>>41650661
The misty morning has given way to a misty mid-day, and your cousin stares at you discontentedly. He's wearing the typical hospital gown instead of the tattered remnants of his uniform. A courtesy for defecting, you presumed. The last three months you'd spent closeted with your cousin, Hauptmann Fritz Braun, Luftwaffe, learning to be him.

“So this is it, then, eh, Jack?” You nod, and he grins through the bandages around his head, souvenirs of the burns he'd taken in his fighter. It had burnt around him as he plummeted towards Anglia, and it was a miracle he'd survived. “I believe in you, old chap,” he says, his London College University-tinged English sounding better than your own, flavored as it is by the Irish brogue you'd learned as a child.

“Thanks, coz,” you tell him, and he leans back against the propped up pillows, supporting him. One of the nurses comes by and smiles at him coyly, and you lean back in your chair as well. You cock an eyebrow, and he shrugs.

“I think she likes me, even if I am a filthy half-French Jerry,” he says. “Her name's Susan. Before you go,” Fritz begins tentatively, “would you possibly mind picking up something from a florist's for me, for her?” His face, so similar to your own, is like looking into a mirror.

“Of course,” you tell him, and the gratitude in his eyes makes you feel horrible, for what you're going to do. Or maybe it's the hospital. You've never liked hospitals, not since you were a boy. The stale, sterile smell. The glaring brightness of the lights. The fact that more people die in them than are cured. Swallowing, you say your goodbyes to Fritz, promising to get him his flowers, and make your way onto the London street. You've got things to do, before you go into France. You need to see a solicitor and make sure your affairs in order in case of the worst, write to your uncles in Ireland, see your off-and-on girlfriend for one last time, and visit your mother's grave.

What do you do first?

(You'll be able to do all four, it's just the order in which you do 'em will help me see how you guys want to characterize Jack.)

>Visit the solicitor. You're fairly certain your will is up-to-date, but better to be sure.
>Write your uncles. They need to know you're okay.
>Girlfriend first. Breaking it off because you're going to be in France for the rest of the war, or until it heads to Germany, is probably a good idea.
>Church. Seeing mom one last time is important, and confession will help.

>>41650699
4>>Visit the solicitor. You're fairly certain your will is up-to-date, but better to be sure.
2>>Write your uncles. They need to know you're okay.
3>>Girlfriend first. Breaking it off because you're going to be in France for the rest of the war, or until it heads to Germany, is probably a good idea.
1>>Church. Seeing mom one last time is important, and confession will help.

interesting lets see how this goes

>>41650699

In order

>Church. Seeing mom one last time is important, and confession will help.
>Girlfriend first. Breaking it off because you're going to be in France for the rest of the war, or until it heads to Germany, is probably a good idea.
>Visit the solicitor. You're fairly certain your will is up-to-date, but better to be sure.
>Write your uncles. They need to know you're okay.

>>41650699
>Visit the solicitor. You're fairly certain your will is up-to-date, but better to be sure.

>>41650699
>Church. Seeing mom one last time is important, and confession will help.

>>41650699
>Church. Seeing mom one last time is important, and confession will help.

>>41650699
>To Church, you momma's boy!
>(Wow we have to axe the GF? Okay well 2nd thing to do.
>Write yer uncle.
>Ignore Solicitor.

>Irish
>Catholic
Doubly disgusting.

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>>41650661
Wasn't Sir Christopher Lee one of the Baker Street Irregulars?

>>41650899
Not if I remember correctly. I think he was RAF and served alongside the precursor to the modern-day SAS.


Looks like visiting mum's grave and seeing your solicitor have it. Writing right now.

>>41650765
>>Girlfriend first. Breaking it off because you're going to be in France for the rest of the war, or until it heads to Germany, is probably a good idea.

Second this

>>41650699
>>Write your uncles. They need to know you're okay.
>>Church. Seeing mom one last time is important, and confession will help.
>>Girlfriend first. Breaking it off because you're going to be in France for the rest of the war, or until it heads to Germany, is probably a good idea.
>>Visit the solicitor. You're fairly certain your will is up-to-date, but better to be sure.

>>41650899
He was RAF intelligence not SOE, though he did still get up to some interesting stuff.

>>41650661
It was well known that the Irregulars were compromised by the Nazis.This fact was used by the British to make the Nazis believe they had infiltrated the secret service.

Hundreds of operatives were deliberately sent over to be captured by the SS. There was a documentary on the subject on the BBC ages ago.

>>41651496
so what they were triple agents.

>>41651496
fucking what? Or are you referring to the British penetration of the Abwehr?

A WW2 quest, this should be exciting.

As long as we don't drive a fucking Cruiser series of tanks. We should be good. British Tank Designs were funky at best.

>>41651651
It was great at best, retard at worst, and some strange combination of the two most of the time. Also, there were some good cruiser tanks. Still, given that this is special operations, I don't think tank warfare is going to come up much.

The weather looks like it's wanting to start raining, so you pop the collar on your coat and start walking. You head for the solicitor's first. You'll be making a ring around the heart of London, visiting your solicitor, the church, Beth's room, and finally your flat, to post a letter home, before finally finishing up your day at 64 Baker Street, headquarters of the Special Operations Executive.

London bears the scars of a city at war. Firemen and cops stand around in a circle beside a bombed out building, coals still smoldering from the explosion that tore it apart. You greet them as you pass.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” you say.

“Sir,” one of the cops says. He's probably a Sergeant or so. “Got your papers, then?”

“Aye,” you say, and produce your identity card. He flips through it quickly, notes your rank of Flight Officer, and tips his hat to you after he hands it back.

“You boys did bloody good work during the Battle,” one of the cops says. “I saw one blighter in a Spit go after a wanker in a Messerschmitt with his pistol after he ran out of ammo.”

“Thanks,” you tell him. Their war isn't your war, now, but you don't tell him that. He doesn't need to know about the SOE.

You continue on your way swiftly, feet knowing where they need to take you. A few streets beyond the gathering of cops and firemen, you see a lone florist's, next to a butcher's and a green grocer's. You step in, the bell rings, and the clerk appears. You grimace when you realize Fritz didn't tell you what kind of flowers he wanted for the nurse. The clerk asks the problem, and you tell her.

1/2

>>41651555
>>41651583
The majority of the operation believed they were working for the British legitimately but they would have agents within their midst (unknown to them) sending messages to the SS.

So for example when they would arrange for say a drop of supplies or field operatives they would be captured instantly.

There was a programme about a member of the Irregulars discovering that most of their radio operators in occupied France where Nazi double agents by sending the letters H.H. in morse code to them (Heil Hitler). Once this Irregular had discovered this he took it to head office at which point they told him that they were fully aware of the situation and he was to be removed from active duty.

The programme interviewed him and several overs within the operation but the files are still for the most part sealed.

The same thing happened in the cold war with MI5 & 6.

“I'm picking up something for my cousin in the hospital. But see, they're not for him for him. They're for him to give to one of the nurses.”

“Ah,” the woman says with a nod. “What's your cousin's interest in the nurse, then? Romantic? Friendly? Overtly,” here she leans in and waggles her eyebrows, “sexual?”

“Romantic,” you tell her. “Fri- Fred wouldn't know what to do if a whore jumped up and bit him on the arse.”

“I see. The shy type, then? He'll probably want something that's not overt, then.”

“Probably. Here's the money,” you say. Digging in your pocket, you produce and then hand over enough to cover the flowers. “Can you have 'em delivered to Fritz Braun, at the hospital they're using for airmen? His father was an immigrant,” you confide, to put her at ease about the whole thing. She nods and then you're done. Easy and painless. Unlike what meeting with Beth promises to be.

You finally make it to the office of your solicitor, Edwards and Smithy, and head in. There's not very much furniture. Some generic chairs, a desk for the secretary, and a filing cabinet. She greets you and then stands and lets Edwards know you've arrived.

“Come in!” He calls, and you step into his office. It, in contrast to the main room, is warmly furnished and warm, thanks to a merrily burning wood stove. There's a phonograph playing something from Bach in the corner. Edwards himself is a big, jovial man, and handles the affairs for the SOE agents going into the Continent.

“Jack, my boy! Come in, come in. Can I get you anything? Tea? Are you here for business or for pleasure?”


>Tea would be fine, thanks.
>No tea, thank you.

>>41651737
You mean decent. the best they had operation wise was the Cromwell and design wise was not a very good tank compared to the Sherman.

I wouldn't say great but alright. however I find the infantry tanks to be more effective then their cruisers.

>>41651778
>>Tea would be fine, thanks.

>>41651778
>Tea would be fine, thanks.
There's always time for tea.

>>41651778
>Tea would be fine, thanks.
No reason to refuse tea.

>>41651760
The role of the Irregulars was to make the Nazis believe they had compromised British Intelligence.

Think about it, if the Nazis hadn't been able to break into any British secret service group (for over 3 years) then they would be less confident about their own secretive communication methods. Plus if they think they've already infiltrated the enemy then they won’t see any reason to keep hunting for other agencies, especially if the one they broke into says there are none.

You couldn’t convince the Nazis that they had actually entered into a branch of British intelligence unless you actually ran it as one. All the men who were captured had no idea until the Germans were sticking guns at them in a field in France.

>>41651778
>Tea would be fine, thanks.
We are English, tea is a must.

>>41652371
>McSorvan
>English
Are you sure?

>>41651778
>>Tea would be fine, thanks.

“Tea, is fine, thank you.”

“Excellent,” he says, and sets about fixing a cup for each of you. You unbutton your coat and sit, placing one leg on the knee of the other, entirely at ease. “I'm not going to ask what they've got you doing over there, Jack,” Edwards continues, “but I am entirely positive you will be successful. You were studying law before the war, weren't you?”

“I was, yes. Uncle Tim seemed to think that my future didn't lay in farming. I can't say I blame him, really. I was good at it, but I never enjoyed it, really.”

“Well, what do you plan on doing after the war, then? Soliciting? Farming? Keep on with the SOE, fight the enemies of King and country wherever they may be?”

“I don't know,” you shrug. Edwards finishes with the tea and hands you a cup and saucer, and you sip it slowly. It's good, probably from before the war, and with a dash of milk and sugar, both hard to come by with rationing fully in force now. He sits back behind his desk, and places the file he had been working on when you came back in back in his desk.

“So, what's it to be? The will and testament you've got from when you were flying still works, you know. Covers all the basics. Money and the land in Ireland. As it stands, everything is left to a Mary Elizabeth McSorvan?”

“Aye,” you nod. “She's Uncle Sean's girl. Always following me around, trying to make sure I was “supervised,” you smile. “Keep it as it is, then. I'll have Fitz at the office post my last letters for me. Thank you for the tea, Edwards.”

“Always a pleasure, Flight Officer McSorvan. Please come back safely.”

You stand, buttoning your coat, and exit. The rain's quit, now, and the sun promises that the rest of the day will be a lovely sight to behold. You wish it hadn't. What you'll be doing tonight will need the cover of darkness and bad weather, for it's a deed best done in such. Your next destination, the parish church, is across town.

>Take the Underground. Speed
>Walk.

>>41652997
>>Take the Underground. Speed

>>41652997
>>Take the Underground. Speed

>>41652997
>Take the Underground. Speed

>>41652997
>Take the Underground. Speed

>>41653088
>>41653271
>>41653416
>>41653496
CHOO CHOO

>>41652997
>Walk, Robert frost once said something about taking the slower path and relishing in it's venture. So...do that.

>>41653512
Meep Meep, rather.

>>41652997
>>Take the Underground. Speed

>Baker Street Irregular Quest

You have my attention.

>Walk. Enjoy the sights while we can.

Speed is of the essence. You have things to do, tonight. Places to be. Men to see. Channels to cross, and all that. Alea iacta est, as the kids say. You head for the nearest entrance to the Underground, and avoid stepping on a child's stuffed bear, abandoned after the bombs finished falling last night. You had been with Fritz, going over last minute details such as his favorite food and dessert, his preferred uniform (flying, of course,) and such.

The train ride is mostly silent; there's very few people on board in the middle of the day, with everyone at work, and goes by fairly fast, other than the stops. With the coat of your collar and your hat obscuring your face, no one bothers you, which is for the best, you think. Left alone with your thoughts, they go in circles, covering the same ground over and over.

You'd learned the lessons the SOE had to offer well, almost as though you were born to sabotage, and espionage, murder and assassination. You didn't like it, though. You preferred the roar of an engine in your ear, the stutter of the .303s firing in unison, shattering German fighters and bombers as your Hurricane became an extension of yourself and your fury.

>>41654476

It had been... Fun. That was the word for it. When you weren't locked in life-or-death duels with the fate of a nation in the balance, flying had been peaceful. Just you and your plane and the sky. You remembered the last time you had flown as a pilot, Hurricane purring around you. From the Fall of France to the Battle of Britain, she had never failed you. Always, she had an extra knot or two of speed, a little bit more to give, and you, in turn, gave as well, spending hours with the mechanics working on her.

The voice startles you, and then you realize that you'd automatically gotten off at your stop and made your way to Saint Micheal’s, where the Father had greeted you. A dark, swarthy man past his prime, he looked like he came from Spain or Portugal. “Can I help you, young man?”

“Forgive me, Father,” you tell him. “I'd gotten lost in my thoughts.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my son. It happens to all of us, and, I think, especially the best of us.” He smiles, and his brown eyes twinkle as he winks at you. You grin at him, and he laughs. “So what brings you here, my son?” You're here for confession, to be cleansed of your sins, but someone to talk to, a perspective, would be nice as well. If it weren't for the war, you'd be lost, directionless, without a rudder. And sometimes, you feel like that anyway.

>I've come to be shriven of my sins, Father.
>Someone to talk to, maybe.

>>41654496

>I've come to be shriven of my sins, Father.

>>41654496
>Someone to talk to, maybe.

Our sins are ones we will need to keep to our chest from now on. Loose lips and all that.

>>41654496
>I've come to be shriven of my sins, Father.

We might as well start a clean slate, there'll be plenty of dirty work ahead.

>>41654598
That's precisely the reason we should confess now. Unburden ourselves of the pretty sins that you can afford to speak aloud, my son.

>>41654496
>>I've come to be shriven of my sins, Father.

THE SINS OF THE FATHER

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>try to do five minutes of research on catholic confession
>turns into forty minutes of reading about the catholic forms and ceremonies and stuff

fuck me writing now sorry guys

“We all do, son.” He leads you into the church, and the silence of the building envelops you in warmth, at contrast with the still slightly chilly early April afternoon of London. He has you wait in the main area and he heads into his rooms to retrieve his stole. You finger the rosary around your neck, underneath your shirt, and examine a stained glass window depicting George slaying the dragon. His face is all sorts of odd, presumably from the ecstasy of the moment, but the dragon looks like he'd swallowed something foul and was attempting to regurgitate it.

A candle burns in the votive candle rack, beneath a simple cross, and the quiet faith of the parishioners touches you. You cross yourself, and then the moment ends as the Father comes back through the door. You opt to give confession here, in the light and warmth, feeling there's something symbolic about it.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three years since my last confession.”

“What are your sins, my son?”

“Murder,” you say, and his eyes widen for a moment, before he shrugs and waits for you to continue. “Murder,” you repeat, and the image of a canopy crumbling in the sky flashes before your mind's eye. “Murder, fornication, and taking the name of the Lord in vain.”

“Let's start with the murder, then. What happened?”

“I machine gunned the parachutes of the crew of a German bomber, and when my wingman shot down a fighter coming to try and rescue them, I machine gunned him beneath his canopy.”
(1/?)

"I will not try to defend your decision by saying, 'well, it's war. Things happen in war.' Yes, it is war. But you know it was wrong. I suspect you knew it was wrong then, as well, but you still chose to do so. I will not tell you that it was wrong or right. I suspect that you had your reasons; perhaps you didn't want them taking up arms against lovely old England again, or simply that one Luftwaffe pilot out of the fight now is one less for Ireland to worry about.”

“I-” You try to begin, struggling with your thoughts. Would you want machinegunned beneath your canopy? Or hell, even walking along the road, trying to make it back to your lines? No, you don't think so. They might have been enemies, but they were still thinking, feeling, human beings, with hopes and dreams and families that will mourn them.

“I suspect you feel true about the contrition part. I won't assign you fifteen Hail Mary or anything, son, because I believe that this will truly haunt you for the rest of your life, and rightly so. The fornication, I believe, our Lord will accept as it being war, and young people taking solace in each other. For penance I assign you three Hail Marys.”

The Father takes off his stole, and grins at you. “It could have been worse,” he said. “You could have committed adultery with one of the choir boys.” Your eyebrow goes up, and he shrugs.

“I'm not saying that that's happened, but, well, people will always surprise us. Go with God, son, and remember: hate never serves us. It corrupts us and the feelings we have for the people around us, often times those that love us the most.”

(2/?)

The walk from church to your girlfriend's flat doesn't leave you enough time to think everything through, but it leaves you too much to be comfortable. Grimacing, you knock on the door. Beth is a nurse at one of the hospitals, and the two of you had met when you'd gone in for the injuries you'd taken the last time you'd flown.

She opens the door, and her green eyes widen in surprise at seeing you. She thinks that you work for RAF intelligence, because you'd stopped flying. One small truth in a bigger lie, right?

“Oh! Jack, what're you doing here? I thought you were working today.” She's wearing a blue dress with her luxurious brown hair down. You recall evenings spent with your hands in it, her head pressed to your chest as she slept, and you swallow. This hurts more than it should, you think. Should've done it the coward's way and called her, you try to tell yourself, but you don't really believe that, do you? When has being a coward ever gotten anyone anything?

>”I've come to say goodbye. This is probably the last time I'll see you.”
>”I've come to say goodbye for a bit. I'll be going away for a while, but I'll be back.”

>>41656224
>”I've come to say goodbye for a bit. I'll be going away for a while, but I'll be back.”
Perhaps optimism, or perhaps a kind lie.

>>41656224
>”I've come to say goodbye for a bit. I'll be going away for a while, but I'll be back.”
She doesn't need to know that we are gonna likely end up dead.

>>41656224
>>”I've come to say goodbye for a bit. I'll be going away for a while, but I'll be back.”

“I've come to say goodbye,” you begin, and Beth's eyes widen.

“Oh,” she says. “That's it, then? We're done? No word of explanation? You're just going to up and leave, then, like my father? Bloody figures,” she swears. “Fucking Irish bastard, you're all the same, just here for a year or two and then gone, no thought for the bloody women that lo-”

“Beth,” you interrupt before she can say something that makes you want to stay more than you already do. “I'm not leaving for good, woman. I'm being transferred to Scapa Flow as an aid to the RAF officer that's the Navy's liaison.”

“Oh,” she says again, and as full of righteous indignation as she had been a moment ago, she deflates and glances at you. “So what's this, then, one last fuck before you go?”

“It'd be nice,” you say, “But I was thinking more along the lines of this.” You lean forward and grab her, pulling her close to you, and kiss her. She's soft and warm and everything a woman should be. She tenses for a second, before relaxing and kissing you back.

“That's okay, then,” she says after you break the kiss for a gasp of air. “I'd invite you in, but if you're only dropping by for a bit, I don't think you've the time. You glance at your watch quickly. It's 3:40 PM, and your boat won't leave without you, but you want to time your arrival in France across the Channel for about three in the morning, when men are at their most tired, thinking about a woman's arms and a bottle of schnapps or mead, not concentrating on manning their posts or walking their patrol. If you leave at four, you can wait off the coast for a few hours, but if you leave too late, you might run the risk of being found by the wrong patrol.

>I think I can stay for a while, sure.
>I'm sorry, but I can't stay.

>>41657377
>I think I can stay for a while, sure.

But not too long.

>>41657377
>"I can stay, but not for long."

>>41657377
>>I think I can stay for a while, sure.

“I can stay for an hour or two, sure,” you say, and Beth gives you a coy smile. Your pulse quickens, and she leads you into the small flat she rents. She shuts the door behind you, and then kicks off her shoes.

“How was work?” She asks as she disappears into the small bedroom, and you shrug. She can't see it, of course, so try to come up with something to tell her.

“Fine, I 'spose. Jerry had a new plane pop up yesterday, and we were running around trying to figure out what it was before one of the Frenchmen with us recognized the photograph and said that it was one of their fighters.”

“Oooh,” Beth coos sympathetically from the bedroom. “Are they better or worse than Jerry's Messers?”

“A bit worse on average, but I suppose the Battle did what it was supposed to, if they're pressing French fighters into service to fill gaps.” She walks out of the bedroom, wearing nothing but a racy black nightdress, - in the middle of the fucking day, your tell yourself- and then she crosses the room and presses herself into your arms.

“I heard that there was a big, strong Irish fighter lurking around somewhere. You wouldn't happen to be able to protect little old me from him, would you?” She gazes up at you with seductively lidded eyes, and you close your own and swallow.

“I think I ken o' the man you're talkin' about, aye,” you tell her, letting your brogue broaden. You know she likes it, and she likes when you call her mo ghrá. She likes it enough to press her chest into your own, letting a hand slide down your back.

“So what if I said I had an itch, Jack?”

“I'd say I'd scratch it, Beth.” You tilt your head and capture her lips in another kiss, working one of your hands up her thigh. She moans against you as you find she's not wearing anything underneath it, and then she's undoing your belt.

She smells like fresh rain and apples, and soon you're not worried about anything but the woman in your arms, and the backdrop of the war disappears for a couple of hours.

When you get out of the bed, Beth is sleeping. You ease yourself out from under her and she whimpers as her heat source leaves the covers. Covering her back up, you begin dressing and silently composing a letter to her, and a letter for your uncles. Once you're dressed, you write them out. To Beth, you thank her for everything, some of which she'll never know about. Like kissing away the nightmares of Dunkirk and your plane burning around you, or the horror of finding Smith's brains splattered over the inside of his cockpit in a farmer's field in Sussex. It's short and simple, and you leave it feeling that there's so much more to be said, but not enough time and not enough paper to do so.

The letter to Uncles Tim and Sean is longer. It asks them to take care of Beth if she shows up on the farm, to keep the farm in the family no matter what, and if they can, to accept one of the English children fleeing the Blitz into onto the farm. Beth will post the letter to your uncles for you. She's taken care of she winds up in a family way, and the farm'll stay in the family, at least for the next generation. Shriven and everything seen to, you head for 64 Baker Street.

The city around you is silent, a mark of the petrol rationing, and the cars surrendered to the government to be turned into bullets and bombs, fighters and warships and rifles and helmets, the things that a war always needs.

The secretary greets you as you take off your coat, and sends you on into the office of your boss, Commander James Delacroix.

>>41658383
“McSorvan,” he grunts from behind his desk. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

“Sorry, sir,” you say unapologetically. “I had some business to finish.”

“She better have been good. Got your clothing in the room over, along with your cousin's papers. We had to redo them, of course, since they burned to uselessness in that damned fire in his plane. We've got two guns for you, as well. Hi-power from Belgium without the Nazi markings, meaning no one will question that on you, and your cousin's Walther PP. Both are 9x19, meaning if you find a box of shells, they'll both take them. Now, there's a taxi outside waiting for you to pull a gun and steal it after you change. You'll shoot at the office a few times, then head for the docks where the fishing boat in slip fourteen will be ready to go. You remember the courses our chap in the Navy gave you?”

You nod, and then he stands and leads you into the room next to his, empty save a table with everything you'll need.

“A courier will find you and get you the location for the radio drop. Remember your training and trust your instincts, McSorvan. Are you ready to go?”

>”As ready as I'll ever be. Goodbye, Commander.”
>”No, I forgot to do [fill in.] I'll be back soon.”

>>41658409
>”As ready as I'll ever be. Goodbye, Commander.”

>>41658409
>”As ready as I'll ever be. Goodbye, Commander.”

>>41658409
>>”As ready as I'll ever be. Goodbye, Commander.”

Can't think of anything else

>>41658409
>”As ready as I'll ever be. Goodbye, Commander.”

Y-you're finally back TF?

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>>41658472
ONLY FOR YOU ANON

>>41658409
>”As ready as I'll ever be. Goodbye, Commander.”
This anons got to get back the work, don't fuck up anons, we're coming back to our girl alive and intact

>>41658409
>”As ready as I'll ever be. Goodbye, Commander.”

“As ready as I'll ever be, sir. Goodbye, Commander.”

“It's not bloody goodbye until you're dead, McSorvan. Put the bloody clothing on and then get out of here.” He leaves and goes back to his office, and you shuck out of your suit and tie and shoes. To replace them, you have a dark blue sweater to go over an undyed wool work shirt, over tough trousers and boots. A fisherman's beret completes the ensemble. The Hi-power goes underneath your armpit into a shoulder holster with three spare magazines, while the Walther, with two, goes into your pockets. A Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife finishes your arsenal and is hidden in the boot.

Your cousin's identity card that the SOE had forged in excruciating detail goes into a waterproof canvas wallet. Your personal identity card will be airdropped to you later, with a shipment of Stens and ammo, once you've established a resistance network. Swallowing, you decide to go whole hog and boot open the door, firing a bullet into the ceiling. Putting your hard-learned German to good use, you begin shouting at the secretary. She plays along and promises she'll do anything if you don't shoot her.

Two men, armed with Stens and cigarettes dangling from their lips, enter the main room from a door to the side. They bring their guns up and fire around you, bullets stitching the bookshelves and furniture. You dive out of the window, glass shattering around you, and roll. You come back up and fire at the building, deliberately missing any of the shapes in the well-lit room, compared to the darkness of London's streets. There's a cab waiting on the corner, with no cabbie in sight. Assuming he's off taking a piss, you wrench the door open and toss your pistol onto the passenger seat, then flop onto the driver's seat. Another burst from a Sten comes out behind you, and you swear in German. One of the men begins yelling as you peel off the curb, tires screeching, heading for the docks and 'freedom.'

The drive through London is tense. You're a hunted man, now, and the city looms ominously over you, imposing and intimidating. The cab's radio is on the fritz, and you thump the dashboard, searching for something. You get the BBC. Jesus Christ, the SOE works fast when it wants to. They're warning folks to be on the lookout for a man matching your description.

The docks are silent and empty when you get there, and that makes this easier, somewhat. The Navy's got ships moving in and out all the time, but the SOE must have timed it so that they'd look the other way, you assume. Heading down to the slip, you get out of the car, pistol in hand, and head for the boat.

What you find is, to all outward appearances, a dingy fishing boat with sails, something that had seen better days. Stepping onto it, you find that she's got a sleek new V6 motor from Rolls-Royce. Someone has done all the work for you- all you need to do is start the engine and get the boat to France. That's trickier than it sounds: the Thames is full, so it takes all your hard-earned skill at the tiller to get you out of the estuary. Once you make that, all you have to do is head south.

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Eventually, one am rolls around. You cut the engine and run up the sail, still headed south. It's a little bit after that the shot rings across the water, probably a twenty millimeter, and puts a hole in your sail. The next three aren't surprises, but they're put directly into the hull of your good boat. You're sinking, now, and a German e-boat melts out of the darkness.

“Halt,” comes the perfunctory hail. “You are entering the waters of the French Occupation Zone, administered by the German Army. Cut you- Oh for fuck's sake,” the sailor says, “Ensign, he's fucking dead in the water and sinking. The crew is probably dead already. Do we have to do this bullshit?”

“No, no,” came another voice. “You're right. Leopold, note that an English ship was sunk attempting to smuggle contraband into France, when their crew fired on us first.”

Wow, you think. That's really shitty. What if you had been a German pilot attempting to make it back? Like you were supposed to be? The E-boat is floating closer now, spotlight trained on your fishing boat slowly filling with water.

>Hail them from your rapidly sinking ship.
>Abandon ship, board theirs.

>>41659648
>hail them

>>41659648
>>Abandon ship, board theirs.

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>>41659648
>Hail them from your rapidly sinking ship.

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>>41659648
>Abandon ship, board theirs.

Making the vote a tie, with no survivors

>>41659648
>Abandon ship, board theirs.

Making sure everything that's necessary to the mission, namely 'your' identity card, is secured in the pouch, you stand up. The muzzle flashes from their 20mm and the spotlight have ruined their night vision. (Yours as well, but that's beside the point.) You can see their boat, and that's all that matters. Swallowing, you slip off your boots and hang them around your neck, laces tied together.

Stepping onto the gunwale, you slip into the shockingly cold water of the Channel, balls doing their best to disappear as the water hits you. The cold is like a haymaker punch to the face; it knocks the breath out of your lungs and steals your strength almost instantly.

Diving, the shock of the salt in your eyes helps clear the sluggishness from the cold, and you head towards the E-boat, strong powerful strokes carrying you there swiftly. You haven't got long; hypothermia is inbound, you're sure of it, and it's not friendly. One of the Germans says something about schnapps back at the base, and you grin. You like schnapps. Particularly peach or apple schnapps.

It's a surprise when you knock your head gently into the E-boat. Taking a breath, you duck your head under the water and rotate onto your back, going beneath the E-boat to come out the water on the other side, gasping at the cold. You haul yourself out of the water and onto the boat's deck, pressing yourself against the gunwale so they don't see you. There's a cluster of four or five of them near the deck gun, staring at the spot where your boat went down. On top of the cabin, there's an MG34, and you make your way towards it, wet socks squelching nastily beneath your feet. Once at the machine gun, you grimace and grab it, racking the slide and feeding a new belt into it.

Five heads swivel to stare at you. Grinning, and they can't see you, because their vision is still fucked, you put on your best upper-class English accent.

“Hullo, chaps. Lovely spot for a bit of tea and biscuits, isn't it? Care for a crumpet? Could I interest you in a game of cricket? Pip pip cheerio, you sheep-fucking huns, eh?” Five faces stare at you blankly, before one of them goes for a gun, and you fall to your knees, laughing.

“Oh Christ,” you say in German, as though you'd been speaking it all your life, courtesy of cousin Fritz. “You ass-lickers should have seen your faces. Good Jesus Christ and Mother Mary, best thing I've seen in months.”

“And who are you?”

“Fritz Braun,” you lie easily. “Hauptmann, Luftwaffe. I went down on the last day of the Battle and have been trying to get back to our lines ever since. Finally found a fishing boat in Anglia,” you embellish, a little, here. “Found it, worked on it for about a month, killed the captain and owner and slipped out into the North Sea, where I got into the Channel. Then I met you bastards and you shot my Goddamn boat,” you say reproachfully.

“Sorry, sir,” the leader says. He's a freshfaced ensign of eighteen, maybe, and looks scared to be confronted with one of the Luftwaffe veterans of the Eastern Front and the Battle, holding a machine gun on him. You relinquish your hold on it, and he visibly relaxes. You smile winningly at him.

>See if they can't get you some clothing, since the chat is apparently interesting enough to keep you out in wet clothes.
>You're a rank higher than the kid, order him to hand over his alcohol and some warm clothing, it's bloody cold.

>>41660273
>>See if they can't get you some clothing, since the chat is apparently interesting enough to keep you out in wet clothes.

>>41660273
>You're a rank higher than the kid, order him to hand over his alcohol and some warm clothing, it's bloody cold.

>>41660273
>See if they can't get you some clothing, since the chat is apparently interesting enough to keep you out in wet clothes.

>>41660254
>>You're a rank higher than the kid, order him to hand over his alcohol and some warm clothing, it's bloody cold.

“Ensign,” you say, snapping the discussion back to military propriety. “It's the middle of the night, we're on the English Channel, and I'm soaking wet. It's cold. I'm cold. Do you have any warm clothing that's dry?”

“Uh.. Oh, yes sir! Right away, sir!” He snaps to attention and tosses you a salute, turning towards one of his men. Probably a Bosun or a Bosun's mate, the man is big. Big like built like a castle, with huge, rippling muscles, and the cold doesn't seem to affect him. “Heinrich, could you get the Hauptmann some clothing?”

“Jawohl,” the man rumbles like a small mountain moving, and you swallow. You're pretty sure he's bullet proof.

“Heinrich!” You add before the man steps inside the cabin or whatever it is that they call rooms on boats. “If you gentlemen have anything a bit stronger than water, I wouldn't say no,” you wink at him. He nods and heads inside, while the Ensign turns to you.

“Once you get changed we can go inside,” he says. “I'd rather not have you dripping on the floor,” he says apologetically. You shrug, and think about what's going to be facing you in France itself. Probably the Gestapo. Maybe a Heer welcoming committee, complete with loaded rifles and bayonets, you think pessimistically. Whatever it is, you'll be beat it.

>>41660587
And that's it for the night, guys. Sorry it was so short and slow. It's been a while since I've done this. I'll get better, hopefully fast.

In the meantime, here's the twitter: https://twitter.com/LoverofTang

And I will be archiving it soon. As for when we run next, I've got prior commitments tomorrow night, and work Wednesday night and Thursday morning. Thursday evening might be a possibility, but Friday is more likely.

Thanks for playing, and see you guys around!

I am so fucking glad to be back.

>>41660638
thanks for running

>>41660638
Good stuff, mate!

This was fantastic, well done.

>>41660638
was good

>>41660638
Thanks for running fag, this looks promising

>>41660638
Waaaaait a minute, is this the quest with the werewolves?