Operation GRYPHON (Excalibur Squadron IC - CLOSED)

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Main Runway, RAF Manston Heath
0901 Hours
October 8th, 1939

Weird sights - visions of the endless dunes. A caravan of light visible on the desert floor below, dwarfed by the starfield illuminating the darkness above. The scene changes, shifting to a small white city blazing fiercely, the people running and screaming and burning like something out of the Old Testament as figures like dark angels soared above. The sky itself turning dark, the fire approaching, morphing into an all-consuming inferno-

The wheels of the Avro Anson transport slamming into the tarmac jolted Squadron Leader(RAF) Robert John Page from his uneasy torpor. They'd only been in the air for about 45 minutes, but Page had learned a long time ago to grab sleep wherever he could, whenever he could - especially if he had reason to believe that sleep would be hard to come by soon.

He straightened up in his seat, awkwardly trying to smooth out his slightly-longer-than-regulation hair with his free left hand, and adjusted his Ray-Ban sunglasses, which he had left on more for reasons of style than the weather. Page didn't consider himself a particularly vain man, but his hair - thick, light brown, slightly wavy, and always just on the verge of messiness - did occupy a certain special place in his mind, and its current status was always of significance. The discomfort of the seat was exacerbated slightly by Page's lean and lanky frame - just tall enough to be on the edge of actually being able to fit in a standard fighter cockpit.

In his right hand was a briefcase, which he had clutched in a sort of death-grip - only made more secure by the fact that it was actually manacled to his wrist, with the cuff digging in quite uncomfortably.

The copilot stood up and unfolded the stairway as the Anson cruised to a stop.

"Clear to debark, Squadron Leader."

With that, Page came to his feet, staggering slightly from the weight imbalance of the heavy case. Stepping down the stairs and onto the ground, he felt almost absurdly self-conscious. For the first time in almost three years, he was back in RAF uniform: greatcoat, peaked cap, tie, and all - and for the first time ever, he was wearing the insignia of a Squadron Leader. As if that wasn't enough, he was the Squadron Leader of a squadron that was mustering for the first time, and whose members he had acquired only the barest familiarity with through their personnel dossiers (now among the vast assemblage of sensitive documents within the sealed case).

But there had to be a first time for everything.

As he took the air, a small utility car (which looked remarkably like a Hillman Minx that some poor private had done a truly abysmal job of painting in camouflage) pulled up in front of him. The Corporal driving it saluted.

"Squadron Leader Page? I've been instructed to bring you to the School of Air Navigation."
Page returned the salute, cracked the door, and took his seat. "Very well, Corporal. Drive on."

Picking up speed and cruising through the base, Page eagerly craned his neck to see what he could see. It had been quite a while since he'd been on an active RAF base, and the sights were all roughly familiar to him, but many of the details were different. The Hillman trundled past a line of new Hurricane fighters, which especially caught his eye.
They're nice and all, he pondered to himself, but I think we'll have them one-upped soon enough.

A few minutes later, the Hillman clattered to a stop in front of a formidable-looking building on the edge of the Manston base. It was massive, but there was no signs of life anywhere around it. The sign out front read "ROYAL AIR FORCE - SCHOOL OF AERIAL NAVIGATION", but someone had hung a sign around it reading "CLOSED - KEEP OUT! BY ORDER OF THE BASE COMMANDER".
"Here we are, sir."
"My thanks."

Page approached cautiously, and opened the front door. Despite the sign, it was unlocked.
Map Room 4, if I recall correctly...

The halls were empty and abandoned - a little bit eerie, if Page was honest with himself. It took him a while to find his way through the cobwebbed halls.
Fumbling in the dark, Page finally managed to find the switch for the briefing room, and flicked it on. The light was harsh, hurt his eyes - and revealed just how badly the room had gone to seed in the relatively few months it had been since the School of Air Navigation had been abandoned. A thick layer of dust covered the place, and most of the furniture, save for the central map table, was stacked up in the corners.
Guess it's just lucky we've got power at all in here.
If this was going to be 319 Squadron's new headquarters, it was clear it would need a lot of work to get it up to snuff.
But everything had to start somewhere.

Taking his position at map table, he lifted the case onto the desk and removed a key from the inside pocket of his greatcoat with his free hand. With a sense of great relief, he unmanacled his wrist, and then proceeded to unlock the case itself, removing a slim folder from within. The folder was marked "TOP SECRET - FOR AUTHORIZED EYES ONLY - BY ORDER OF THE AIR STAFF". It was then covered in the seals of about three different offices and bureaus, and bound on all edges with tape.
With a flourish, Page tore the tape off, flipped it open, and got to work.

As he readied for the briefing, he couldn't help but marvel at how fast things had turned around.
A month ago, I was sitting in a rat-infested rented room on the Isle of Dogs with ten quid to my name, reading about Poland in the papers.
Now, I've not just got the uniform back - I'm in the hottest seat in the entire RAF. And somehow, the entire war effort's already hanging on my shoulders.
I guess I should have been more careful what I wished for.

He couldn't resist smiling at the thought. No matter how strange it felt to be back, or whatever would come of this "Special Operations Squadron" that they'd cooked up...this was precisely what he'd wanted.

After a minute or two, everything was all ready to go. Now, it was just a matter of waiting for this odd crew to arrive...

[Goram]

Watch the ball...watch the ball...

Henry White, half crouched, tapped his bat on the ground. He looked up to see the bowler coming in off a short run. The ball pitched slightly short of a length and well outside off stump. White rocked back a fraction and aimed a vicious cut through the backward point. The bat seemed to sing in his hands as he made solid contact and the red leather ball flashed away, past a helpless fieldsman.

"Yes!"

He shouted, calling his partner through to take a run. White set off jogging, watching the ball skit away towards the boundary fence. He ran nonchalantly, rather going through the motions, until he looked up at his partner. The man running towards him had a pair of claret stains on his shirt and his previously white clothing was slowly morphing into a dirty field grey. White kept running towards the stumps at the opposite end but by the time the two batsmen had crossed, White's partner had completed his metamorphosis. Gone was the white dressed cricketer and in his place was a uniformed German infantry Corporal. Instead of the floppy County cap, he wore a steel helmet and instead of a bat he now had a rifle.

White's jog slowed to walk and then to a halt. He stood, incredulous, on the pitch and stared at the German "batsman". The claret stains on the front gave way to large holes in the back. The German groaned and collapsed on the pitch. Slowly, what had been a late summer's day in St. John's Wood became a cold, rainy night, in a trench, close to Loos in Northern France. White looked down to find his white clothing had equally changed - this time to the uniform of a British Lieutenant, and like the German, his bat was now a rifle. He heard a voice shouting at him, something frantic, but he couldn't quite work out what it was saying. It seemed to be a world away, somewhere completely separate from the body at his feet and the trench he found himself in. Suddenly, White realised that the voice was his. He was yelling to men to wake up and stand to. All around him, Lord's transformed into hell on Earth. Tracer fire lit up the night sky and the yells of men in a life or death struggle filled the air. White looked down to find hand grenade at his feet. It hissed, exploded and that was that.

---

Henry White's eyes snapped open. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

Damned odd

He thought. He hadn't dreamt of the last war in nearly 15 years now. He'd heard other veterans talk of unending nightmares, but such afflictions had never been his burden. His sleep had never been plagued by the faces of dead men or by the horrors that had once been a routine sight. So why had today been different? The dream he awoke from hadn't been a nightmare by any stretch, but it had certainly been odd. But then, today was a day for oddity. Today was the first day of his second war.

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

The dress shirt was less scratchy than he remembered, but then, the last time he wore one was twenty years ago and perhaps the materials had been changed. He stood in front of the thin, floor length mirror, and slowly, meticulously, tied his thin black tie. He reached for the blue/grey battle dress jacket and paused, letting his fingertips brush over the embroidered wings and medal ribbons. The 1914 Star was there, along with a British War Medal and the Allied Victory Medal. The board was capped off by two white and purple ribbons of the Military Cross and the DFC respectively. Both earned for gallantry during the Great War and it was the former that he had found himself dreaming of during the night.

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

It was often he thought of what might have become of his life, had he not been wounded that night. He was taken back to a field hospital for treatment, and then onto light duties in the rear to suitably recover. It was here that he met and befriended a Captain in the Royal Flying Corps. In the high summer of 1916, whilst the Somme raged at the front, the young Lieutenant was treated to a joy ride by his RFC friend. He spent twenty minutes in the observer's spot of a B.E.2, but that was all he needed to catch the flying bug. Later that week, he put in a transfer to the RFC and to his immense surprise his application was accepted. He spent the rest of the Great War in the clouds, flying SPAD VIIs and Sopwith Dolphins. By the time of the armistice, he had managed to tally 38 victories and firmly entrenched himself as a capable airman. It was this that he was decorated for the second time. Demobilisation and a twenty-year career as a civilian pilot (mostly for Hawker, but occasionally for Imperial Airways) followed. It was all but a certainty that his life would have been extremely different had he not caught fragments of exploding grenade, that night in October. Certainly, he wouldn't have been in this hotel room, preparing to start his second war.

The bicycle ride from the inn to RAF Manston took less than fifteen minutes. He pedalled at an amiable rate. He could have gone faster, but it was already a fine morning. The summer had been glorious and it appeared that the good weather would continue into mid autumn. The trees retained their vivid green and the sky was so blue it hurt your eyes just to look at it. You could almost be forgiven for forgetting the chaos that had consumed Poland and drawn the rest of Europe in. It all seemed too idyllic for any of that to be true.

The peace of the morning was broken by the sudden roar of an aero engine and almost immediately the machine passed low overhead, as it made it's final approach to land. He recognised the roar of the Merlin engine and the shape of the Hawker Hurricane, native to Manston, immediately. If you were to flick through one of his many logbooks, you would find well over 600 hours on the type. Indeed, you would be surprised by the sheer number of different types and the thousands, upon thousands of flight hours accrued. The man was no longer the young Lieutenant of 1 Scots Guards, that he had once been. Now he was a middle-aged man of 46, and a Flight Lieutenant in His Majesty's Royal Air Force. Older than most he certainly was, but his advancing age had not diminished his skill as a pilot. He fancied he could show these young chaps a thing or two yet.

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

"Papers please, Sir."

The gate Sergeant said, with a distinctly uninterested air.

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

The Sergeant glanced at the card, and at the papers, before nodding the man on the bicycle through the opening gate.

"Map Room Four, please. It's in the old School of Aerial Navigation."

The Sergeant said, just as the Flight Lieutenant began to move off. White smiled, nodded and waved a friendly wave as he pedalled slowly through the gate, and into his second war.

---

As he pedalled towards the formidable looking building on Manston's outskirts, he was sure there had been some mistake. Manston's School of Navigation was being closed down and moved, this he knew beyond any doubt. Yet here he was being directed over to it, for some sort of meeting?

It was an unseasonably warm day, for October, but at that moment a tuft of Cumulus darted across the sun and bathed half the station in momentary shadow. Out of the warmth of the sun's light, it was suddenly much colder - the pleasantness of the day being little more than a facade over the growing autumnal cold. White shivered involuntarily as, having reached the building, he dismounted his bicycle. For the first time since a very friendly Group Captain (indeed a man White knew quite well) and a decidedly less friendly man in a civilian suit had come to him with their vague offer of employment, the newly minted Flight Lieutenant had a feeling of uneasiness. They had made him an extremely attractive offer. Although he hardly needed the money, in truth White had found it hard to refuse - in spite of his wife's urging of caution. Now, arguably for the first time, he was beginning to second guess his decision. As he walked down the dusty halls, he thought

Just what have I got myself into?

Yet all feelings of unease dissipated as he reached the door marked "Map Room Four". He knocked and entered.

Inside was a man wearing an RAF greatcoat, adorned with a Squadron Leader's rank bands. He wore his hair long - or at least, longer than regulations allowed - and he had a curious-looking pair of dark glasses. At that moment, as he crossed the threshold, White decided the regulations must have changed since 1918. More interesting, however, was the man himself. White had been told the man's name was "Page", but this Squadron Leader Page wasn't a man he'd ever heard so much as a peep about. Most up and coming young airmen (those from the right sort of family or with the right sort of talent anyway) he had at least heard of. One didn't keep the company White was able to keep without picking up on a name or two. But Squadron Leader Robert Page? He'd never even heard of him. It struck him as odd - one could reasonably expect the new commander of a mustering Squadron to have "the right sort" of Commanding Officer. Another oddity that the middle-aged Flight Lieutenant couldn't quite place.

White advanced into the room, towards the officer and, as he did so, Page came towards him. White neglected to salute - something he would later remember and mentally chastise himself for. Mind you, he often did that. He'd make a mental note to do something minor but, as Mrs White would attest, it almost never actually happened. Instead of the usual salute, White trust out one hand with a beaming smile.

"Squadron Leader, the pleasure is all mine, I'm quite sure. Henry White, how do you do?"

[Morrdh]

Not long after Flight Lieutenant White had cycled through the gates of the air base a Tilly pulled up after a short trip to the railway station at Minster to the south of the RAF station. Once again papers were exchanged with the gate Sergeant before the vehicle passed through the gate and completed its journey by halting a short distance from RAF Manston's Watch Office. The Tilly's passenger thanked the driver and got out, collecting his kit bag before walking over to the Watch Office to report in. Two things of note were the insignia of a Warrant Officer worn on the cuff of his sleeves and shoulder titles that read 'IRELAND'. He also wore the wings of a pilot's brevet above a series of award ribbons that included the General Service Medal (with a King George V obverse), the Air Force Cross and the Military Medal. Though the uniform appeared newly issued and hadn't quite been worn in by its wearer. After checking in with the desk corporal at the Watch Office, the Warrant Officer heads in the direction of the School of Air Navigation building.

As he walks, Warrant Officer Patrick Wade, glances round at the various buildings that made up the airbase. Though there were notable differences here and there, the RAF station had remained largely unchanged since Wade had attended the Armoured Car Crew Training Course at the School of Technical Training (Men) back in 1922. That had been the beginning of a association with the RAF's Armoured Car Companies that would last for five years until Wade's unit got disbanded and he volunteered for flying duties. His flying career with the RAF was considerably shorter, barely two years with a front-line squadron on the North-West Frontier of India before a dispute saw him leave the Service. A couple of years flying over the Australian Outback then past before he was approached by an representative of His Majesty's Foreign Office, a week later he was enlisted as a Flight Sergeant in the Royal Australian Air Force and bound for Hong Kong.

Almost seven years was spent flying all over China and getting shot at by the various factions in the long Chinese Civil War, all on behalf of His Majesty's Government. The outbreak of the Second Sino-Japanese War in 1937 saw Japanese bullets being added to the mix. Following the German invasion of Poland and Britain's declaration of war on Germany, Wade found himself being approached once again by MI6; This time they want him to return to England and join a special new RAF squadron that was being raised. A few days later he'd been transferred to the RAF and put on a Short Empire flying boat back to the UK, then went onto the Central Flying School at RAF Upavon to complete familiarization courses on the Hurricane and Spitfire. Then went full circle as he got his posting to RAF Manston once the course had finished.

Now as he arrives at his destination he found others already waiting, some with officer's insignia on the lower sleeves of their uniforms, and headed in. He clears his throat, salutes and then says in a noticeable Irish accent. "Warrant Officer Wade."

[Bakra]

Being early had it's own advantages. Waking up before the dawn started, Chee found his way onto the base through a military transport coming straight from the international airport in London. Chee had asked the corporal where the fighters were being housed, and after showing his credentials the Yorkshire-sounding NCO pointed him in the right direction. Lined up on the tarmac were rows of Hurricanes. Now Chee got his first look at the fighters he would be piloting for the foreseeable future.

The Hurricanes were definitely a step up to what he was use to. The biplanes that he had to work with and the farmers-turned-conscripts that maintained and piloted his squadron left much to be desired, but he felt he could make it work. He had managed his advantages of maneuverability and armor, however slim they were, and managed to keep himself alive and his craft in the air. Well, except once, but he considered it a success to be back in action and live to tell the tale.

Chee ran his hand along the fuselage of the craft, grabbing onto the handholds and hoisting himself up on the wing. He was oddly surprised to find metal rather than the reinforced canvas he was used to, but they had better mechanics and parts to work with than he used to. The canopy was sealed and locked, but he didn't want to sit down in the aircraft just yet. No, he wanted to get a feel for his modern warhorse before he even stepped into the saddle.

Like his ancestors would do with their steeds of the plains, Chee studied and even honored his plane a little bit despite his aversion to such pseudo-spiritual tendencies. He counted and recounted the exhaust pipes for the engine, gave an extremely rough calculation of wing stress by shifting his weight on the right side, judged his viewing range from the cockpit by setting his head on top of the canopy and looking around. It may come across as odd or even downright foolish to an outsider, but Chee needed to be satisfied that his plane could live up to the rigors of combat, or at least Chee's brand of combat.

Sadly, Chee didn't have the opportunity to look at the Me 109, for obvious reasons. He had to go off of conjecture, what few combat reports he could get his hands on from Poland and Spain, and the technical performance sheets from Messershcmitt. So far the Hurricane lagged behind in a few regards, particularly in speed and maneuverability, and it's engine would cut out when negative g's entered the picture. Bunting and diving away would be a serious issue if he did it too much. He heard that the Hurricane had a tighter turn radius by a somewhat significant margin; he intended to exploit that to the fullest.

He stopped, knocking on the fuselage behind the cockpit. It wasn't quite hollow it was...a fuel tank? Maybe? If the fuel tank was behind the cockpit then he may not have more than a few seconds to bail before he gets fried. Well, they were known to be better armored and more durable than the 109s; he'd be flying a tank, but one a bit prone to combustion.

Chee checked his diver's watch, a gift from Chiang Kai-Shek when he left for Britain. He tried not too seem too surprised at the sheer expense of the device, worth more than anything he's ever held in his life. Seeing the time, he realized that his earliness was nearly used up.

He slipped off the back side of the wing, hitting the pavement with a large thud. He was told by a flight instructor that he had the hight and build of a bomber pilot, but the Marines didn't have bombers and he didn't want to fly them. He remembered where the corporal pointed to, and proceeded to the large building at the edge of the base.

He saw someone on a bike enter a few minutes ago, who probably didn't notice him so far behind him. He wondered who he was, and if he knew anything about this generous but intentionally mysterious assignment. Chee paid a little too much attention to the "KEEP OUT" sign; he wasn't used to being "on the inside". Being an enlisted "injun" kept him on the "outside" more often than not. But he was a somebody in Asia, and now that he was back in the West he was wary of the racial relations he grew up with. He knew the Marines didn't bullshit about his race but...they were Marines. Even other white people thought they were batshit crazy.

Map Room 4. Looks like we'll be going straight into a briefing. He had no problem with them shooting straight after all this secrecy.

He opened the door to see two officers and an NCO. Reflexively, Chee stood at attention, saluting the officers in the room. The man next to him reported in as "Warrant Officer Wade", leading Adahy to respond with slightly more gruff: "Flight Sergeant Adahy Chee, reporting."

[Alversia]

As he felt the frigid chill of the morning air on his cheeks, Conor Fitzpatrick sat back and allowed himself to relax. The miles were simply draining away before them, endless vistas of quaint English countryside unchanged for centuries so familiar to him despite having never been this way before. It was all green fields and low stone walls, narrow country roads that would have once been host to all manner of horses and carts yet now accommodated the MG P-Type as it wound carefully though sleepy hamlets and idyllic villages. Most of the inhabitants were already up and at work but streets were far from empty; women pushing prams, old couples hobbling on daily chores and occasionally a distinctive dark uniform; not that of the military but of the milkman performing his often unseen and yet critical part in daily life out in these parts. All would pause momentarily and look up to see the powerful roadster pass, its inline engine purring softly as it was coaxed by without causing overt disturbance. That would have changed had it been him behind the wheel, there was no way he would let all that power go to waste. He would have opened the taps and let the murmuring engine sing aloud, let it reverberate across the countryside, send the singing birds to flight and have cows scrambling in their pens. Alas, it was not him who was behind the wheel as he looked forlornly across the cockpit.

“Are you sure I can’t drive her, not even for a little bit?”

“No.” The answer was as firm as it had been the first time he had asked the question and all the subsequent times that had followed on their long journey from London, a journey that had taken them through Rochester, Chatam and Whitstable amongst others. The owner of the voice was his sister, her auburn hair tied up with a scarf to keep it from flying in the wind, dressed in a sharp suit of the sort it was simply scandalous for women to wear, but then Aoife Fitzpatrick had never cared much for what others thought.

“Why not?” He pressed further. It had been some miles since he had done so and he judged the moment ripe for another attempt, “I was a racing driver, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Aoife did not take her eyes off the road, “and unlike all your cars, I’d rather mine didn’t end up wrapped around a tree or on fire.”

“Excuse me,” He put his hand to his heart, pressing against the dark blue of his RAF uniform, “I take great exception to that remark. Not all my cars ended up crashed.”

“Oh no? How about Troytown?” That drew a grimace as he recalled his first ever race-car, built over torturous months with his bare hands, upside down and aflame at Chelmsford, “Or Double Chance?” That one had ended up wrapped around a tree, crashed on Lord Robert Huntingdon-Whitpole’s estate, “And don’t even get me started on Golden Miller.”

“In my defence,” he finally found his voice, “Golden Miller was an excellent car on paper.”

“Of course it was, dear brother,” She shook her head, “And it may as well have been paper you made the brakes from. I’ve seen ocean liners stop quicker than you did before you hit that oak.”

Realising that this branch of the argument was getting him nowhere, he changed tack, “You know I’ve flown 300 mile-per-hour fighters, right? The latest the RAF has to offer!”

“Certainly, and as soon as you let me know how that qualifies you to drive my car given your previous history, we’ll be laughing.”

Knowing defeat when he saw it, again, Conor fell silent. As ever, it was for but a moment. “So, you heard much about this new set up then?”

“Not a jot.”

“Oh come on, don’t go all ‘official’ on me now. You’re bound to know something.”

“On my honour, I haven’t heard a peep,” She shook her head earnestly as they turned off the main road, such as it was, and began their final approach to RAF Manston, “They’re being very tight-lipped about it all and it wasn’t my place to pry.”

“Certainly not,” A pause, “So what did you find out?”

“You’ll be flying Spitfires at some point, it’s not your standard RAF squadron and the Squadron Leader is a guy called Robert Page.”

“Not a standard squadron eh?” He stroked his chin at that, cursing his younger sister’s frustratingly cryptic statements. She definitely knew more than she was telling but she did love to tease him so.

“Well it couldn’t be, they wanted you in it.”

“Oh, very droll.” He placed his hands behind his head, eyes closed, “This whole thing will probably blow over before we get a chance to do anything anyway.”

“I’m not so sure,” The note in her voice had him looking across in time to see her bite her lip. She always bit her lip when she was worried, “Everyone here is acting like this is some sort of skirmish, like we’re going to give the Germans a slap on the wrist and they’ll go home.”

“Once we get across the channel in numbers and the French get their boys to the front, that’s exactly what they’ll do. They’re not stupid, they don’t want to tangle with the Frogs.”

“They went through Poland in no time at all.”

“And? Poland is Poland. France is France. They hardly compare.”

“Have you ever met a Polish soldier, brother?”

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“I have,” She stopped the car and looked him straight in the eye, her own warm blue and unblinking, “I’ve never met a group like them. They’re not the most educated but they believe in their country with the sort of fire most patriots can only dream of. They spoke of her like a father describes his favourite daughter and the others reacted like they were thinking the same of their own children. After all those years of occupation, Poland was their country and theirs alone. They’d have held on to every inch of ground with their teeth if they could and the Germans went through them like a hot knife through butter.”

“Well, quite,” Conor’s smile had slipped. Even after all these years, a serious Aoife was amongst the most unnerving spectacles he had faced.

“So, promise me, Conor. Promise me you won’t treat this like some game or jolly boy’s adventure. This is war. Not a skirmish, not a border tiff, a real war.”

“Alright, alright,” He held his hands up defensively, “Good god, Aoife, I promise I’ll go to war and kill the other guys as seriously as I can. If I get close enough to a 109 I’m shooting down, I’ll be sure to pull back the canopy so he can see from my face how seriously I’m taking it.”

In spite of the seriousness in his voice, the woman broke into a smile and punched him on the arm, “You are such an arse.”

“I do try, my dear. I do try.”

With the engine burbling over again, they made their way up to the gates of RAF Marston, the sentry at the gate looking a tad confused as not only Conor flashed his papers but Aoife did as well. They were for press-clearance only, but they were officially stamped and so the poor man could only shrug and let them pass. The base itself was nothing remarkable, one of dozens he had seen before though the line of Hurricanes did draw his attention until they were gone from view. Aoife pulled up and killed the engine, pulling off her driving gloves and releasing her long auburn hair from its restraint.

“Alright, you know where you’re going?” She asked.

“Yes, mother. Map room four.”

“Good,” Without warning, she licked a finger and began to rub at his cheek. He only managed to fight her off by jumping out of the car entirely, his protests not quite coherent English, “Have a good day at work, dearest.”

Waving his hand at her with a gesture that was entirely unbecoming of an officer in his Majesty’s Air Force, Conor set off for the School of Navigation, the one remarkable building in the whole area. He’d heard the place was being packed up and shipped off elsewhere and certainly both the interior and exterior had that feel about it. His footsteps echoed in empty halls in a manner that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He didn’t quite reach for his revolver, but the temptation was there alright. At long last, he found map room four and swung the door open to find four people already ahead of him; a guy who was clearly not native to the British Isles but impressively built all the same, two older looking chaps dressed as a Flight Lieutenant and Warrant Officer respectively and then the one in the Squadron Leader’s attire, who he assumed to be in charge of the whole shindig.

“Good morning, Gents,” He offered a salute, far from crisp but probably better than nothing, and a broad grin, “I assume you’re also looking for the lavatory?”

[The Two Jerseys]

Central Flying School, RAF Upavon
08.15, 14 September 1939

As the morning parade broke formation, Flight Lieutenant Geoffrey Talbot started heading back to the barracks to dress for his first training flight of the day; he only made it ten feet or so, as he was stopped dead in his tracks by someone calling his name. See that it was the Station Commander summoning him, he altered his course and reported.

“Walk with me,” said the Station Commander as he lowered his salute; as the two officers started walking, he continued: “How goes the refresher course?”

“Rather well, sir,” replied Talbot. “Qualified on seven types in six days, scheduled for the Hurricane today and the Spitfire tomorrow.”

“Keep up at this rate and we’ll put you to work as an instructor!” he jokingly replied. “On a serious note, you’ll be delayed a bit this morning, someone from Whitehall up to see you.”

“Dare I ask why they want to see me?”

“You can, but I know as much as you...”

---

Talbot stepped into the small conference room, where he found a man in a chalkstripe suit examining the various photographs hanging on the wall. Upon hearing Talbot enter the room, the man turned around to face him; he was well over six feet tall and built like a brick wall, with hair slicked back to show a slightly receding hairline. “Ah, there you are! Flight Lieutenant 36001 Geoffrey Talbot, I presume?” he asked in a deep, sophisticated-sounding voice.

“That’s right,” Talbot replied.

“Would you please close the door?”

As Talbot closed the door, the man moved over to the table and leaned on it. “I understand that you’re a busy man, so I’ll make this brief: the RAF is forming a new squadron with which my organization has a vested interest, and I’m here to ask you if you would like to volunteer for it.”

“And what organization would you be representing?”

The man chuckled slightly. “That's where it gets a bit confusing. For the past week my organization has technically been the 3rd Battalion, Queen’s Royal West Surreys, but for all intents and purposes I represent the Foreign Office...am I making myself clear?”

Talbot furrowed his brow. “Are you trying to recruit me for MI6?”

“Not exactly, but you rather have the general idea...”

“Well you may have noticed that I’m a pilot, I’m here to fly aeroplanes, not spy!”

“But that’s what we want you to do, fly! Only you’re going to be flying special missions!”

“How special?”

“Special enough that we want a pilot who can shoot, drive fast cars, knows several languages, and is looking for some action, to say nothing of the rest of the skills mentioned in your file. So what do you say, old boy?” He paused as Talbot contemplated the offer. “If it helps convince you, I could arrange for you to be handcuffed to Madeleine Carroll...”

“All right, I’ll volunteer for your little outfit. And I may very well hold you to that offer...”

---

RAF Manston, Kent
09.15, 8 October 1939

A British racing green Talbot 105 tourer silently crept through the RAF station, following the directions to the School of Aerial Navigation that had been provided by the sentry at the main gate. After several minutes, it came upon a large building appropriately signed "School of Aerial Navigation" with an MG roadster parked in front. Pulling up in front of the building, the driver killed the engine and extricated himself from the vehicle before making his way to the building entrance, all whilst surreptitiously casting glances at the MG - or rather, at the young lady with the auburn hair occupying the driver's seat of said MG...

Entering the abandoned building, the flight lieutenant was greeted by the echo of his own footsteps upon the tiled floor, along with the faint sound of voices coming from somewhere in the building. Removing the copy of his orders from the breast pocket of his tunic, he quickly double-checked the location that he was to report to: "School of Aerial Navigation building, Map Room 4"; not finding any sort of directory in the building lobby, he decided to go with Plan B: follow the voices.

The heavy pounding of the flight lieutenant's footsteps - a side effect of his natural gait, as tended to strike the ground hard with his heel - echoed through the corridors as he sought out the source of the voices. Eventually, he spotted a sliver of incandescent light shining through the crack under one of the doors; making his way over, he saw what he had been looking for stenciled on the door: "Map Room 4". Opening the door and stepping inside, he found five men in RAF uniforms already there.

"Good morning chaps, I take it that I'm in the right place?"

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

RAF Manston Heath
0900 Hours
October 8th, 1939

The October morning on Sunday 8th was its own kind of heavenly. It was the kind of morning that gave you a respite before a busy day. The grass that surrounded the tarmac of the airfields was laden with a cold morning dew, which was slowly evaporating under a watery morning sun. The smell of autumn drifted across Kent for one of the last times of the year. It would soon make way for the salt of the sea coming in from the north, accompanied by cold Scandinavian winds. Strong winds good for taking off, but that could chill a man to the bone in seconds.

For now, however, the morning was nice. Chilly to be sure, but that could be mended by coffee. Seated in a wooden chair just outside the maintenance hangar, armed with a steaming mug of coffee, Howard Cavalier could see all across RAF Manston Heath. In the chilly, moist morning air, Howard could hear the sounds coming from miles around. Birds of all kinds were singing their early songs, with the cuckoo bird being the most recognisable of them all. The church bells of Ramsgate rung nine times in the distance, followed by the bells of Margate. Ramsgate was always a few seconds earlier than Margate, and Howard wondered if there was a sense of competition between the two.

Howard yawned and stretched, the hard fabric of his blue dirty overalls stretching all around him. He had already gotten his new RAF uniform a few days before, but he hadn’t worn it yet. He felt more at home in his overalls. In fact, he dreaded wearing the official uniform. It was now hanging untouched from his bunk in the barracks, still unworn. He had planned to wear it to the meeting he had been invited to, but with the commanding officer being expected to land any second now, that was becoming more and more impossible. Howard himself was concerned more with making up an excuse why he wasn’t wearing his uniform than actually getting up and changing.

Howard shook his head and took the newspaper from his lap. It was the Whitstable Times of yesterday, the 7th of October. As today was a Sunday, no newspaper was delivered, especially not in a place like Kent. Such metropolitan cities as Margate and Ramsgate did not issue Sunday newspapers. Here the times stopped on Sunday. So, Howard just spent the morning reading the newspaper of the day before.

When talking about things that are unequivocally British, one could think of crumpets and tea, of the Union Jack, of the Navy even. One could think of King George and Neville Chamberlain (although Howard wasn’t really a conservative himself). However, at that moment, seated in the damp chilly fields of Manston Heath, the most British thing was the front page of that newspaper. Howard smiled as he read the various adds and articles on the first page. The main article was about the evacuation scheme for British children to be moved into the countryside. Parents who at first were happy to take a holiday from their children were now getting them back. The writer of the article was livid about this, decrying these parents as simpletons moving against the well-oiled machine of government. Even if there was a war on, Howard thought, the great British public would always find things to complain about. If nothing else, each other. As long as that ethic prevailed, Britain could never perish.

There was a radio add also, on the top left of the page. Murphy Radios was running a special add: a man decried “But I have GOT a radio set!”. A calm text below explained: “Yes, sir, but they say it may be a long war. It may last for three years or more!”

Three years of war... Henry thought about the prospects. His son would be four by then. Able to walk and speak a bit, knowing nothing of the world except for war. What kind of world we he inherit, then? One where Hitler made himself master of Europe? Under Prime Minister Mosely and his blackshirts? Howard shuddered at the thought. He dismissed the add as opportunist drivel. Three years of war… They would have the nutter Hitler down on his knees in no-time. Perhaps he would even be home by Christmas. Home by Christmas…

His gaze quickly shifted to the other articles. On the top right, a warning was given that paper was becoming scarce, and that periodicals needed to be ordered in advance. Howard made a mental note that he needed to send a letter to the post office in order to get his papers at the airfield on time. At the bottom of the page, there were a few sentences on a hike from Whitstable to Royal Oak. A good time was had by all, it said, and another one would be held on Monday. That was tomorrow, Howard noticed. If he had time and transport, he could go there. It was nice to have a little chat with the locals, perhaps. Keep his mind off things, especially if he wouldn’t get along with the military folks. Then, the read the final sentence of the notice.

“No-one will be admitted without a gas mask”

Howard had a gas mask, that was not why he clenched his fist. It was the thought of gas masks that scared him. He imagined them walking down a Kent road, enjoying the sun and evening air, as gas shells erupted all around them. A mustard-coloured haze drawing across the land, killing all it touched. Dead cattle, trees, people… Jolting up from his chair, Howard folded his newspaper and threw it aside. His hands run through his hair, grabbing it as he did so. His heart was pounding, he could feel his stomach turn. Gas, the war, Hitler, Stalin, three years, little Charles, Anne…

His train of thought was luckily interrupted by the sound of airplane engines. He immediately recognised them; he could always tell the distinct rumbling of dual Armstrong Siddeley Cheetahs roaring. As he looked around he could see an Avro Anson landing to his right. Air taxis were not reserved for regular soldiers, those got around by train, so this person had to be at least somewhat important. Perhaps it was their squadron leader? Howard craned his neck in order to see better. On the runway stood a ‘camouflaged’ Hillman Minx, although he could not make out its occupants.

“Almost didn’t see it there…” Howard whispered to himself, noting the state of the camouflage. Out from the Avro stepped an officer, recognisable by his greatcoat and cap. He held a briefcase. The officer had a short exchange with what appeared to be the driver of the car before getting in, the Hillman starting to drive in his direction. As the car sped by, Howard could just make out the man sitting next to the driver, clutching the briefcase tightly. And were those… handcuffs? The car sped off again, past a row of Hurricanes, and towards an abandoned building on the far end of the base. The precise place the meeting was about to take place. There was no question now who that man was. Howard swallowed, turned around, took a last swig from his coffee mug and then ran into the maintenance hangar, grabbing the bike he kept there. Within moments he was off, cycling towards the abandoned building.

It was a nice day for cycling. A Sunday, of course, which made the base a bit more quiet than usual. Most men were taking the morning off, using it to take long showers or to run through the Kent countryside. A few of Howard’s fellow mechanics were inspecting some of the Hurricanes, but there was no hard labour going on. Howard didn’t like people touching his aircraft without his supervision. Well, his aircraft… Howard, for all his friendliness, couldn’t trust people with aircraft. He knew he had to do things himself, or keep watch. Indeed, the other mechanics knew this, and quickly pretended not to be doing anything as he passed on his bicycle. He gave a friendly wave, and they waved back. Howard wondered if they liked him at all, or that they just pretended. He had that problem a lot.

In a few short moments he had arrived at the building. He quickly got in, hoping both not to be the first nor the last person there. Finding the place they had to be, map room 4, was not difficult at all. It was the only illuminated room, and the only place making a single peep in the dirty, cobweb-filled former training school. Howard followed in the heavy, resounding footsteps of another officer. Howard still had difficulty recognising rank insignia, but he was pretty sure this was a flying officer. One line was a pilot officer, two a flying officer, three a flight lieutenant, and so on. No, wait, three was a squadron leader… Before Howard had figured out the precise rank, he was already in the map room. The other occupants were clearly of the soldiery type. The greatcoat-clad officer who’d arrived by plane stood in the middle of the room, his suitcase neatly displayed on the mapping table. Howard noticed how he was the most underdressed man there, only wearing his grease-stained blue overalls.

“Good… Good morning” he said timidly, immediately standing off to the side of the door. He was not in the business of being noticed.

[Grenartia]

Jimmy Thibodeaux sighed as he strolled along to his new posting. The last few weeks had been a whirlwind, to say the least. Suffice it to say that being an American pretending to be a Canadian to fight for the British against the Germans would be a very confusing thing to explain to somebody, if he were to explain it to someone.

Regardless of all that, the day was nice so far, so the walk was pleasant. Stepping up to the gate, the Flying Officer presented his orders to the attending Sergeant.

"You'll be in the School of Aerial Navigation, Map Room 4, sir. Just ignore the signs that say "Keep Out"", the Sergeant offered, helpfully.

"Thanks." replied Thibodeaux, before continuing on his way.

Before long, he was at the room, which stood out as being the only one with voices echoing out of it. Several other men, all appearing to be of different walks of life. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he simply opted for making sure this was, in fact, the correct room. "Map Room 4, I presume?"

[Len Hyet]

RAF Manston Heath
October 8th, 1939

Flying Officer David Richter sat quietly outside his one luxury, his officer's quarters. When the School of Air Navigation had moved out of the base they'd taken the majority of the base's staff with them, freeing up a host of housing for the single men who lived on base. By sheer luck David had been transferred to RAF Manston just a few days after the school had pulled out, and had been assigned quarters that if the base were more full would normally be reserved for a Squadron Leader or higher. As things stood he was more than happy to quietly live in his two-room lodgings.

Though he didn't know it, as he sat F/O Richter looked the very epitome of a British officer. A cigarette dangled from one hand, letting a thin trickle of smoke into the still morning's air, a cup of tea on the table matched his cigarette with it's own steady plume of steam. An empty plate that had once contained his breakfast lay off to the side, a thin dribble of sauce marring the newspaper underneath. Had Richter noticed he wouldn't have much cared, he only read the paper to improve his English, the news didn't interest him. None of it had what he wanted to know, facts about what was going on back home in Germany, instead of speculation and rumor about things these English reporters knew little about.

What Richter had heard as fact was troubling enough. The small Jewish community he'd found in Ramsgate had three families trying to bring relatives over from the continent. A letter from Poland had just arrived, making it out of the war-torn country by nothing short of a miracle, which related that the Nazis had just deported thousands of Jews from somewhere called Pultusk during Sukkot. Before that there were mass deportations across the whole of Poland. Though to where Hitler's trained dogs were taking those they deported nobody knew. There were rumors of course, but little in the way of fact.

David began to tap his cigarette against his uniform leg in a nervous pattern as he stared off into the remarkably beautiful morning sky. He was so engrossed in his thoughts he didn't notice the enlisted man approaching him until he'd coughed loudly to get David's attention.

"Ja, uh, yes?" He asked quickly, flushing from embarrassment at being caught napping as well as his unintentional slip. His English was improving, he'd been working hard at it since being granted Friendly Enemy Alien status, but he still slipped when surprised.

"Flying Officer David Richter?" The young man, an Aircraftman, Richter noticed, asked.

"That's me." He responded slowly, doing his best to scrub even the hint of a German accent from his words.

"Orders sir."

David accepted the folded letter from the young man, and waved him off. He unfolded the note.

Code: Select all

8.10.39

F/O David Richter, 319 Squadron.

Squadron C/O arriving 0900. Unit to assemble at School of Air Navigation, Map Room Four, 0930.

Respectfully,
James Smith. Duty Sergeant.

Sent with Aircraftman 1st Class Jones.

David checked his cheap wristwatch and relaxed slightly. It was still only 0847, he had enough time to make it there without being late. He took a sip of tea and dropped his cigarette into the dregs, before standing and beginning to make his way over towards the old School of Air Navigation, a roughly 15 minute walk.

As he walked briskly across the grassy fields that separated the Officer's Quarters from the School of Air Navigation, Richter gazed longingly at the row of brand new Hurricane Mk I fighters. A moment later he corrected himself, Mk I(R) fighters. The armor on the wings was a dead giveaway that separated it from the earlier Mk Is. Damn, Richter thought to himself. I'd love to get up today. I wonder if the new CO will put us through some exercises?

Distracted, the walk came to a close quickly. He noted the sign on the front door of the school, and smiled slightly. When he'd been approached for this posting he was told it was top secret, it appeared to be living up to the hype. Richter pushed through the door, and scratched his head momentarily. The building was dark and deserted, or at least it appeared so on first glance. A moment later he realized there was a faint light coming down from one of the hallways, along with voices. Following both, he soon arrived at Map Room 4.

He stepped inside, and snapped off a salute as he realized the new Commanding Officer was already present, along with what looked like quite a bit of the squadron.

"Flight Officer David Richter reporting sir."

[Morrdh]

"Good morning chaps, I take it that I'm in the right place?"

"Oh feck me...." Wade exclaimed. "Talbot? What are ye bally doing here?!"

"Thought I'd seen the last of yer sorry mug at Upavon." Chuckled Wade. "If I knew you were gonna be in this outfit I would've applied fer the Navy, heck...I still might!"

"Smoke?" Wade asked as he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered to the Flight Lieutenant.

[Monfrox]

RAF Manston
October 8th, 1939

It had been certainly dull on the way over, but the boat ride was what she had the worst case of boredom with. Samantha, or rather "Samuel", Melody stood around the side of a hangar, looking out at the rest of the airstrip. She had been given her orders after enlisting in the RAF and gone through her training, but she did it all under the guise of being a young man instead of a young girl. She had cut her hair short, bound her breasts, and practiced talking in a deeper voice to play the charade to the fullest. As to whether it was fooling anyone...well...she got this far at least. Her habit of forgoing showers during training in the day and sneaking off to get them at night would still have to be done here too. At least she had gotten good at showering blind.

For now, Samantha looked over her paper detailing her orders, but was not sure where the School of Air Navigation was in this blasted place. She wandered around, apologizing to outranking officers and enlisted, asking more than a few until someone finally took pity on her and pointed over at a rundown building. That couldn't be right. Wasn't this supposed to be a new kind of squadron? That's the gist she got from the transfer order. But wouldn't they have a better place for an HQ than that? She did see people making their way toward it though, so she thanked the man who pointed her in the right direction and headed off.

The building looked increasingly worrisome the closer she got. A good coat of paint was definitely needed, but the windows looked like they were covered in dust and maybe even rusted shut. Opening the door, she could smell the mold and mildew and other things that made that sort of "old building" smell she was so used to back in the States. She sighed and stepped in, trying to gauge just where everyone else had gone. There was but one light along the hall, and she hazarded a guess that anyone and everyone would be there. She carefully made her way there, noting the sounds of people talking. She was still wondering how the building would hold up now that it was being in use. One thing was for sure: dusting would be a squadron-wide venture. She poked her head into the doorway and was slightly surprised to actually find other RAF personnel in here. Several older men were chatting or standing around and suddenly she got really nervous. How long could she keep this act up? As long as it takes.

Samantha stepped in and was ready to ask the obvious question, but the dust got to her and she sneezed instead. Rather than draw even more attention to herself, she decided that she was going to get her answer no matter if she asked or not, and quickly resigned herself to an empty seat with her handkerchief.

[United Kingdom of Poland]

I see the British are no more prepared for a war than we are. Henri Vodat thought as he walked through RAF Manston’s gate. When he’d been plucked from his squadron near Paris, with orders that said little beyond his seconding to the RAF and a report date for RAF Manston, Vodat had expected something better than the organized chaos that was the Armee de Air. Instead it had the same old hurry up and wait.

Stopping to straighten out his Armee de air uniform jacket and white legionnaire cap, Henri made his way to the supposedly closed air navigation school that he had been told to report too. Passing a line of Hurricane fighters far more advanced than anything he’d flown with the French, Henri pushed open the supposedly locked door.
As he walked into the meeting room, Henri noticed that he hadn’t been the first to do so. Besides their commanding officer, Henri could see a collection of American and British pilots inside.

“Lieutenant Henri Vodat reporting sir.” He said to Page as he offered a salute. “May I say it’s a pleasure to serve under a man with your reputation.”

[Kouralia]

As Sunday Morning broke, there was one person at least who was not travelling far. In fact the khaki hued uniform of one Staff Sergeant Smythe, late of the 11th Hussars, was ensconced around his body and settled into an uncomfortable desk chair in a nissen hut that was definitely not 319 Squadron's stores, because it didn't say so on the door. Or his desk. Who're 319 Squadron? I've not heard of them. Are you sure you're allowed to be here, I'm going to have to fetch the provost. In fact the Staff Sergeant was slumped asleep over a binder he'd only finished cataloguing the night before as he'd decided that, given the extremely precarious situation he now found himself in in this RAF squadron, he needed to make the best possible first impression and keep his head down. For that purpose he'd been there since early o'clock on Saturday trying to get the stores together for the new squadron leader: someone he was sure would be exacting in his standards.

After all, if stories of the cavalry were anything to go by then the cavalry of the clouds would be the same, wouldn't it?

It was the sound of a puttering motor passing by that woke Smythe that morning, jerking him awake as what should have been a blissful sabbath morning changed instantly to a thought of 'Oh hell... What time is it?' and the realisation that while it was not unsalvageable, it was certainly not the time to dally. Within a minute he'd made himself more presentable by straightening and smoothing as much of it as he could, donning his cap with its brass cap badge: a Saxon pillar topped with peacock feathers surmounting a latin inscription of Faithful and Strong.'

That's what he'd be, he'd promised himself. Nothing like the old life: he'd promised, and this was going to be the first step on the road to it. He considered as he hastily made his way through the Nissen huts to the old Air Navigation School building. He'd seen it before, and knew its place, so the journey wasn't long or drawn out like some of his soon-to-be compatriots' had been. In fact it had only been a day before that he'd similarly hurried through the streets of London, desperate to avoid contact with his fellow man until he reached his destination, something that didn't escape the notice of his mind.

He found himself reaching the Flight Nav School a few seconds after others in the Squadron and, after hesitating to remove his peaked cap, followed them through. As soon as he reached what he presumed was to be the briefing room, the Staff Sergeant realised the one important difference between the cavalry of the clouds and the cavalry of the cars: at least in the Army Officers were restricted to sipping tea and pointing at things their SNCOs needed to do. Here it seemed everyone had the King's commission bar a warrant officer and two Sta- Col- Flight Sergeants, he thought they were called? Rather than wait around like the officers for a meet and greet with the officer commanding the squadron, Smythe nodded a greeting and moved to a free desk by one of the SNCOs, a fresh faced young'n who looked a good ten years younger than him.

"'Flight Sergeant." He said, nodding in greeting and offering the barest social interaction as he sat down and laid a leather journal-style note pad on the table in front of him, fumbling through pockets for something to take notes with.

[The Two Jerseys]

"Good morning chaps, I take it that I'm in the right place?"

"Oh feck me...." Wade exclaimed. "Talbot? What are ye bally doing here?!"

"Thought I'd seen the last of yer sorry mug at Upavon." Chuckled Wade. "If I knew you were gonna be in this outfit I would've applied fer the Navy, heck...I still might!"

"Well, fancy running into you here, Wade! Rather a small world isn't it? Tell me, did that big fellow with the smooth baritone rope you into this as well?"

"Smoke?" Wade asked as he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered to the Flight Lieutenant.

"Thanks awfully!" he replied as he removed a cigarette from the packet and placed it into his mouth.

"Here," he said as he pulled a Zippo lighter from his pocket and flicked the lid open, "allow me to ignite your cigarette."

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Soon enough, the other transfers began arriving. Page had to work quickly to match half-familiar faces with the names he'd been desperately cramming for a day or so, returning salutes and pleasantries as he did so. They were each ticked off from the list - Patrick Wade and Conor Fitzpatrick, from the Republic of Ireland...Adahy Chee, James Thibodeaux, and Samuel Melody, both from the US (the latter of which had surprisingly delicate features for a hardened fighter with the skills claimed on his paperwork)...Flight Lieutenant Geoffrey Talbot...Flying Officer Howard Cavalier...and a few others made themselves known.

"Squadron Leader, the pleasure is all mine, I'm quite sure. Henry White, how do you do?"

Page returned the grin and shook the proffered hand, removing his glasses as he did so. It struck him as a potentially awkward situation, given that he outranked White, yet was over a decade and a half younger than him, but the Flight Lieutenant didn't seem overly bothered about the matter. Page had already fixed him as a top candidate for one of the flight lead positions, given his experience.
"Very well, Flight Lieutenant, thanks for asking. I'd be a little better if we weren't shunted off to the Manston storage closet, but it'll have to do for the moment."

“Lieutenant Henri Vodat reporting sir.” He said to Page as he offered a salute. “May I say it’s a pleasure to serve under a man with your reputation.”

Page returned the salute. "Likewise, Lieutenant Vodat. Glad to see that the French delegation has arrived."
It occurred to Page almost as he said it that Vodat, being a White Russian volunteer for the Legion, might be a bit miffed at being described as "the French delegation".
But it was true - the French government had volunteered Vodat for the job themselves. It was a bit surprising that there would be only one French national in this Allied project, but with their one spot, they'd picked him. So it goes.

"At ease, everyone. Pull up a seat and listen up, because we're already on the clock. And stow that notebook, Staff Sergeant - what you see and hear in here is classified. We can't have any records of this floating around that the RAF doesn't know about."

"Introductions are in order. My name is Squadron Leader Robert Page. Over the last ten years, I've served in the RAF, the Spanish Republican Air Force, and a number of other military organizations. I've seen action in Iraq, Spain, Nicaragua, and a few other places I'm not entirely sure I'm allowed to talk about.

"I'm not telling you this to brag. I'm telling you this because you all have comparable skills, records, and experiences that have brought you here, to this room, today. 319 Squadron, as you've all probably noticed already, is a unique unit. The RAF has brought together in this room twelve pilots and soldiers from all over the world. You were picked for this not because you played the game and made your way up the careerist ladder, or because you were friends with the right officers. You were picked for this because someone, somewhere, looked at your records and picked you as one of the best in the world at fighting Nazis, in any way, shape, or form. And that's exactly what we'll be doing.

"We're not on any official documents. The RAF will not admit to this unit's existence. Only a handful of people even know who we are, and what our job really is. 319 Squadron is the only 'special operations' squadron in the Royal Air Force. For that matter, we're probably the only squadron of this type in the entire world. For months, the Allied governments have been running themselves ragged, trying to figure out a way to counter the Nazi war machine. Putting all of us together in the same unit was step one. Step two...you'll see in a few minutes.

"So I'll tell you right now - if you came here today expecting to serve an ordinary posting in an ordinary squadron, consider this your rude awakening. This is the most dangerous unit in the British military, in every sense of the term. We'll be getting the most dangerous assignments they can give us. But in exchange, you'll be paid well - and get all the action you could possibly want. And this is a volunteer outfit. If you don't want to be here, you can leave, right now, no consequences. You won't be able to tell anybody anything about what you've already seen or heard today, of course, but if you want to get out while you still can and try some other unit, or maybe just go home, this is the time."

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

[Alversia]

His greeting made, Fitzpatrick promptly retreated to one side of the room as it appeared quite the crowd was coming for the party. It was one hell of a motely lot, far different to any RAF squadron he had encountered at any point in his career and that was far from its detriment. There seemed to be a little bit of everything here; from the gruff and grizzled career flyers of the sort the pre-war RAF had bulging out of the seams, to the rakish gadabouts like himself to those who were clearly foreigners to these shores; the Frenchman and the Yanks stood out in particular. He wondered just what their story was; the USA wasn’t at war with Germany last he had been told so were they here of their own accord? Were there going to be Soviets appearing next? Japanese? Heaven forbid the Spanish might arrive, though there would be a delicious irony in that.

So, they were an odd mix but then it had been much the same in Spain. Some of the most unusual and strange individuals he had met in Spain had turned out to be the most exquisite artists behind the controls of a fighter. In truth, it only heightened his curiosity further and he could think of only two possibilities; they were either the best pilots the RAF could get their hands on and this was going to be an elite squadron, or they were the worst pilots who the Flyboys were too polite to shoo out the door in war and thus were being put ‘out of the way’. His sister’s presence did little to help him decide in any direction. On the one hand, this was exactly the sort of thing she often involved herself with but on the other, he would not put it past her to drive him all the way from London to put him in a squadron of fools and then laugh at him.

He was still deliberating this when Squadron Leader Paige stood up and asked them to stand at ease. Easy enough for him, for he only had two manners of standing; at ease and casually at ease. He did accept the offer of a chair, even if the closest thing to hand was a desk so worn-looking that its remaining could hardly be an accident. So, he perched on the edge, praying to god for protection against stains on his new suit and for solid woodwork and instead listened to Paige giving the introduction speech. The first thing came to mind was that Aoife had done the man a disservice in the car. In particular he was interested in his spanish service, for there had not been too many international pilots in the conflict. Perhaps he had crossed paths with the Squadron Leader at some point and not known of it? He made a mental note to ask if the opportunity presented itself.

He sat back, armed folded and legs crossed, and listened to the rest of the speech, his interest rising further and further. It was no small relief that it was the elite squadron rather than the other, more daunting idea and from the sounds of things, one that would be jumping into action pretty quickly. He had heard it all before of course, his abiding memory of his first day in 56 Squadron was a gruff Pilot Officer striding up and down telling all the wet-behind-the-ears pups the same thing; “You are joining the finest squadron in the finest air force in the whole damned world. You will be tested every day you’re here, pushed to your limits and expected to excel. Fail, and you’re out, to some other squadron that asks less and accepts ‘good enough’.”

Well, that had been bullshit. What followed was three years of training flights, lectures, sitting around and boredom to the point of insanity. That had been a peacetime Air Force though. Maybe this time it would be different. They had people to shoot at after all.

He did raise an eyebrow though as they were offered the door, a chance to head out without so much as a cross word against them? That didn’t sit well with him and he cleared his throat,

“So, we can just walk out? No hard feelings? Good luck in our future endeavours? Maybe see you in the pub sometime? That doesn’t seem like the Air Force I know, the one where you get a caning for doing your shoelaces up the wrong way. And we’re getting ‘the most dangerous assignments’ are we? More dangerous than being 30,000 feet up in a thin metal box full of fuel and explosives, fighting Germans? Just what sort of danger are we talking about here?”

[Bakra]

After his salute was returned, Chee extricated himself to the seats in the back of the room letting the rest of the squadron fill the void in the center. He doubted that he would recognize anyone here, although he was surprised to see at two other Americans among those assembled. He knew their country was heavily involved in Asia—Chee himself was part of it—he assumed that there wouldn't be many others interested in Europe. Ah well, he realized he couldn't discount his countrymen rising to the possibility of adventure. Still, this was a rather eclectic crowd.

The squadron leader began his speech, though he didn't say anything that particularly surprised Chee. Most of what had been said was in line for the type of outfit they had been expecting (what with the "top secret", "keep out", and civvie intel types around) except what they were actually doing. The most "top secret" he'd ever been was being a pilot with the Chinese Nationalists, which was dubiously legal and wholly controversial. How much more secret can you get than fighting for and against a neutral country, at least in the realm of air combat?

“So, we can just walk out? No hard feelings? Good luck in our future endeavours? Maybe see you in the pub sometime? That doesn’t seem like the Air Force I know, the one where you get a caning for doing your shoelaces up the wrong way. And we’re getting ‘the most dangerous assignments’ are we? More dangerous than being 30,000 feet up in a thin metal box full of fuel and explosives, fighting Germans? Just what sort of danger are we talking about here?”

He silently thanked Fitzpatrick for pointing this out, bringing up something Chee hadn't thought of. What was more dangerous than the balls-to-the-wall combat each of them were experts in? 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?"

[Morrdh]

"Well, fancy running into you here, Wade! Rather a small world isn't it? Tell me, did that big fellow with the smooth baritone rope you into this as well?"

"Naw, I got roped into this long 'fore I ended up at Upavon." Answered Wade as he took advantage of the offered lighter. "Ta."

"So I'll tell you right now - if you came here today expecting to serve an ordinary posting in an ordinary squadron, consider this your rude awakening. This is the most dangerous unit in the British military, in every sense of the term. We'll be getting the most dangerous assignments they can give us. But in exchange, you'll be paid well - and get all the action you could possibly want. And this is a volunteer outfit. If you don't want to be here, you can leave, right now, no consequences. You won't be able to tell anybody anything about what you've already seen or heard today, of course, but if you want to get out while you still can and try some other unit, or maybe just go home, this is the time."

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

"I'll say one thing, doesn't sound like its gonna be a load of niu shi." Wade replies after exhaling a puff of smoke. "If anything, sounds like a tory outfit....I'm in."

[Goram]

White sat back in his chair as the Squadron Leader spoke. The words, in honesty, were not what he had expected. He didn't know what sort of a job the Air Force had roped him into, however, he had guessed it was unusual. Just how unusual he still didn't know, but things were quickly becoming clearer. This would not just be flying and the prospects of survival seemed slim at best.

...or maybe just go home, this is the time

In that instant, White felt the Squadron Leader was talking directly to him. Everyone else in the room might get posted elsewhere, to some other front-line job. But not him. He'd been asked to do this job, specifically and now he was being invited to take a "get out of jail free" card. In the next minute or so, he'd have to make up his mind.

Once, he had been an infantry officer and, if White was being honest with himself, he'd been quite a good one - as the medal ribbons on his chest attested to. He had also been an expert fighter pilot, gifted in the knack of shooting down the enemy quickly. He'd not only managed to survive aerial warfare on the Western Front, but had flourished in that environment were so many others were not so fortunate. But all that had been more than 20 years ago. Aeroplanes, he knew, were drastically different to the biplanes he'd scored his 37 victories in. Combat tactics had moved on and been refined. Infantry fighting, he was sure, had changed too - as to be almost unrecognisable to his 1914 self. He had once been a keen warrior by air and ground, he was still supremely fit but he was pushing 50 and had a family to worry about. Every logical fibre of his being was telling him to up and leave. His brain urged him to leave it to the younger men - just as the elderly had once left the fighting and dying to him.

But he did not move. He didn't so much as stir. Whilst his brain demanded movement, none came. He could not, in good conscience, leave these men - although he did not know them from Adam. In his mind, this was important. He'd been selected especially, although whom by he did not know, for this job. If the events of the last few years were any indication, the Germans and their Fuhrer would not stop with Poland. This war had the potential to engulf Europe, perhaps even worse than last time, and if it were to link up with the conflict in China well - he thought - they'd have to rename the 'Great War'. Sitting in that dusty room, he decided. He would not leave such an important job to others. And so it was that Harry White began his second war.

[Grenartia]

Soon enough, the other transfers began arriving. Page had to work quickly to match half-familiar faces with the names he'd been desperately cramming for a day or so, returning salutes and pleasantries as he did so. They were each ticked off from the list - Patrick Wade and Conor Fitzpatrick, from the Republic of Ireland...Adahy Chee, James Thibodeaux, and Samuel Melody, both from the US (the latter of which had surprisingly delicate features for a hardened fighter with the skills claimed on his paperwork)...Flight Lieutenant Geoffrey Talbot...Flying Officer Howard Cavalier...and a few others made themselves known.

"Squadron Leader, the pleasure is all mine, I'm quite sure. Henry White, how do you do?"

Page returned the grin and shook the proffered hand, removing his glasses as he did so. It struck him as a potentially awkward situation, given that he outranked White, yet was over a decade and a half younger than him, but the Flight Lieutenant didn't seem overly bothered about the matter. Page had already fixed him as a top candidate for one of the flight lead positions, given his experience.
"Very well, Flight Lieutenant, thanks for asking. I'd be a little better if we weren't shunted off to the Manston storage closet, but it'll have to do for the moment."

“Lieutenant Henri Vodat reporting sir.” He said to Page as he offered a salute. “May I say it’s a pleasure to serve under a man with your reputation.”

Page returned the salute. "Likewise, Lieutenant Vodat. Glad to see that the French delegation has arrived."
It occurred to Page almost as he said it that Vodat, being a White Russian volunteer for the Legion, might be a bit miffed at being described as "the French delegation".
But it was true - the French government had volunteered Vodat for the job themselves. It was a bit surprising that there would be only one French national in this Allied project, but with their one spot, they'd picked him. So it goes.

"At ease, everyone. Pull up a seat and listen up, because we're already on the clock. And stow that notebook, Staff Sergeant - what you see and hear in here is classified. We can't have any records of this floating around that the RAF doesn't know about."

"Introductions are in order. My name is Squadron Leader Robert Page. Over the last ten years, I've served in the RAF, the Spanish Republican Air Force, and a number of other military organizations. I've seen action in Iraq, Spain, Nicaragua, and a few other places I'm not entirely sure I'm allowed to talk about.

"I'm not telling you this to brag. I'm telling you this because you all have comparable skills, records, and experiences that have brought you here, to this room, today. 319 Squadron, as you've all probably noticed already, is a unique unit. The RAF has brought together in this room twelve pilots and soldiers from all over the world. You were picked for this not because you played the game and made your way up the careerist ladder, or because you were friends with the right officers. You were picked for this because someone, somewhere, looked at your records and picked you as one of the best in the world at fighting Nazis, in any way, shape, or form. And that's exactly what we'll be doing.

"We're not on any official documents. The RAF will not admit to this unit's existence. Only a handful of people even know who we are, and what our job really is. 319 Squadron is the only 'special operations' squadron in the Royal Air Force. For that matter, we're probably the only squadron of this type in the entire world. For months, the Allied governments have been running themselves ragged, trying to figure out a way to counter the Nazi war machine. Putting all of us together in the same unit was step one. Step two...you'll see in a few minutes.

"So I'll tell you right now - if you came here today expecting to serve an ordinary posting in an ordinary squadron, consider this your rude awakening. This is the most dangerous unit in the British military, in every sense of the term. We'll be getting the most dangerous assignments they can give us. But in exchange, you'll be paid well - and get all the action you could possibly want. And this is a volunteer outfit. If you don't want to be here, you can leave, right now, no consequences. You won't be able to tell anybody anything about what you've already seen or heard today, of course, but if you want to get out while you still can and try some other unit, or maybe just go home, this is the time."

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

Thibodeaux was impressed. He was expecting to only be set up with a regular front-line squadron. But instead, he apparently got sent to some kind of secret trooper outfit. A better deal than he bargained for. And apparently, his new CO had the qualifications to match.

He was going to make a joke about Page's "bail out" pun, but before he could speak, another man spoke up.

“So, we can just walk out? No hard feelings? Good luck in our future endeavours? Maybe see you in the pub sometime? That doesn’t seem like the Air Force I know, the one where you get a caning for doing your shoelaces up the wrong way. And we’re getting ‘the most dangerous assignments’ are we? More dangerous than being 30,000 feet up in a thin metal box full of fuel and explosives, fighting Germans? Just what sort of danger are we talking about here?”

Jimmy couldn't believe this man's questions. Was this guy for real? Of course he could leave if he wanted to. Nobody (at least not in the civilized world) holds a gun to somebody's head and forces them to do this shit. And of course there's more dangerous things to do than normal air combat. One of the possibilities Jimmy considered was barnstorming over Berlin in a thunderstorm. Another was dogfighting a Messerschmitt in a flying boat armed with nothing but a six-shooter.

And then another man spoke up.

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

"Well, that seems to be the obvious implication." he responded. "The only real question is what all we'll be doing other than flying."

[The Tiger Kingdom]

“So, we can just walk out? No hard feelings? Good luck in our future endeavours? Maybe see you in the pub sometime? That doesn’t seem like the Air Force I know, the one where you get a caning for doing your shoelaces up the wrong way. And we’re getting ‘the most dangerous assignments’ are we? More dangerous than being 30,000 feet up in a thin metal box full of fuel and explosives, fighting Germans? Just what sort of danger are we talking about here?”

Page fixed Fitzpatrick with a hard look. It made sense that Fitzpatrick would be a skeptic - his record indicated he'd had quite an independent streak, to the extent it had, in essence, washed him out of the RAF.

"You've got it right, Flying Officer. This isn't the Air Force you know. For the last five years, the Germans have been talking endlessly about how their military is invincible, that they've perfected new strategies and technologies that will make them impossible to defeat. A lot of people around the world seem to believe them. And maybe they're right - they haven't been beaten yet. The Allied leadership is scared, and for my part, I think they should be. They saw what happened in Poland, and to Spain before that. A lot of our top leadership is very insecure right now about the RAF's status relative to the Luftwaffe, and to the entire German armed forces in general.

"So with that in mind, there are certain elements in the high Allied command - political and military - that are convinced that we should try something really new. We need to develop new tactics, new ways of attacking the Germans that they haven't anticipated, and that they won't be expecting. A unit with unique members, skills, and capabilities. You cannot get that sort of thing from somebody who's only experience in combat has been through marking time on an enlistment, or out of a textbook at Cranwell. Finding the sort of people needed to develop these strategies and carry out these missions would involve drawing from people outside the normal realm of RAF experience - or outside the normal realm of combat experience, full stop. You all have your own skills, your own ways of operating under fire and in the field. You've also almost certainly had checkered pasts - disciplinary violations, unconventional careers, atypical backgrounds and service records. This is not by happenstance. This is by design."

Page's voice darkened.
"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.

"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!"

[Goram]

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.

White lent forward, slightly, in his chair. He'd been in a jolly sort of mood earlier, excited to see where this new venture would take him. But now, it had changed. Clearly, this was deadly serious - or perhaps just deadly. A thought flashed through his mind as he wondered how many of the men around him would still be alive in a month. He wondered where they would end up. Rescue some high ranking prisoner from Poland? Maybe something in Nationalist Spain or Italy - whilst they mightn't be enemies, they were still Fascists. Perhaps South Africa? Hadn't there been some talk of pro-Nazism going on down there? A crippling strike against the Kriegsmarine or Luftwaffe production? Even the assassination of leading Nazis didn't seem too far-fetched at this point.

"Mr. Page, if I might trouble you to ask; do you know where they're sending us?"

[Grenartia]

"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!"

"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.

"Mr. Page, if I might trouble you to ask; do you know where they're sending us?"

"I hear they're sending us to barnstorm Berlin during a thunderstorm." Jimmy responded, offhandedly.

[Alversia]

Fitzpatrick did not blink as Page met his eye with a look that was not entirely friendly, meeting the challenge head on as he always had. He might have been a Squadron Leader, his senior and thus commanding officer but as far as he was concerned, Fitzpatrick owed him nothing if he hadn’t earned it. He was on the right path as things were going but then he had never been the good little soldier that others were; the sort that doffed his cap, stood to attention and let all his betters go on their merry way. They were there to be challenged and if they didn’t like it then that was their problem, not his.

”A lot of people around the world seem to believe them. And maybe they're right - they haven't been beaten yet. The Allied leadership is scared, and for my part, I think they should be. They saw what happened in Poland, and to Spain before that. A lot of our top leadership is very insecure right now about the RAF's status relative to the Luftwaffe, and to the entire German armed forces in general.

He rolled his eyes at that and sighed. First Aoife and now this Page bloke. The way they were talking it was if the Germans had come down from Mount Sinai, tablets tucked under their arms with the ten commandments of modern warfare written on them. He had no idea who the Krauts had out there talking up their armed forces, but he needed him to speak to his bank manager if he could, because he seemed able to convince people that the sky was purple and that cows went bark. He had flown against the best the Luftwaffe had in Spain, in their sleek and modern flying machines with the powerful engines and the cannons. He had been in a wooden biplane assembled by turnip-eating peasants somewhere in Russia and then transported halfway across Europe. They had been good, but they had not been invulnerable. He had seen them shot down by British pilots, shot down by Russian pilots, shot down by Spanish pilots. They weren’t invincible, so why the hell was everyone so damn scared?

He did nod at the idea that this would be a squadron unlike most of those in the RAF. Well good, that suited him just down to the ground. In truth, the more Page spoke, the more he liked the idea of this squadron.

Fighting on the ground and in the air? That was a new idea, though it was not the first time he had done it. It seemed fate was following him with idea; first with the Banditos and now here. So long as he didn’t end up in a trench somewhere in northern France bathing his arse in mud and waiting for the gleaming bayonets to emerge from the darkness. He shivered at the mere thought.

”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."

“Well, that I can get behind,” He leant forward, “Anything that gets us winning this war is just fine with me. Anything that lets me stick two fingers up at the Cranwell mob is even better. If I get to blow up Germans doing it then I am absolutely on board.” He rubbed his hands together and looked around the room, “So where do we start?”

[The Two Jerseys]

"Well, fancy running into you here, Wade! Rather a small world isn't it? Tell me, did that big fellow with the smooth baritone rope you into this as well?"

"Naw, I got roped into this long 'fore I ended up at Upavon." Answered Wade as he took advantage of the offered lighter. "Ta."

"So I'll tell you right now - if you came here today expecting to serve an ordinary posting in an ordinary squadron, consider this your rude awakening. This is the most dangerous unit in the British military, in every sense of the term. We'll be getting the most dangerous assignments they can give us. But in exchange, you'll be paid well - and get all the action you could possibly want. And this is a volunteer outfit. If you don't want to be here, you can leave, right now, no consequences. You won't be able to tell anybody anything about what you've already seen or heard today, of course, but if you want to get out while you still can and try some other unit, or maybe just go home, this is the time."

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

"I'll say one thing, doesn't sound like its gonna be a load of niu shi." Wade replies after exhaling a puff of smoke. "If anything, sounds like a tory outfit....I'm in."

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?"