, but never like that. Never someone on my own side, you know? Nevertheless, I was patted on the back by my command for escaping successfully from enemy territory, as any good news was worth celebrating. I chose to join a fighter squadron, and I had enough clout to get assigned to a new Soviet-trained squadron that operated I-16 'Moscas' straight from Brother Stalin. Everything seemed good at first. The Soviet officers were motivated to serve and train us, and boy, those guys know how to drink. I didn't know much - or care - about the goings-on in the Soviet Union. Rather than bombing areas with no real effect, I was actively defending Madrid in a nimble fight aircraft. I got my first kill in October, two on the same day in November, and then another in January."
"My wing was sent to Guadalajara, in what would be one of the air force's few good moments. The Italians threw in over two-thirds of their expeditionary force to back up a force of Moroccans that was half their number, against a Republican force outnumbered by thirty-thousand. When they got us into the sky against those Fiat biplanes that the Guidos were so enamored by, we let loose. In my Mosca, I was able to outmaneuver those biplanes and tear them apart. I hit three of them on the first day, and took out one for each of the eleven days I was in the air. It was an important victory for us, and we were granted some reprieve by our command. We got carted off to Madrid for a week of Liberty."
"I drank for about three days straight, day and night, without anyone telling me what to do. That was until I bumped into Marta randomly at an officer's party, who had heard about what I had done over Guadalajara. She called me a hero and gave me a kiss, which touched off a relationship that lasted until May of '38. Even as the competency of Air Command started to deteriorate, I took solace knowing that someone down on the ground was waiting for me. The Soviet officers were growing frustrated with their Republican counterparts; we could only hold our post-Guadalajara morale for so long until Franco started taking Basque Country. I started hearing about Soviet reprisals against fleeing troops, but that was the ground war."
"April '38, things were bad. Franco was beating us down, finally. My squadron lost half of its number; partly to the Huns, but also to some asshole Soviet officer named Kapel. He called himself 'Air Commissar,' and said that the government had placed him in our squadron to keep morale high. He never flew; he just walked around with a riding crop and shouted at us. Some guys started deserting; the unlucky ones that were caught ended up being shot by a firing squad. They made us watch the executions of guys that I flew with at Guadalajara; Kapel called them cowards, but knew nothing of their exploits. I kept my mouth shut and my ass in the air, knowing that the last thing I needed was Kapel with a revolver against my temple."
"The end was in sight at this point, but Marta held out hope. Although she was busy working in an intelligence detail, she would often come to see me whenever I was on the ground. I invited her to come with me to South Africa, but she refused, saying that Spain was her true home. I accepted this, but she wondered how much longer I would remain in Spain. I told her that I didn't know, because it seemed like things were shifting in favor of Franco. She knew it, but she would never admit it as she was more than willing to die here. As I pondered whether or not to leave, Kapel turned his sights towards me. He never liked me from Day 1, but he got worse as things went on."
"I was fine with him insulting me based on my origin. Normally, I would take offense to being called 'English,' but I let it go. Kapel quickly realized that I wasn't going to give him a reason to shoot me, so he started going after Marta. After she turned down his Marxism-charged advances, he got more depraved. Starting stalking her around the city, forgetting his obligations to the Republicans. For whatever reason, this ill-tempered Red had formulated an obsession for Marta. Things came to a head on the same day that Franco demanded the unconditional surrender of all Republican forces; Marta and I were enjoying a brief respite from the siege in the way of lunch, when Kapel, dressed in his dirty officer's garb with a revolver clenched in his hands, stormed up and started declaring his love for her."
"I laughed at him, but that may have been a mistake. In fact, it was a big mistake."
"He shot me twice - once in the left shoulder, and in my stomach. He turned the weapon on Marta, and put the four remaining rounds in her chest. The pain was tremendous, and I lost consciousness almost immediately. I would have been dead, had some guards present not killed Kapel immediately afterwards. Doctors and nurses worked for about a week to save my life, and I came to in a rubble-filled, bullet-flecked hospital. They told me that Marta had died at the scene, and I fought off the tears the best I could. Madrid was falling apart, my girlfriend was dead, and there seemed to be a big cloud moving over Europe at this time. Spain was only the herald for something much, much worse."
"I did the only thing I could do. As soon as I could move, I went back to my barracks, packed my shit up, got into my Mosca, and attempted to leave Spain for France. BF-109s got me some twenty miles from the border and once again, I had to trek on foot to safety. Although I wasn't hauling a half-dead whino back to Madrid, I was unable to stay hidden for very long. Soldiers were on every road, patrolling every village, and they shot at me on-sight. I shot back often with my .45, until I got my hands on a Mauser. It took a day or two, perhaps three, but I made it to the French border. I threw my rifle down and approached the border checkpoint, waving my South African passport above my head. On one side, the French border guards were lined up, rifles trained at me. Behind me, I could hear an armored car pulling up, along with people shouting in Spanish at me. I did not look back, and I kept walking towards the French border."
"They let me through, much to the anger of the Spaniards. I looked behind me to see them training the gun on their armored car at me, but they backed off when a tankette showed up. I was debriefed by both French and British Intelligence, who were more interested in German involvement than they were about the actual Civil War. I told them everything I knew; about Guernica, the BF-109s that tore through Republican air superiority, and also about the waning reliance upon the Italians. I'd be a fool if I wasn't already aware of why the French and British were concerned about the Nazis. Hitler had taken Austria and the Sudetenland, all with minimal opposition from the League. They had violated whatever terms that Versailles had imposed, and Spain was the showcase for their rebuilt military might. I'd be a fool if I didn't think that the Nazis were setting their sights on Europe."
"Instead of returning immediately home to South Africa, I went across the Channel to London. At the first recruiting station I could find, I put my credentials in for a commission into the RAF. Republican Spain had all but fallen, reduced to under-manned bodies of demoralized troops with no effective aerial support. Marta, the woman who had brought me into the fight, was now dead, the unfortunate victim of a love-crazed maniac. There was nothing left for me in Spain, but sorrow and death. Another fight was on the rise. Great Britain, for all of her misdeeds against my people, now appeared to be my only option."
"They took me in, despite my involvement in Spain. I shipped off in the beginning of '39 for Officer Training, until 'a clerical correction' to my paperwork considered my service in Spain and South Africa sufficient enough to merit me as an officer. They put me at Cosford, where I was trained to operate both the Hurricane and the Spitfire. I fell in love with the former, which is the most reliable and powerful aircraft that I have ever flown. The experience is not nearly as terrifying as flying my tiny, cramped Mosca. Admittedly, I enjoy being able to communicate with my wingmen in my second tongue."
"Not much later after having learned the Hurricane, I was approached by several men in civilian suits. We all had the same understanding that affairs in Europe were not due to improve anytime soon. These men were assembling a form of 'special warfare' unit; lightly-armed bands of men dropping behind enemy lines to wreak havok and accomplish specific objectives deemed vital to the war effort. They talked as though it was a new concept, but I feel as though while such actions are nothing new to warfare, it's unique that a single unit or organization will specialize in such warfare. They offered me a spot, and I accepted."
by Kouralia » Wed Jun 14, 2017 10:54 am
by Gibberan » Wed Jun 14, 2017 11:47 am
Kouralia wrote:... surprisingly good at drawing. Not that there’s much call to sketch portraits and landscapes with professional quality when you’re a Staff Officer...
by Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States » Wed Jun 14, 2017 3:27 pm
by Grenartia » Wed Jun 14, 2017 3:37 pm
by Grenartia » Wed Jun 14, 2017 3:53 pm
by The Two Jerseys » Wed Jun 14, 2017 4:01 pm
by Goram » Wed Jun 14, 2017 4:18 pm
Grenartia wrote:I know I could be banned for posting (plane) porn, but I say we start this reboot off right.
by The Two Jerseys » Wed Jun 14, 2017 5:07 pm
GOram wrote:Grenartia wrote:I know I could be banned for posting (plane) porn, but I say we start this reboot off right.
Two turning, two burning, two smoking, two choking and two more unaccounted for.
Great aeroplane, if you like your engines on fire.
by United Kingdom of Poland » Wed Jun 14, 2017 5:54 pm
GOram wrote:Grenartia wrote:I know I could be banned for posting (plane) porn, but I say we start this reboot off right.
Two turning, two burning, two smoking, two choking and two more unaccounted for.
Great aeroplane, if you like your engines on fire.
by United Kingdom of Poland » Wed Jun 14, 2017 7:59 pm
by Grenartia » Wed Jun 14, 2017 8:24 pm
GOram wrote:Grenartia wrote:I know I could be banned for posting (plane) porn, but I say we start this reboot off right.
Two turning, two burning, two smoking, two choking and two more unaccounted for.
Great aeroplane, if you like your engines on fire.
by The Tiger Kingdom » Thu Jun 15, 2017 12:45 am
Grenartia wrote:I mean, the whole app is in the bold code, if that's what you intended.
Remnants of Exilvania wrote:*sees WW2 character RP popping up*
*spams left mouse button*
*reads*
No Axis allowed...
Well, I'll watch anyways.
by Grenartia » Thu Jun 15, 2017 1:07 am
by Remnants of Exilvania » Thu Jun 15, 2017 7:05 am
The Tiger Kingdom wrote:Remnants of Exilvania wrote:*sees WW2 character RP popping up*
*spams left mouse button*
*reads*
Well, I'll watch anyways.
Yeah, sorry about that. In a perfect world, we could thread the needle and have both Allied and Axis forces coexisting, but it just tends to have the Axis people get understandably antsy and unhappy. And it's always a good idea, as OP, to have control of the Opfor in most circumstances.
I will say this - Axis characters as supplements to people's main Allied chars are okay. But as primaries, it just tends not to work.
by Morrdh » Thu Jun 15, 2017 11:30 am
Morrdh wrote:Name: Patrick Wade
Date of Birth: 22nd January 1901
Rank: Warrant Officer
Physical Description/Picture:
by Morrdh » Thu Jun 15, 2017 1:09 pm
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