Author Notes:
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Now then, this RM chapter comes with a bit of a twist. I am once again open to any and all discussion and suggestion. This goes not just for the RM chapter but also the new pictures. Don't be afraid to leave behind a comment and a like, if you want to~!
Thank you, and have a nice day all of you lovely readers and patrons. Here's to another wonderful and productive month!
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"Your inactivity and indecisiveness are enough grounds to brand you a treasonous curd!" Shouts a red-faced Air Group Captain of the Erusean Air Force, who is also the Station Commander for RAF Northolt.
The air inside the officers' mess is charged with dividing opinions and tension. Ever since the civil war in London has come to RAF Northolt's attention, soldiers and officers of the two Erusean branches of military service have been stuck in a headlock, with the Royal Air Force and Army quarrelling over which and how. Tentatively, Group Captain is the commander-in-chief of RAF Northolt, which means his order to sortie out to aid the besieged King George VI should have met with no refusal. Yet, it's the Army personnel in charge of RAF Northolt's defenses, who currently outnumber those of the Air Force 3 to 1, that puts a stop to the Group Captain's desire to be a hero. The Army, now with its bulk being the Territorials, conscripted troops in all but name, does not want to lay their weapons against what could have been their family in support of a failing regime. Yet, unable to find it within themselves to revolt outright, the RAF Northolt officers and soldiers have instead adopted a passive wait-and-see attitude. This, in turn, gives the Air Force Group Captain no troops whatsoever to move out for Buckingham Palace. He can't exactly go out there with just some downtrodden pilots and aircraft mechanics with wrenches and oil bottles now, can he?
Alright, as an Air Force officer, the Group Captain can accept not being able to fully bring the Army personnel under his control. The military doesn't work that way. Yet, when Belkan aircraft are confirmed to be flying willy-nilly all over London, and his own pilots refused to take to the air...? That is the last straw for the Group Captain's fraying sanity, hence the very serious accusation earlier, one that even targeted the uncooperative Army officers in a petty effort to save face.
Yet, the chief recipient of that grave indictment, Lieutenant Nybeck, doesn't change his expression at all. Still standing tall with arms behind his back, the Lieutenant calmly voiced his defense.
"Sir, with all due respect." Nybeck levels the fuming Group Captain a steely stare. "You're asking us, remnants of a bomber formation, to fly air interception against the one best Air Force on this side of the globe, using nothing but obsoleted and unserviced Hawker Fury biplanes? We're bomber crews, not fighter pilots. Many of us don't even know how to start the props, much less fly an airframe. What you are asking us to do, sir, is nothing different than telling us to go and sign our own death warrants."
Nybeck's words trigger an immediate chorus of voices, belonging to the Erusean Air Force's lower rungs at the base, to support him.
" We already got lucky over the Strait once, I ain't fancying another run in with the Reaper, man!" Another bomber pilot spits the words, not even bothering to hide his distaste for his superior.
"We don't even have enough working airframes. The Furies we have were all dusted up in storage with no maintenance for years." Northolt's ground crew chief adds. "Some have no working flaps. Others have their rudders jammed. A few don't even have a working machine gun, which will necessitate a full replacement. Those few airframes we managed to kickstart the props with, we can't guarantee they won't disintegrate upon take-off strain, much less subject them to combat."
"Point is, we either die upon take-off or we die due to mysterious explosions halfway there to Buckingham. I don't know how you manage to see that sending us out on those flying coffins is better than not doing anything at all. Hell, you had a better chance convincing us to fly there on B-17s, if we had any left that were in working condition." A waist gunner of another B-17 crew chimes in. "At least we stand a better chance at survival in a bomber, and more heavily armed, than those flying rusted buckets."
"If you're dead set on flying a Fury, then do it yourself!"
"Yeah, what happened to lead by example?!"
"I ain't gonna trust someone who's all talk!"
"It's because of people like you that I lost my brother!"
"Do you know how many lives were lost in that one engagement!?"
"Hundreds perished because of Command's stupid orders! We would have all become fish food if the Belkans didn't pull back!"
"Wanna pick a fight with the Belkans after they've spared us a lifeline? Do it yourself!"
"Do it yourself!"
"Do it yourself!"
"Do it yourself!"
Listening to the spirited shouting of his fellow airmen, Lieutenant Nybeck says to the grim visage of the Group Captain. "As you can see, sir, the brothers won't accept that death order. If you still insist, pulling ranks on us..."
Nybeck takes a breath before adding. "Then you can do it yourself."
Nybeck moves to rip off the badges on his shirt, throwing them on the table. "Our death must at least have a meaning. From what I can see, however, you won't be able to guarantee that, Group Captain. I refuse to lead my crew to fulfill your vanity."
Following the Lieutenant's example, other crew chiefs do the same, ripping off their badges and throwing them all down right in front of the Group Captain.
"We refuse as well!"
Face red, eyes bloodshot, and shoulders trembling, the Group Captain squeezes out the words as he stands up from his position at the head of the table in the officers' mess. "Madmen... All madmen..."
"Arrest him...!" Pointing a finger at Nybeck, the Group Captain shouts to the Military Police standing guard by the door. "Arrest him...!"
"But sir...!" One of the Military Police tries to get a word in.
"Arrest him...!" The Group Captain reiterates. "Arrest all of them on charges of insubordination and harboring treasonous thoughts!"
No sooner has the Group Captain's words finished when the Army Colonel, who has been staying silent during the Air Force's internal spat, rises from his seat as well. "Group Captain, perhaps the stress of the situation is getting to you."
The Group Captain turns to the Army Colonel, snarling. "What did you say?!"
"I say..." The Colonel moves down the length of the table. "You should take a hint and rest."
Before the Group Captain can even manage to question the Colonel's intention, the Army officer has already launched a truly swift punch that knocks the living daylight out of the crazed Air Force peer. As the Group Captain falls heavily onto the ground with his nose crooked and his officer's cap flying somewhere else, the Colonel adds while pulling back his fist. "And no, I am not asking."
Turning to the gulping Military Police, the Colonel adds. "Take this wanker away and let him stew in a cell. He'll calm down, eventually."
"Y-Yes, Colonel!"
As the Group Captain is unceremoniously hauled away by the Military Police, disgraced and disfigured, the Army Colonel turns toward the surprised airmen. The Colonel raises an eyebrow at them all while pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his knuckle with.
"Well, given that you all have effectively resigned from the Royal Air Force after that splendid display, mind if I conscript you all to man Northolt's perimeter security? With the Belkans' arrival, more and more of London's refugees will try to get to a safe place, with Northolt being one of the nearest. I will need every able man to start receiving them and have them cared for lest we breed chaos on this very ground."
Hearing the Colonel's very reasonable invitation, and now technically jobless, Nybeck shares a look with the aircrews behind him before nodding to the Colonel. "We're at your disposal, Colonel. Just point us where you need us."
"Now that's splendid, gentlemen." The Colonel smiles, pleased with the airmen's cooperativeness. "Report to the armory, all of you. I will have an aide walk you there so that you all can get some gear. Can't have you all without a helmet and a rifle like a homeless bum."
"Thank you for your generosity, sir. But if I may, are we expecting a fight with the Belkans?" Nybeck asks the question that's on everyone's mind.
The Colonel barks out a laugh.
"Do you fancy me as a lunatic, son? There's a reason why I told my men to ditch the anti-air installations of Northolt. Now that I am effectively in charge, I am thinking about flying a parlay flag on top of the air control tower as well. We're only arming ourselves up for deterrence against the desperados."
The Colonel soon loses his smile, his face serious. "We already have a sizeable number of civilian refugees in the barracks, and the last thing we need is to make ourselves a giant target now that many more will come. I am not sure about you, but I don't want to lie in a nameless grave with the blood of our people on my hands.
"... You will have our full support in making sure that circumstances won't come around, sir." Nybeck and the other airmen nod in relief.
"You better." The Colonel waves them away. "Now go and get yourself some proper equipment."
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Grimacing due to his still sore injury and having experienced the propwash of a low-flying Belkan aircraft, the Count of Farbanti raises his hand to lower the muzzle of a looted Lee-Enfield rifle that a militia aimed at the Belkan war machine.
"Save your bullet for the ones that truly deserve it." The Count says in a voice filled with mixed emotions. "We're in no shape or form to antagonize the Belkans anyway."
Stylized to fit its serviced branch, as it may be, the Count recognizes the Belkan flag anywhere. The last thing he needs is for some trigger-happy members of his ragtag force to antagonize the Belkans enough for them to wipe half of London off the map.
Looking at the militia that doesn't really know what to say now that London is besieged by the Reich on top of its ongoing civil war, the Count sighs. "Help me pass on my order to everyone. Do not, and I repeat, do not, under any circumstances, attack Belkan soldiers and war materials. If any unit finds itself coming across a Belkan detachment, then their singular objective is to either retreat or to immediately surrender. I do not want any of us to lose their lives, banging their heads against a steel wall that can collapse on all of us. And make sure that our force that was engaging Buckingham Palace earlier has all retreated before reporting back to me."
Taking a deep breath, the militia nods with reluctant acceptance. "Yes, milord."
However, before the militia can even go and complete his order, a racket is stirred by the people standing around St. George's Cathedral. They all point, shouting warily upward, as a Flight of Ospreys now circles over the Cathedral and the park and museum across from it.
"Hold fire! Hold your fire!" Remembering the Count's words from earlier, the militia shouts desperately to everyone else.
The Count himself, seeing that two of the strange Belkan aircraft are landing vertically (what sorts of witchcraft is this!?) in the park, sighs to himself. Already, he can feel the onset of a migraine and a heap of troubles to work through. He has pulled back the force sent to cause a distraction for the Commander, thinking that it would buy him some time to formulate a civil response against the Belkan encroachment. In reality, though, the Count finds his grace period severely lacking with how fast the Belkans traverse from one corner of London to the next.
With his plans strangled in their nascent forms, the Count decides to bite the bullet and just wing it from here on out. There's not much he still has left to lose.
As the two Ospreys land in the park, kicking up dried leaves and grasses everywhere, their ramps are lowered. From them, Belkan Marines disembark alongside personnel that the Count identified as officers, diplomats, or both. One of them, carrying a briefcase, sporting a harmless smile, with a hand holding down his field cap from being blown away by the winds kicked up by the Ospreys' propellers, greets the Count in perfect Erusean.
"Count of Farbanti! I have come to bargain!"
Whatever comes next, the Count can only hope that all the sacrifices have been worth it.