Operation GRYPHON (Excalibur Squadron IC - CLOSED)

[Morrdh]

As the various other members of the squadron discussed the matter with the new CO, Talbot leaned in and whispered over Wade's shoulder:

"I didn't think that they actually gave that 'last-chance-to-back-out' speech outside of the pictures, and even so, has anyone in the history of volunteering actually taken them up on that offer?"

"My question is how many actually volunteered for this and how many were volunteered..." Wade answered, taking another puff on his cigarette.

[The Two Jerseys]

As the various other members of the squadron discussed the matter with the new CO, Talbot leaned in and whispered over Wade's shoulder:

"I didn't think that they actually gave that 'last-chance-to-back-out' speech outside of the pictures, and even so, has anyone in the history of volunteering actually taken them up on that offer?"

"My question is how many actually volunteered for this and how many were volunteered..." Wade answered, taking another puff on his cigarette.

"We'll know if and when any of them walk out the door..."

He glanced around the room.

"...though I'm getting the feeling that this lot aren't the sort to be press-ganged into anything."

[Gibberan]

"And I mean that, gentlemen. We're shipping out tonight. It's now or never. Anybody want to bail out now?"

Some of the other airmen in the room seemed to nearly jump out of their chairs at their new Squadron Leader, bombarding him with incredulous questions about the sensational yarn he had just recounted to them. The darkened Map Room - really not much more than a glorified classroom that had long ago seen the last of its students - exploded into chatter, bickering, and controversy.

This, however, was not the case for the quiet man sitting alone in the last row, who, almost as if a shadow, discreetly shifted in his seat and brought a near-empty Land O' Smiles cigarette pack from his azure overcoat pocket. Scarred and bruised from years of use, the hands were uncharacteristically steady as they lit the rolled piece of heaven and brought it to the chafed, unimpressed, unloved, and unspeaking lips of Flying Officer Clifford McTavish. He inhaled deeply, reflecting on the situation that had seemingly unfolded before him.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

And Why?

The conversations towards the front of the room continued, with the Squadron Leader deflecting questions from the half-dozen misfits and malingerers that the RAF had chosen to dump on him. Normally Cliff would have been surprised by the voices of not one, but three of his fellow countrymen. But the raucous exchanges seemed to be gradually drowned out by the calls of seagulls, the crash of the waves and the whirr of...what was that?

Christ, how could I have forgotten?

He was back in the Lady Bird, the squat and ugly Douglas Devastator he had spent years loving as if it were his own, with nothing but blue skies around him. Wind sprayed through the open cockpit like the foam of the endless waves below. Cliff turned his head and saw Alf the bombardier and Isaac the radioman behind him; Isaac flashed a thumbs up. He heard a crash in front of him, a cascade of failing parts from a suddenly-dying engine, and looked forward again. But in front of him there was nothing but the sea, and darkness.

In an instant, he was jolted to the Naval Board of Inquiry. He noticed he was alone now. Where were Alf and Isaac? Why am I asking? I know where they are now. The Admiral in the center, the one he realized had been looking him in the eyes, stood up and shook his head sadly, and a photographer snapped a picture.

As the flash receded, Cliff saw that he was no longer in the bright Honolulu conference room, now he was in a dim office in an armed compound in Haifa. His uniform had changed too; no longer was he donning the proud white of the Navy but the faded, sun-bleached uniform of the service of the Crown, complete with a shoulder strap proudly – and falsely – reading CANADA. A tall, thin man with a civilian suit and receding hairline stood before him, throwing around fancy words like "prosecution" and "Neutrality Acts." This was last week. Then, as if a lawyer smugly serving papers to a helpless defense, the man dropped a file on the desk; the file was marked by bolded red letters: TOP SECRET.

With a blink, he was back at Manston Heath. The thin man and the red-marked papers were gone, replaced the mass of blue uniforms in front of him. He had only spaced out for a second, maybe two; the match he had lit was still burning in his hand.

Get ahold of yourself, McTavish. This is not the time.

What was this madman truly asking? This Squadron Leader Page was being awfully vague, but being part the most dangerous unit of the British military did not sound appealing in the slightest, considering that their future enemy was dangerous enough to smash Britain's second-strongest ally in barely a month. And would he be serving with this squadron? Cliff didn't think of himself as an exceptional pilot or fighter, but the assorted mixture of ragtag backgrounds and eclectic accents was not quite impressive at first sight either...in all honesty, it looked less of an elite squadron than a group of people that the RAF wanted to get out of the way.

From the way the thin man in Palestine had talked, it seemed like it was less of a choice than an election on Cliff's part to not be deported and found guilty of "attempting to wage war against a country at peace with the United States". But if the Squadron Leader's offer was genuine...why shouldn't he take it? He had long ago abandoned his family's romantic notions of manliness and martialness, and he had no loyalty to His Majesty besides His Majesty's money. The only reason he had volunteered with the RAF is he figured Britain might have more for him that the States did, which was nothing.

Or was that the only reason? Had his strict Christian ideals of liberty and humanitarianism, drummed into him by his father and by his father before him, truly not played any part in his signing up to fight the Nazis?

With an abrupt puff of his cigarette, Cliff stood up. He made as if to walk out the door, but his legs were paralyzed with indecision.

If you get out of it now, said a voice in his head, you're out of it for good.

He looked down, the smoke stinging his eyes, and looked back up again. He fixed his eyes on the Squadron Leader, and in his unmistakable New England accent, softly asked "Where do we start, sir?"

[Len Hyet]

"And I'll be honest with you - I suspect those same odd backgrounds that might make you an ill fit in other squadrons make you more...expendable...in the eyes of the RAF. That's just my intuition speaking, but that's the situation. People are more willing to put a bunch of misfits in together for the tough work than a bunch of spit-shined Cranwell boys who all have rich daddies and polo ponies. Regardless, we don't want those sorts anyways. And I suspect you're all not the types who would want the easy, unglamourous stuff anyways.

Richter reached into his pocket and fondled a packet of cigarettes. He knew it was more of a nervous habit of his than anything else, and he didn't want to show off his nervousness, but damn if his new officer wasn't making the hair on the back of his neck stick straight up.

A unit of expendable troublemakers who were going to be put into some of the nastiest situations that His Majesty's government could cook up?

Richter took out his packet of cigarettes and lit one up, taking a long drag on the smoke in an effort to calm his jittery nerves. The rest of the men seemed to be taking the news in a couple different ways. Some joking, some smiling, none that he could see looking openly nervous.

"In terms of danger? Like I said, you'll see in a minute, if you've got the guts for it. But let me just say that I've seen what's in the dock for us it, and it'll make a solo dogfight with a new 109 look like a walk in the park by comparison. So no, Flying Officer, this is perhaps the one unit in the RAF where nobody will give much of a toss about your shoelaces. Perhaps one of your fellows will. But I suspect they'll have better things to do. Speaking for myself, I know I certainly will. We'll be too busy winning the war."

Chee's eyes widened a bit as he realized what the implication of Fitzpatrick's question.

"We aren't just going to be flying, are we?"

Page slowly shook his head.

"We'll be doing everything. Top soldiers trained as pilots, and top pilots trained to be soldiers. 'Total combat flexibility' are the watchwords the RAF has been using. We're the cutting edge of a new form of warfare, so they say."

Page grinned morbidly. "I suppose we'll see how it pans out!"

David sighed deeply, and took another long drag on his cigarette. He still wasn't quite used to the British sense of humor, that was for sure. He was fairly certain Squadron Leader Page had been joking, but, at the same time, he very clearly wasn't.

Well Richter thought. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say here.

Richter did his best to compose his face into an expressionless mask, and sat back, awaiting more information about just where they were going and what in the name of G-d they were doing.

[Monfrox]

Samantha stayed quiet, giving a slight nod to the man who sat next to her as she inwardly sweated. It always was the first time around new faces that unnerved her the most. Her disguise couldn't fool everyone, could it? She could hope but she believed it was only a matter of time before someone would find out, but she'd go as far as she could with it. Alongside that, she had no idea what she was really getting herself into until now. The most dangerous unit? She couldn't believe it, but if Squadron Leader Page had been to places she'd never even heard of then there could be merit to what he was saying. She almost wanted to jump out of the seat and head out just for some air, but that would happen eventually. For now she sat and let others make their questions, learning what she could from the answers. The less she talked, the better.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

"Well, sir, I can't speak for anyone else here, but I for one, have no intentions of backing out now." Thibodeaux replied. He then realized he hadn't even introduced himself yet. "Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. Flying Officer James Thibodeaux, at your service. But you can call me Jimmy." he said, offering his hand to shake, when another officer asked a question.

Page returned the handshake. "Good to meet you, Flying Officer...Thi-bo-deaux. I'll endeavor to get that right."

As the reaction from his speech set in and nobody actually left the room, Page decided it was as good a time as any. With a sort of fatalistic verve, he extracted a packet of Lucky Strikes from his coat pocket, and lit one up. He then opened the GRYPHON folder, and flicked the room's projector on.

"We start right here, everyone. This is - or used to be - the Free City of Danzig. It was a small League of Nations mandate territory on the Baltic Sea, sandwiched right in between Germany and Poland to try and prevent them from fighting over it after the Great War. As you can see, it encompasses the actual city of Danzig, along with a few hundred surrounding towns, villages, and farms, covering about 750 square miles. Most of the government services in the city were run by the Poles, while the German shad a narrow majority in the city and the Nazi Party completely dominated the local government, so you can imagine just about how well that system worked. If you were paying any serious attention to the news a month or two ago, you probably heard that this was the place Hitler was making such a fuss about. This little province was the line in the sand that started this entire war. Sort of hard to believe.

"This place was the site of some of the hottest fighting during the invasion of Poland. The whole Free City was supposedly demilitarized by the League, but the Poles were allowed to keep the Westerplatte Fortress - located right here, in the middle of the city - operational, and numerous armed pro-German militias throughout the area were being funded and trained by the Third Reich as well. There was actually a German battleship in port on a "goodwill visit" the morning the attack started, which allowed the Germans to get in behind Westerplatte and start the bombardment of the city at point-blank range. All those German militias joined together with the Danzig police and placed themselves under German control, to take control of the Free City both from within and outside its borders. The fighting was brutal. After a week or so, the Polish resistance in the city was choked off. That was the end of that.

_{Propaganda still from a German newsreel of the KMS Schleswig-Holstein firing on Danzig - its likely target would have been the Westerplatte fort.}

"So now - a month later - the Polish campaign is over. The last reported Polish resistance to the Wehrmacht ended a few days ago, down near the Romanian border. Now, the Germans are annexing all of this territory along what used to be the western Polish frontier, and Danzig, being a major city that's majority German, is already shaping up to be a pretty major German base for further operations in the Baltic region. The Germans are bringing in engineers, warships, civilian officials...you name it. As the occupation machinery moves in, the SS and Gestapo presence in the city has been rising as well. Trains have been arriving in the city from the east in huge numbers, bringing Polish prisoners into the city en masse. From the looks of it, the Germans are using Danzig as a staging point for sending all these poor sods back into Germany, where they'll be spending the rest of the war in POW camps.

"But now, here's where things get interesting. According to our agent in the area, the SS and Gestapo are screening out a very small number of these prisoners, and are holding them in the city while the rest are passed on to Germany. From the looks of things, the prisoners that are screened out are generally high-ranking Polish officers or civilians that the Gestapo want to keep their personal hold on. You can probably imagine why."

That comment hung there for a minute as Page took another drag off his cigarette.

"A few days ago, our agent spotted several civilians in Danzig in Gestapo custody, being offloaded from a train coming from Warsaw. The identity of these civilians is classified even to me, but what we do know is that they are, for whatever reason, regarded as extremely important to the Allied war effort. They were supposed to have been evacuated overseas right as hostilities began, but it looks like the Germans got to them first. The agent was about to set out finding where they were being held in the city, but they had to cut off contact shortly thereafter because they suspected they were being tracked by the Gestapo. Regardless, the prisoners cannot be allowed to remain in German custody in any circumstance.

_{Wehrmacht and SS forces parading in the streets after the end of the conquest of Danzig.}

"That's where we come in."

From the dossier, Page removed a map and unfolded it on the projector's display. It covered the east coast of England, the North Sea, Northern Germany, and the Baltic entrances leading to the Polish coast.

"This is the plan, gentlemen - Operation GRYPHON. The Royal Air Force has borrowed us a submarine from the Royal Navy - the HMS Tutankhamun. Today, we'll arm up with whatever we'll need, and make whatever preparations we have to. Tonight, if all goes as planned, we'll board the sub at Ramsgate, which will take us, submerged, across the North Sea, through the Skagerrak, and into the Baltic Sea. This will likely take some time - as long as a day or two, especially once we're submerged. As soon as we arrive off the city of Danzig, we'll surface at night, and make a landing by raft inside the city."

_{The Tutankhamun.}

Page took another drag.

"Now, from that point, things will get fairly improvisational. Our first objective will be to seize some kind of transportation and meet up with the SIS agent infiltrated into the Danzig area who's been feeding us all of this information. We don't know for sure if they're still alive, but we do know that they have a safehouse on the outskirts of the Free City that they planned to hide out in if they suspected they were being tracked. That'll be our first stop. Depending on what we find there - hopefully the agent themselves, or at least some of the information they collected - we can then try and figure out where the Polish prisoners are located. From there, we'll adapt as necessary, but our prime objective will be to retrieve the prisoners at all costs, assuming they're still in the city, then lay low, signal the Tutankhamun for pickup, and escape posthaste before the Germans can come down on us. If need be, we'll change the plan as necessary. That's where our flexibility comes in handy."

The room was dead silent, save for the sound of the rain coming down outside - the weather had evidently changed for the worse since the briefing started.

"I don't have to tell all of you, that this is a pretty irregular sort of mission. There's no unit anywhere, aside from us, that could pull this off. That's why this has come together on such short notice - we don't even have aircraft assigned to us yet, and we were supposed to spend the next month or two just training and working up. But we don't have that kind of time. These people, whoever they are, are the absolute top priority right now, and we cannot afford to let them vanish into some SS dungeon. The window of opportunity is closing fast. We have to get to them before it closes altogether. I won't lie - it'll be the dozen of us against all the Germans in Danzig. But we'll have one hell of a surprise advantage this far behind their lines. They'll never be expecting us. If we play our cards right, we'll be in and out before they even know what's actually happening.

"...Any questions?"

[Bakra]

Chee remained stone faced during the briefing. It wasn't as if he saw this kind of operation coming, it was that he was expecting to be surprised. When you have the attitude that the mysterious will be happening, it tends to be more palatable in the moment. An old combat trick a Buddhist monk taught him in China, when they were fighting around Shanghai and he didn't know if he was ever going to see a Zero coming before it killed him.

"...Any questions?"

"Sir, if we need to bug out and aren't in range of the sub, is it possible for us to get our hands on a seaplane and make a short jump to it? Do we have any actionable intel on that front?" It was a pilot thing to say, but Chee figured that they had to play to their strengths on the backend of this thing. The good thing was that they were taking a sub (which was still a ship) and infiltrating ashore, a the sort of thing any Marine could get behind on.

He would also have to talk to Page about how he fit into this in regards to his ethnicity (Chee didn't figure Native Americans were walking around Danzig) though it was probably something for them to talk about one on one rather than put it through the meeting.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Chee remained stone faced during the briefing. It wasn't as if he saw this kind of operation coming, it was that he was expecting to be surprised. When you have the attitude that the mysterious will be happening, it tends to be more palatable in the moment. An old combat trick a Buddhist monk taught him in China, when they were fighting around Shanghai and he didn't know if he was ever going to see a Zero coming before it killed him.

"...Any questions?"

"Sir, if we need to bug out and aren't in range of the sub, is it possible for us to get our hands on a seaplane and make a short jump to it? Do we have any actionable intel on that front?"

Page nodded. "There is a combination airplane/seaplane base farther up the coast from the city proper - about twenty miles north, right here, where the Hel Peninsula begins. It's possible to get there, if we get fast enough transport. But we don't know what kind of aircraft will be there, or what condition they'll be in. Our intelligence reports there was a lot of fighting up there. It's possible the Hun engineers might have gotten the place up and running, though."

[Morrdh]

Wade stood in silence for a moment, smoke coiling from the end of the cigarette that hung from his mouth. He took the cigarette in his fingers before exclaiming. "I was right, this IS a tory outfit."

"...Any questions?"

"These prisoners are pretty important to the Allies right?" Asked Wade. "So wot happens if, fer wotever reason, we're not able to get 'em out?"

Wade wondered whether he was the first in the room to consider the implications behind his question, surely the Squadron Leader would've done or at least been briefed by the top bass on that eventuality? Right? If these men were to be kept away from the Hun, who amongst this lot would stomach the cold, hard call to ensure that the men would not be able to talk to anyone? Though if the others understood Wade's question and Page's possible answer, it would reveal alot about those present.

Though his eyes drifted from time to time to one of the American Flight Sergeants, both seemed odd to be Flight Sergeants if they had only recently enlisted and completed their flight training. Sergeant Pilots was more likely, since the higher rank kicked in after a year of being a NCO pilot. The one that seemed to have some Native American ancestry seemed decent enough, Wade didn't know the man's background but he assumed that the man had served in his country's military at one point from his manner. Now the other American NCO, the one who'd kept quiet all through the briefing, there was something damn...odd about them. There was something that Wade couldn't quite put his finger on, though this wasn't the time to worry about it.

[Grenartia]

Page returned the handshake. "Good to meet you, Flying Officer...Thi-bo-deaux. I'll endeavor to get that right."

He had to admit, it wasn't the worst pronunciation Jimmy had heard, even after saying it first. Of course, he was already used to hearing it get mangled, even before he left the Army.

"...Any questions?"

From the briefing, it seemed like a simple enough mission. Get in, grab the civs, and get out before Fritz knew what was happening. There was even an all-expense paid, round trip luxury cruise to go along with it. Jimmy couldn't think of any questions that didn't have immediately obvious answers, such as "what happens if we get captured?"

Then one man asked a question. From his accent, he sounded like a fellow American.

"Sir, if we need to bug out and aren't in range of the sub, is it possible for us to get our hands on a seaplane and make a short jump to it? Do we have any actionable intel on that front?"

To which Page responded.

"There is a combination airplane/seaplane base farther up the coast from the city proper - about twenty miles north, right here, where the Hel Peninsula begins. It's possible to get there, if we get fast enough transport. But we don't know what kind of aircraft will be there, or what condition they'll be in. Our intelligence reports there was a lot of fighting up there. It's possible the Hun engineers might have gotten the place up and running, though."

And that's not counting the fact that most seaplanes are terrible dogfighters, Jimmy thought. Hell, the only hope would be if the squadron encountered whatever the Jerries had equivalent to a PBY. Which reminded him of his earlier thoughts about dogfighting a 109 from a flying boat, armed with only a revolver. He really knew how to jinx himself.

And then, yet another man asked an even more serious question.

"These prisoners are pretty important to the Allies right?" Asked Wade. "So wot happens if, fer wotever reason, we're not able to get 'em out?"

"Well, in that case, I'd imagine we'd be dog meat anyways." Jimmy said, before considering the situation further, and realizing he did, in fact, have a question. "What I'm trying to figure out, is how we're supposed to find these guys if our inside man is dead and the safehouse is empty." And then he thought of an even more disturbing possibility. "Worse yet, what if they set up a trap for us?"

[Len Hyet]

With each word that came out of Page's mouth Richter felt blood drain from his face more and more. His earlier speech about expendability and high-risk missions appeared to be something of an understatement. In fact, calling it an understatement was an understatement. It was like saying the sun was a little bright, or fire was a tad warm to the touch. This "mission", and Richter felt calling it even that was being more than generous, was nothing short of the worst planned operation he'd ever heard of. And Richter had charged a Nationalist trench line with a rifle and five rounds of ammunition before.

He swallowed, and spoke slowly.

"Sir, it sounds like we're going to a safe house that's probably been discovered by the Gestapo, to find information about a bunch of prisoners we don't know anything about, in a location we don't know, guarded by an unknown force, in the middle of occupied territory, with no, no, no..." He struggled to find the word briefly. His nerves were getting the better of him, usually his English was next-to flawless. All of a sudden however, he couldn't think of the word he wanted, and just spat out the nearest German analogue.

"Einsatz, entrance, yes, entrance or exit plan?"

G-d almighty save me from crazy Englishmen, David thought to himself.

[Alversia]

Listening and watching as the first operation of this mysterious group was at least revealed, Fitzpatrick fought to hold his emotions in check. He lasted all the way through the briefing itself, then through the questions of his fellow pilots as they put their objections forward and the Squadron Leader answered as best he could.

"Sir, it sounds like we're going to a safe house that's probably been discovered by the Gestapo, to find information about a bunch of prisoners we don't know anything about, in a location we don't know, guarded by an unknown force, in the middle of occupied territory, with no, no, no... einsatz, entrance, yes, entrance or exit plan?

The Irishman could hold it in no longer. He burst out laughing, deep and heavy as he bent over to try and catch his breath. It lasted just a few moments before he was able to regain control of himself, one arm still folded over his stomach and the other wiping tears from his eyes as he looked at Page.

“Good god, Sir but you’ve been sold a total pup! I think I can see what you were getting at when you said the rest of command might want to get rid of us because nothing’s as sure to do it as this. Just so I’m absolutely clear; our goal is to get onto a submarine, sneak past the German navy and their fortifications, minefields, torpedo nets and destroyers, jump ashore at a city where, so far I can tell, the entirety of their army was not three weeks ago, meet up with a fellow who may or may not have been captured himself already, break into a Gestapo or SS prison filled with angry machine-gun totting Krauts to rescue these chaps who, for all we know, are speeding on a train to Berlin as we speak and will probably be shot as soon as we’re within five miles of them, if we recognise them. Which we can’t. Then, once we’ve done all that, we get back into our little boats and paddle out to the sub waiting patiently under the guns of the entire Kriegsmarine or, failing that, fight our way into a Luftwaffe airbase, another doddle, steal one of those carthorses they call seaplanes and then escape from every fighter in northern Germany? Oh, and before I forget, there are…what? Twelve of us to do it?”

Even thinking about it brought yet more laughter and he had to take a moment to compose himself, leaning back as he shook his head, “Oh dear, that’s the best laugh I’ve had in years,” He took a couple of deep breaths, “Even for the Air Force, this an absolute belter.”

"Worse yet, what if they set up a trap for us?"

After a few more deep giggles he finally had full control of himself, though his red face and tear-soaked cheeks told their own story, “A trap? It’s hardly worth their while is it? If we get one foot in the door of that house, we’ll be channelling the spirit of Jesus Christ himself. Sorry, Sir, but it isn’t a mission, it’s a suicide run. And I wonder what our brave leaders have given us for such a simple task? A Trojan Horse, perhaps? Or maybe the Angels of Mons are available for action? Maybe we’ll have to take a detour to Ireland and capture a leprechaun so he’ll grant us a wish!”

[Kouralia]

Nigh-ignored, highly successfully he thought - especially given the khaki of his uniform next to the blue of the officers and two flight sergeants - Smythe had managed to keep the startled surprise from his face when Page began to expound on their mission. Jotting a few notes in his book according to what was said, the Staff Sergeant half switched off from what was coming from his fellows in the room as he considered the issues. Of course there was the getting there - and back - over the North Sea to consider, then the not knowing where the Germans were or how many of them there were, then the not knowing where the Polish were, then the whole issue of killing every single German they met before they managed to tell another German that they were there.

He circled 'Killing lots of Germans' twice more, and wrote 'Problem, or Solution?' next to it.

The whole plan seemed crazy, and certainly not the sort of thing that he'd expected when sat in the kitchen and opening an envelope to read a letter, addressed Staff Sergeant Sebastian Smythe and containing orders to report to an RAF station immediately for secondment as Squadron Quartermaster Sergeant. He'd expected counting of bullets and blankets, but this was... Not. The time to get out was surely past, he knew that from the fact that he now knew their mission. And... Well, he thought back to the last few days. The time to get out had gone far before this Page had set foot on the base - the time to get out had passe before Smythe had done so too. The Hussars could be back in Britain, and then what would he do? He couldn't go to them, he couldn't meet one of their company: that was out of the question.

Before he could get much further with that line of thinking, he was brought out of the unpleasant reverie by the loud and sudden laughter of the Irish fellow:a sudden outburst that almost immediately set the man back in his estimation - as if he'd even really noticed much about his colleagues in the room: everyone of them his better, since he didn't doubt the twenty-something RAF NCO next to him was going to be a marked superior to his Army self. As the derision from the Flying Officer wound down, Smythe cleared his throat as he tapped at the note pad.

"You'll have to apologise if they didn't teach the sort of critical thinking at Depot that they do at Cranwell, but the way I see it is that they at least consider us to have a chance at not immediately dying, because they wouldn't waste fifty-odd men and a submarine doing sweet fanny adams." He said, "There's questioning the plan, and then there's..." He stopped and shrugged.

"Apologies: how are we to approach this, sir?" He enquired. "We can hardly fight our way there through a half-thousand angry Germans and get out of there before the other five hundred have lined up to block our escape, and there's hardly room for one, let alone the half-dozen armoured cars we'd need on a submarine anyway. But if we don't intend to fight, a peaceful sojourn around the Polish countryside in khakis and blues seems unlikely. Are we to countenance going about this out of uniform?"

[Goram]

We can hardly fight our way there through a half-thousand angry Germans and get out of there before the other five hundred have lined up to block our escape

The man speaking was unlike everyone else in the room, in so far as he wore an Army uniform. The brownish green of his jacket and trousers were conspicuous among the all the dark blue outfits, as was his rank as a senior NCO. He reminded White more than a little of various Sergeants he had known in 1914.

"Come now, Sergeant"

He said with a laugh

"Let's not be having any of that. You look like just sort of chap we need and I'd wager a pound you could take on the entire Luftwaffe armed only with a bayonet! With NCOs like you, how can we possibly fail?"

The joke came easily and White put out a carefree demeanour. It was, however, nothing but a facade in order to hide his concerns about the proposed job. It was certifiably insane. The Air Force was proposing they waltz into Danzig (never mind the horde of Germans currently in residence there) and make off with a handful of prisoners, right from under the Gestapo's nose. It seemed an impossibility. Not with any dozen men ever made could you accomplish this, White thought. And yet, he noticed with no small amount of unease, he wasn't getting up to leave. In spite of the suicidal odds of the operation, something was keeping him glued to his chair.

[Monfrox]

Having had her only real question stole by the Staff Sergeant next to her, Melody resigned herself to hold her tongue. The less she spoke, the better the charade. All she really needed to do was keep her mouth shut and follow orders, but this was getting very overwhelming. Sneaking into German occupied territory with only a handful of people? Well, it was certainly more organized than hits she'd seen done before. She wondered how they'd go about the rescue once in the city, but she had been around the streets enough even though she was young. It'd certainly be easier to blend in without the uniform, but what else? Hiding in plain sight was how she always liked to do her work. It was the best way, to her.

[United Kingdom of Poland]

If it weren't for the unwanted attention it would have brought him, Henri would have commented on the irony of a man who had once helped invade Poland twenty years ago was now tasked saving men captured in the most recent invasion of it. A part of him wondered if these men had once sat on the opposite side of the trenches from him. Of course the rest of him was annoyed at how everyone else seemed more focused on complaining about the mission in front of them than working on how to pull it off.

"We don't have to fight a thousand Germans." Vodat finally spoke up. "If we set up a diversion or two away from the camp, the Nazi's will running all over the place while we slip in and out right under their noses. My unit did the same thing back in the revolution... drove Lenin's attack dog crazy chasing his tail. The Africans did the same thing to us in Algeria a few times too."

Vodat shrugged. "As for the safe house... we won't know until we get there."

[The Two Jerseys]

Talbot, keeping his mouth shut until his seething anger at the Irishman's impudence subsided, finally spoke:

"If I may, sir, regarding the staff sergeant's question about our wardrobe...if we are in fact to go about this business in civilian clothing, would we not be at a serious disadvantage should we be forced into a firefight? After all, it's not as if we can go about unnoticed whilst wearing web equipment over civilian clothing..."

[The Tiger Kingdom]

"These prisoners are pretty important to the Allies right?" Asked Wade. "So wot happens if, fer wotever reason, we're not able to get 'em out?"

Wade wondered whether he was the first in the room to consider the implications behind his question, surely the Squadron Leader would've done or at least been briefed by the top bass on that eventuality? Right? If these men were to be kept away from the Hun, who amongst this lot would stomach the cold, hard call to ensure that the men would not be able to talk to anyone? Though if the others understood Wade's question and Page's possible answer, it would reveal alot about those present.

Page's gaze darkened. There had indeed been a corollary in the orders dealing with this exact situation. It was very short, predictably vague, and infuriatingly indirect, despite being crystal-clear in its actual meaning. It hadn't been pleasant reading.
"They do not stay in German custody in any circumstances, Warrant Officer. That's all there is to say about it."

"Well, in that case, I'd imagine we'd be dog meat anyways." Jimmy said, before considering the situation further, and realizing he did, in fact, have a question. "What I'm trying to figure out, is how we're supposed to find these guys if our inside man is dead and the safehouse is empty." And then he thought of an even more disturbing possibility. "Worse yet, what if they set up a trap for us?"

"Well, Flying Officer, if both of our wells come up entirely dry, we'll have to try and find us a German who'll talk about where they keep their prisoners. That's a long shot, though. But if the agent knew what they were doing, they'd have left a trail to follow."
Hopefully not the same trail that the Gestapo is on, Page thought to himself.
Then again, the idea of meeting up with some Gestapo agents on some dark Polish backroad, on his terms and with backup, was deeply appealing.

Page thought about the second half of the question for a moment. "And in regard to this being a Nazi trap...it's a chance that our fearless leaders have decided to take. But if it makes you feel any better, Flying Officer, I highly doubt it myself. Who, after all, could possibly anticipate an operation like this and stage a trap to counter it?"

He swallowed, and spoke slowly.
"Sir, it sounds like we're going to a safe house that's probably been discovered by the Gestapo, to find information about a bunch of prisoners we don't know anything about, in a location we don't know, guarded by an unknown force, in the middle of occupied territory, with no, no, no..." He struggled to find the word briefly. His nerves were getting the better of him, usually his English was next-to flawless. All of a sudden however, he couldn't think of the word he wanted, and just spat out the nearest German analogue.

"Einsatz, entrance, yes, entrance or exit plan?"

G-d almighty save me from crazy Englishmen, David thought to himself.

Oooof.
Page cringed internally as Richter's German made an impromptu and accidental appearance. Judging from some of the expressions on the faces of the other squadron members, they'd definitely noticed it too.

It didn't take a telepath to see this was going to be a problem. When he'd been reviewing the squadron roster, the idea that the RAF would assign a German national (no matter his anti-Nazi credentials) to a top-secret unit, which already had a number of members who had fought Germans before, was almost inconceivable. Richter supposedly had been through the most rigorous security checking that MI5 could furnish, and his background was certainly a special one - one that precluded the possibility of any kind of German sympathies (unless German Intelligence had pulled off a truly amazing coup).

There was no doubt to Page, given Richter's record, that he would be useful to the Squadron, maybe uniquely so.
But it was going to be an uphill struggle for the squadron to trust him, even in spite of all the evidence that he was their friend, rather than their foe.

"Well, Flying Officer Richter, we've got you on one count, in that the Navy has furnished us with a way in, even if it is pretty risky. And yes, I will grant you, this entire scheme is, to put it lightly, pretty loose around the edges. There's no getting around it. I know it. You all know it. Command, I assume, knows it. But that's just how it has to be. It's true that our exit plan is not finalized, because it can't be, not while we're not sure what will be available to us. But if the intelligence is correct, the Germans have been moving so much stuff into Danzig that there's bound to be a way out. There has to be."

The Irishman could hold it in no longer. He burst out laughing, deep and heavy as he bent over to try and catch his breath. It lasted just a few moments before he was able to regain control of himself, one arm still folded over his stomach and the other wiping tears from his eyes as he looked at Page.

“Good god, Sir but you’ve been sold a total pup! I think I can see what you were getting at when you said the rest of command might want to get rid of us because nothing’s as sure to do it as this. Just so I’m absolutely clear; our goal is to get onto a submarine, sneak past the German navy and their fortifications, minefields, torpedo nets and destroyers, jump ashore at a city where, so far I can tell, the entirety of their army was not three weeks ago, meet up with a fellow who may or may not have been captured himself already, break into a Gestapo or SS prison filled with angry machine-gun totting Krauts to rescue these chaps who, for all we know, are speeding on a train to Berlin as we speak and will probably be shot as soon as we’re within five miles of them, if we recognise them. Which we can’t. Then, once we’ve done all that, we get back into our little boats and paddle out to the sub waiting patiently under the guns of the entire Kriegsmarine or, failing that, fight our way into a Luftwaffe airbase, another doddle, steal one of those carthorses they call seaplanes and then escape from every fighter in northern Germany? Oh, and before I forget, there are…what? Twelve of us to do it?”

Even thinking about it brought yet more laughter and he had to take a moment to compose himself, leaning back as he shook his head, “Oh dear, that’s the best laugh I’ve had in years,” He took a couple of deep breaths, “Even for the Air Force, this an absolute belter.”

After a few more deep giggles he finally had full control of himself, though his red face and tear-soaked cheeks told their own story, “A trap? It’s hardly worth their while is it? If we get one foot in the door of that house, we’ll be channelling the spirit of Jesus Christ himself. Sorry, Sir, but it isn’t a mission, it’s a suicide run. And I wonder what our brave leaders have given us for such a simple task? A Trojan Horse, perhaps? Or maybe the Angels of Mons are available for action? Maybe we’ll have to take a detour to Ireland and capture a leprechaun so he’ll grant us a wish!”

The silence as Fitzpatrick finished his tirade was profound. The tension hung in the air like a thick, wet, itchy wool quilt.
Page looked at Fitzpatrick icily, his face frozen, jaw muscles as set as if they'd been carved out of granite.

The silence continued.

Someone stifled a cough.

Still silence.

Slowly, Page circled the podium and came around to Fitzpatrick's seat, kneeling down to put himself at the Irishman's eye level.
"Funny you should say that last bit, Flying Officer Fitzpatrick," Page said, his voice tight and mocking as he bit out the rank, "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like they sent us a leprechaun already."

Page honestly didn't know if Fitzpatrick was going to either storm out or take a swing at him (or both), but it had been a risk worth taking.

"And the really funny thing is, Flying Officer, if you can possibly fit any more laughs into your pot o'gold, is that I'm not even going to disagree with you very much. This is one hell of an assignment. I'm not going to pretend or tell you lot otherwise. But giving up, now, is not an option. That time has come and gone. For one thing, if you want to leave now, you're looking at running into the loving arms of the MPs outside, and they'll figure out what to do with you. Rest assured, it probably won't be too comfy.

"But I have to admit, I'm already a bit disappointed in you, Fitzpatrick. I was hoping, being a brave and hale Irishman, with a...singular...record like yours, that you'd have a little more stomach to mix it up with the Huns. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this is all too much for you. The odds are just too long. The plan is just too unconvincing. The Germans are just too tough. Well. That's as may be. But it doesn't change anything. Sometimes, you've just got to buck up and get on doing with what needs doing. You're all here, after all, because the RAF and the SIS were sure that none of you were afraid of a fight - and that all of you were excellent at making one. And from what I can tell, when you get enough of those sorts of people working together, you can do things that any fool could tell you is flatly impossible.

"A quick example, if you'll allow me. About a year ago - maybe you heard about it - there was a lot of fighting down in Nicaragua, in Central America. Your standard peasant-uprising story. Farmers and miners joining up together to overthrow the military junta ruling over them. If you were to look up "hopeless" in the dictionary, you'd see these peasants. Most of them couldn't read, couldn't write, skinny, dirty, untrained, barely armed, going up against the fat, rich elite of their society, carrying shiny new German guns and wearing fancy new Italian-made uniforms. Any idiot could have seen that the whole war was suicide for these people.

"But they fought anyways. They fought dirty - tooth and nail - harder than they had any right to. They fought at great cost, outnumbered and with no homes to go back to. They fought barefoot, with knives and clubs and ancient carbines that dated from the Spanish-American War, and with whatever else they could beg or cobble together or steal from their oppressors. They came up with a plan to strike at the heart of the junta, set up in an island fortress off the coast. Totally impregnable, supposedly. But they came up with a plan - a crazy, stupid plan. They hired a pilot - a Communist drunk they found in the gutter. They stormed a government airfield, and stole a transport aircraft. They then proceeded to set their pilot behind the flight stick, cram that plane so full of guerrillas it could hardly take off, and crash-landed it on the island, behind the government's artillery and walls, within the fort itself. They stormed out, screaming and shooting like demons. They savaged their enemy. The war was over a few weeks later."

For a few moments, Page stopped, his gaze glassy and unfocused. Then, he snapped back.

"I'm telling you this for a reason. This is a crazy, maybe impossible task we've been assigned. But if those farmers could do it in Nicaragua, so can we. We've got more support, more experience, and more skills at our disposal than they ever did. Sure, we're outnumbered - by a bunch of rear-echelon Fritzes who have absolutely no idea what's about to hit them. We're going to be given the opportunity to strike the first real blow against the Germans. We've been given that shot because, for all their qualms about us - and that includes me, for whatever that's worth to you - someone upstairs picked us as the most dangerous men in the entire world. The Huns ought to be afraid of us. We've got a job to do, and we're going to do it. That's all."

Page stood back up, and walked back to the podium, feeling surprisingly drained.
"I think the papers called it the Battle of Torquemada Island. You can look it up for yourself, if you make it back."

"You'll have to apologise if they didn't teach the sort of critical thinking at Depot that they do at Cranwell, but the way I see it is that they at least consider us to have a chance at not immediately dying, because they wouldn't waste fifty-odd men and a submarine doing sweet fanny adams." He said, "There's questioning the plan, and then there's..." He stopped and shrugged.

"Apologies: how are we to approach this, sir?" He enquired. "We can hardly fight our way there through a half-thousand angry Germans and get out of there before the other five hundred have lined up to block our escape, and there's hardly room for one, let alone the half-dozen armoured cars we'd need on a submarine anyway. But if we don't intend to fight, a peaceful sojourn around the Polish countryside in khakis and blues seems unlikely. Are we to countenance going about this out of uniform?"

Page took a deep breath and nodded, trying to calm his nerves, grateful to Smythe for the support, however implicit it had been.
"Good question. In terms of the dress code for this particular party, we'll have to be out of uniform almost by definition. Given our...rather odd makeup and place in the RAF's structure, I don't know exactly what the regulations would prescribe about what exact garb RAF officers are to wear for ground raids deep into enemy territory, anyways. So, we've got some adapted gear from the Army and RAF that has been customized to be a bit more useful for our purposes. It's being kept in the armory, along with all the weaponry we might need for the job. We'll be heading over there soon.

"There's also something else worth trying. The French government have been kind enough to loan us - emphasis on 'loan' - a few sets of actual, genuine German infantry uniforms that they took from some unfortunate prisoners in the Saar. They won't stand up to very close scrutiny, but they would probably be good enough to get us past the scrutiny of a careless German sentry or guard post. We don't have enough for the entire squadron, but it might be worth considering to have one or two of our German-speakers-"

Page glanced meaningfully at Richter, trying to judge his reaction.

"-cobble together a set that fits and take point for the group. That could give us a good edge."

If it weren't for the unwanted attention it would have brought him, Henri would have commented on the irony of a man who had once helped invade Poland twenty years ago was now tasked saving men captured in the most recent invasion of it. A part of him wondered if these men had once sat on the opposite side of the trenches from him. Of course the rest of him was annoyed at how everyone else seemed more focused on complaining about the mission in front of them than working on how to pull it off.

"We don't have to fight a thousand Germans." Vodat finally spoke up. "If we set up a diversion or two away from the camp, the Nazi's will running all over the place while we slip in and out right under their noses. My unit did the same thing back in the revolution... drove Lenin's attack dog crazy chasing his tail. The Africans did the same thing to us in Algeria a few times too."

Vodat shrugged. "As for the safe house... we won't know until we get there."

"That's a good idea, Flying Officer Vodat. We're going to be taking these rear-area troops by surprise - and being so far from any German frontline, and operating in a target-rich environment like Danzig, would likely give us a lot of potential opportunities for mayhem that could have a pretty dramatic effect on the garrison. We'll be going in through the port and city itself - we haven't gotten much solid intel on what kinds of hardware the Germans have been bringing through there yet, but I'm certain we'll be able to find some way to take the heat off of us."

Page snapped his fingers as he recalled something. "And on that note, the RAF boffins actually have a pretty incredible new bit of kit for us that might help with that. You'll see it shortly."

Talbot, keeping his mouth shut until his seething anger at the Irishman's impudence subsided, finally spoke:

"If I may, sir, regarding the staff sergeant's question about our wardrobe...if we are in fact to go about this business in civilian clothing, would we not be at a serious disadvantage should we be forced into a firefight? After all, it's not as if we can go about unnoticed whilst wearing web equipment over civilian clothing..."

"Think of this, Flight Lieutenant, less as an undercover assignment, or a protracted fight, and more as a...er...high-speed, gangster-style arse-kicking of the German garrison. Our gear will reflect that."

[Morrdh]

Page's gaze darkened. There had indeed been a corollary in the orders dealing with this exact situation. It was very short, predictably vague, and infuriatingly indirect, despite being crystal-clear in its actual meaning. It hadn't been pleasant reading.
"They do not stay in German custody in any circumstances, Warrant Officer. That's all there is to say about it."

Wade simply nodded and continued smoking his cigarette.

It was the answer he'd been expecting, but it didn't make the thought any less pleasant. He would've been surprised if nobody else in the room realize just how small their chances of success was, so there was a strong possibility that measures would be taken to ensure that the agents kept their silence. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time he'd know of it happening.

Still, the cigarette proved useful in helping Wade hide a smirk when his fellow Irishman effectively put his foot in his mouth.

[Grenartia]

After a few more deep giggles he finally had full control of himself, though his red face and tear-soaked cheeks told their own story, “A trap? It’s hardly worth their while is it? If we get one foot in the door of that house, we’ll be channelling the spirit of Jesus Christ himself. Sorry, Sir, but it isn’t a mission, it’s a suicide run. And I wonder what our brave leaders have given us for such a simple task? A Trojan Horse, perhaps? Or maybe the Angels of Mons are available for action? Maybe we’ll have to take a detour to Ireland and capture a leprechaun so he’ll grant us a wish!”

Jimmy was utterly dumbfounded by the Irishman's rant. He honestly couldn't come up with any sort of response, and judging by everyone else's silence, neither could they. Then another man, wearing a different uniform, spoke up.

"You'll have to apologise if they didn't teach the sort of critical thinking at Depot that they do at Cranwell, but the way I see it is that they at least consider us to have a chance at not immediately dying, because they wouldn't waste fifty-odd men and a submarine doing sweet fanny adams." He said, "There's questioning the plan, and then there's..." He stopped and shrugged.

"Apologies: how are we to approach this, sir?" He enquired. "We can hardly fight our way there through a half-thousand angry Germans and get out of there before the other five hundred have lined up to block our escape, and there's hardly room for one, let alone the half-dozen armoured cars we'd need on a submarine anyway. But if we don't intend to fight, a peaceful sojourn around the Polish countryside in khakis and blues seems unlikely. Are we to countenance going about this out of uniform?"

He did have a good point. There was too much being invested in this for this to be some sort of RAF conspiracy to get rid of some undesirables. He also looked forward to the idea of not running around in a uniform with "CANADA" written on it.

If it weren't for the unwanted attention it would have brought him, Henri would have commented on the irony of a man who had once helped invade Poland twenty years ago was now tasked saving men captured in the most recent invasion of it. A part of him wondered if these men had once sat on the opposite side of the trenches from him. Of course the rest of him was annoyed at how everyone else seemed more focused on complaining about the mission in front of them than working on how to pull it off.

"We don't have to fight a thousand Germans." Vodat finally spoke up. "If we set up a diversion or two away from the camp, the Nazi's will running all over the place while we slip in and out right under their noses. My unit did the same thing back in the revolution... drove Lenin's attack dog crazy chasing his tail. The Africans did the same thing to us in Algeria a few times too."

Vodat shrugged. "As for the safe house... we won't know until we get there."

A diversion seemed like the best idea to Jimmy. Maybe they could get the loudmouthed Paddy to volunteer for that job. He chuckled silently to himself at the thought.

Talbot, keeping his mouth shut until his seething anger at the Irishman's impudence subsided, finally spoke:

"If I may, sir, regarding the staff sergeant's question about our wardrobe...if we are in fact to go about this business in civilian clothing, would we not be at a serious disadvantage should we be forced into a firefight? After all, it's not as if we can go about unnoticed whilst wearing web equipment over civilian clothing..."

Jimmy seemed to recall that a few gangs back in the states managed to sneak around Tommy guns and mags in things like violin cases....

Before Jimmy could point this out, Page spoke up.

"They do not stay in German custody in any circumstances, Warrant Officer. That's all there is to say about it."

Which gave Thibodeaux everything he needed to know about what to do if transporting them back was impossible.

"Well, Flying Officer, if both of our wells come up entirely dry, we'll have to try and find us a German who'll talk about where they keep their prisoners. That's a long shot, though. But if the agent knew what they were doing, they'd have left a trail to follow."

He tried not to think about the problems with going around asking Krauts if they knew where prisoners were kept.

"And in regard to this being a Nazi trap...it's a chance that our fearless leaders have decided to take. But if it makes you feel any better, Flying Officer, I highly doubt it myself. Who, after all, could possibly anticipate an operation like this and stage a trap to counter it?"

Jimmy nodded his head. Page had him there.

Slowly, Page circled the podium and came around to Fitzpatrick's seat, kneeling down to put himself at the Irishman's eye level.
"Funny you should say that last bit, Flying Officer Fitzpatrick," Page said, his voice tight and mocking as he bit out the rank, "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like they sent us a leprechaun already."

The rajin' cajun stifled his laughter at Page's response to Fitzpatrick. He was probably a good guy, but he needed to tone it down a little.

[Alversia]

Fitzpatrick rather enjoyed the silence that followed his outburst, choosing to hum to himself a jaunty little tune while the others asked their questions of their commanding officer, taking notes mentally even if he did spent a good amount of time examining his fingernails and wondering if he needed to get his hair cut before they went on this insane assignment they’d been given but even thinking about the specifics again made him chuckle to himself, mood buoyed no end by the idea. He did lean across with interest as one of his fellow Pilots let forth a burst of German that he probably didn’t mean to but while making a very good point. Was he surprised to find that one of his fellows was a German? Of course not. At this point, he was more surprised there were no

He looked up just in time to see Page approaching him with the sort of cold and tight expression he would have expected from any other Squadron Leader had he just laughed at the plan they had presented. In fact, he knew from personal experience because it had not been the first time and how his commanders reacted, he thought, said a lot more about them than it did about him. His first Squadron Leader had practically bounced off the ceiling of the briefing room, all but shattering the glass in the windows as he roared and bellowed himself hoarse at the Irishman, all while Fitzpatrick sat passively and watched him blow himself out. The next one had just walked out, deciding that whatever poor inanimate object outside on the airfield he could find was a better target for his indignation than the pilot.

Now he was just waiting for the fuse to reach the dynamite with this one; waiting for his latest commander to go off on one, to start yelling at him about duty and honour, about service to his country and service to his king, about how he owed it to his comrades, to his commanding officer and, best of all, to himself, to do whatever they told him without thinking about it. He’d heard it all over the years.

"Funny you should say that last bit, Flying Officer Fitzpatrick, because from where I'm standing, it looks like they sent us a leprechaun already."

Now that did catch him off guard, so much so that it took him a long second to under the implications. He chuckled aloud, leaning back and entirely unheeding of Page not so far from his face nor the dangerous look in his eyes, “Hey, you’re right! Does that mean if we actually pull this thing off they’ll put my face on our squadron insignia? No? Ah well, worth a shot, right?”

"But I have to admit, I'm already a bit disappointed in you, Fitzpatrick. I was hoping, being a brave and hale Irishman, with a...singular...record like yours, that you'd have a little more stomach to mix it up with the Huns. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this is all too much for you. The odds are just too long. The plan is just too unconvincing. The Germans are just too tough. Well. That's as may be. But it doesn't change anything. Sometimes, you've just got to buck up and get on doing with what needs doing. You're all here, after all, because the RAF and the SIS were sure that none of you were afraid of a fight - and that all of you were excellent at making one. And from what I can tell, when you get enough of those sorts of people working together, you can do things that any fool could tell you is flatly impossible.”

Ah, there it was, the speech he’d heard so often. Fitzpatrick wasn’t actually that bothered. It wasn’t the first time a commanding officer had called him a coward, or said they were disappointed in him. At least Page wasn’t throwing briefing manuals at him while saying it. Yet.

“See, Sir, I met plenty of people like that in Spain. People who accepted their mission no matter what it was, fuelled by patriotism or visions of glory or those who thought they had no choice but to do it. My unit had a name for them; llamador de la puerta. Door knockers. You know why? Because it was only a matter of time before they were knocking on the gates of heaven asking to get in. Plenty of them thought they were doing their duty, performing all manner of insane assignments that no other unit would touch with a barge pole. Plenty of them died thinking they were making a difference and you know what? We still lost. They threw themselves into these daft missions and it made not one blind bit of difference to the war.”

“So you can call me a coward if you want, Sir. You can tell me I have no stomach for a fight or that I’m scared of the Krauts. You can be as disappointed in me as you like, because when I see a mission with a risky entrance plan, no real strategy once we get there beyond ‘shoot the place up a bit’ and no exit plan except to attack an air base, I’m going to call it. I was under the impression those were the sort of people you wanted in this unit, no? People who weren’t going to blindly accept suicide missions and toddle along, hoping things will work out because ‘there has to be a way’. No there doesn’t and you’re only fooling yourself if you think life always gives you a way out. Sometimes, a blind alley is a blind alley.”

He leant back, “Now, did I say I wouldn’t take part in this mission? Absolutely not. Frankly I can’t think of a funnier way to go than this so why not. And if you think I don’t have the stomach for a fight, you are very much mistaken,” He looked Page in the eye, “But I also know when to start a fight I have a chance to win and when I need to be a bit smarter to make a fight winnable.”

“So first off, coming ashore by small boat from a submarine is sure to get us caught no? Danzig is a big city. Someone somewhere will be looking, and we only need one German-sympathising Samaritan to spot us and the plan is moot. Why not take a ship from one of the neutral countries like Denmark or Sweden? Danzig’s a port, right? If it’s anything like the ports here, then no one will bat an eyelid at a bunch of big lads coming ashore with bags of stuff. It happens all the time and those bags can contain whatever we need them to.”

You tell me these chaps we’re trying to get to are high value. If the Germans have them and presumably they think the same as us, then surely, they’ll be waiting for a rescue attempt? Not from us perhaps, because no one would daft enough to try and get a submarine past Kiel, but certainly from the Pole themselves, or perhaps even the Soviets. Treaty or not, it’s exactly the sort of thing they’d try to pull. So, if we start blowing up depots and communications lines and whatever else in the city, then surely one Kraut, somewhere, will turn his eyes on these VIPs. And if we have orders to, you know,” He mimicked a pistol to his head, “Then won’t they as well? I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy fighting through the entire city of Danzig only to find the targets having a nap with Walther bullets between their teeth.”

He took a deep breath, “So, rather than try to grab these lads, why not have the Krauts give them to us? We have a few army uniforms so why not get someone to dress up as Gestapo to go with them? Last I saw, they just wear civvie suits with big trench coats, not a hard look to mimic, and we have at least one German speaker here,” He nodded to Richter, “Convince them the prisoners are being moved with no paperwork and no questions asked due to some imminent threat. If we need a few explosions to convince them of that need, then we can. As for escaping, I tell you, it’s much easier to convince a sentry to give you a plane than it is to shoot him and his hundred mates and take one by force.”

Fitzpatrick looked back to Page and shrugged, “Maybe it’s not a workable plan, maybe you’ll call me a fool and hammer me back into place. You’d not be the first and you won’t be the last but I am committed to making this work, in a manner that gets as many of us back alive as possible because, and you can correct me if I’m wrong Sir, but the idea is to win this war with as few needless deaths as possible, no?”

[Goram]

Blue grey smoke danced in front of White's eyes as a cigarette flared up and died to nothing more than a dull orange glow. He fixed his eyes towards the two men opposite him. It was his first in twenty odd years. He didn't quite know why he'd bought the package, but it had seemed the thing to do at the time. In that moment, he remembered the harsh smell of the rough smoke tobacco that filled 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 cheap tobacco was one of them. The smell and the taste 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, but they were immediately replaced by visions of the future. This Danzig jaunt threatened to be no less bloody. In his mind's eye, he could already see a dozen bodies having been cornered and killed in some Godforsaken part of Poland. The plan just seemed unworkable.

and you can correct me if I’m wrong Sir, but the idea is to win this war with as few needless deaths as possible, no?

He took the smouldering cigarette from between his lips

"Chaps, I'm awfully sorry to have to say, but I agree. As much as dressing like civilians is a thoroughly ungentlemanly, and frankly unforgivable, thing for an officer to do - one doesn't really see an alternative. A boat paddled ashore is just too conspicuous, not to mention if such a boat was spotted it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. I agree with our Irish friend. A civilian ship might be a more suitable method of entry - or, if a submarine must be used, perhaps it would be best to disembark some distance away from the city itself and thus one might reduce one's likelihood of being introduced to the Germans in the most ghastly manner."

[The Two Jerseys]

"Chaps, I'm awfully sorry to have to say, but I agree. As much as dressing like civilians is a thoroughly ungentlemanly, and frankly unforgivable, thing for an officer to do - one doesn't really see an alternative. A boat paddled ashore is just too conspicuous, not to mention if such a boat was spotted it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. I agree with our Irish friend. A civilian ship might be a more suitable method of entry - or, if a submarine must be used, perhaps it would be best to disembark some distance away from the city itself and thus one might reduce one's likelihood of being introduced to the Germans in the most ghastly manner."

Talbot yanked the cigarette from his mouth.

"He's right, you know, we should put ashore on a nice deserted beach somewhere up the coast. I'd sooner risk running into an isolated patrol in the middle of nowhere Poland than hop aboard a neutral merchantman and try to pass through customs using Maurice Chevalier's passport. And that's assuming that the jerries even allow the ship to dock in the first place."

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

Impossible. It was the first word that sprang to mind when Howard heard the plans laid out for them. It was unbelievable. It was nuts. It felt like the last lunge of some dying animal, which was what scared him the most. If the government was sanctioning suicide missions like this, how much life did it have left? What did they know that the people on the ground didn’t? His situation was not helped in the slightest by all these veterans criticising the plan. These were men that had served all over the world in the most insane situations, in dozens of conflicts with a hundred years of combined military experience, and they all hated the idea. And what was he? A simple mechanic with pilot training. Not even combat training for that fact, just an aeronautic engineer who wanted hands-on experience. How could he make a difference where all these competent men could not? Howard began to shiver all over, as if he were struck with fever. His eyes shot towards the floor, trying his best not to make eye contact. His baggy overalls would make sure nobody noticed him shiver, luckily. Unless someone paid real close attention to him.

Visions flashed through his mind. His mother had never told him much about his father, but he knew he had died during the Great War… Well, perhaps the First World War was a more apt description at the moment. That’s all he knew. He had seen pictures of him before the war, but mother never showed pictures of him in uniform. In hindsight, she was probably afraid Howard would follow his example, become a soldier. Howard had always laughed about the idea. He was a simple aeronautic engineer. Sure, for warplanes, but making warplanes was no more dangerous than designing rubber boats. And now, Howard found himself here. He was not planning to follow in his father’s footsteps, and he wasn’t going to fight in a war. He was going to head off, take the first cab to Ramsgate and head home via London by train, the same way that he had come there. Back home to Brighton where his wife and son were waiting for him.

He would have just left right then and there if he hadn’t remembered the poster he had seen hanging on the hangar wall that morning. “In Germany, someone is doing the same job as you. Beat him!”

There were plenty of aeronautic engineers in Germany. Some of the best, in fact. Their engines of war were the best in the world. Bombers, dive bombers, heavy fighters and single-seaters… Those people were hard at work designing planes to make the world a worse place for all. He thought of Hansel. In his head, Hansel was the stereotypical German aeronautic engineer. He came to work in a bespoke suit, ate his sausages and drank a beer in the afternoon. He was mortified by hands-on-experience and did everything in a theoretical framework. Simple. Howard just had to beat Hansel, the suit-wearing engineer. What better way to do that than taking the fight directly to the Germans? He had knowledge no-one else in the room possessed. He could fix a plane with some wooden panels and nails if necessary. Sure, the German mechanics could probably do the same. But he had an edge. They were not part of Excalibur Squadron. And he was.

Howard looked up and took a step forward, stepping from the shadows into the light. Some might notice him and his blue overalls for the first time. He certainly felt underdressed between the spotless military uniforms, but perhaps that was what gave him the fighting spirit. All these entrenched military persons, solidified in years of experience. Perhaps they needed the kick of the civilian ready to defend his home.

“Gentlemen, I am Howard Cavalier. A flying officer, as of today. I might not have… as much experience as you…”

Howard halted for a moment. He wasn’t lying per se. He didn’t have any combat experience whatsoever. Howard, however, was not ready to share that information with the rest, however. He was content to keep it vague, to keep at least some semblance of respect.

“My background is in aeronautical engineering. I can’t say much about us getting into Danzig, or anything about what we should do while there”

He took a few steps forward, standing next to the projector screen.

“Could we go back to the slide with the map? Thanks”

He looked at the map for a moment.

“If I wanted to get out of Danzig, I would use a plane. Shocker, I know” he said, trying to get at least a few laughs out. Immediately regretting the attempt, he went on.

“We can’t go to the Baltic states, because those might as well be Soviet territories right now, and Hitler and Stalin seem to be the best of pals at the moment”

“It all depends what we can get our hands on while on the ground. I suggest that, while the veterans manage the affair of the contact and what not, I see to our escape route. Worst case scenario, the whole area is devoid of planes, military or civilian. Then, we might as well go swimming back to England. However, Danzig does have a civilian airport. Getting our hands on a civilian transport craft could be a way out. If we could find a Junkers F.13, we could just fly all the way to neutral Denmark or even East Anglia, but really any craft would do. I don’t know if the Germans will be guarding the airport, though, but I fathom it will probably be better than a military airfield”

“Next best thing, we get our hands on some old Polish aircraft. I don’t know if the Germans captured all of them, but the Polish air force had some pretty good craft. A PZL.37B Łoś would fly us back all the way to Manston if we violate Danish airspace for a bit, and if we can find the proper fuel”

Then, Howard swallowed.

“Barring all that, the Germans have some aircraft that could help us. AGO Ao 192, Heinkel He 111, Junkers Ju 52… They have all kinds of long-range aircraft. The Heinkel could even fly is back to Britain. I cannot say anything about the success of the mission, but as God is my witness, there certainly is a way out with our skin still attached”

Then, Howard stepped back to where he had stood before, making sure not to step back into the shadows.

“In my expert opinion, gentlemen, I think we have a chance to beat Hansel”

[Morrdh]

Wade continued to smoke his cigarette, listening to the various viewpoints and opinions offered. His time in China acting as a...runner of goods for His Majesty's Government offered him a skill set and insight that most of the others probably lacked. Sure the plan sounded completely barmy and was probably conceived over a lunchtime pint and on the back of a cigarette packet, but Wade knew a thing or two about getting in and out of a city untroubled. Sure the Germans weren't the Japanese, but Wade had learnt that most soldiers had a weakness that could be exploited to help them turn a blind eye.

He was thankful when the self-confessed aeronautical engineer spoke and asked for the map slide to be brought up again, least it gave him a chance to study the general area of the op until a more detailed map of the city was available. He took a puff on his cigarette and said out loud. "Ye know wot all yer problems are? Ya approachin' this with a military mindset."

"Granted, tis a military op but ye gonna have to think outside o' the box." Wade continued. "Now I consider meself a modest and not prone ta boastin', but I sent time out East runnin' goods...on the quiet if ye catch me drift."

"Lump it or like it, looks like we'll be goin' in that Navy tub." Said Wade, pausing to take a drag on his cigarette. "Civvies are gonna be our best option, least we don't draw any unwanted attention. Either way, we're gonna need ourselves a covered truck once we're ashore. Ideally someplace along the coast, less troops around."

"Best if Fritz here rides up front, he speaks the lingo. Though I see two ways of doin' this; we either try to bribe our way past Jerry or we grab a handful of uniforms and pretend ta be a prisoner escort."

"Tis feckin' risky, I'll be the first to admit that, but we're gonna need transport that allows us to move unnoticed."