NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC Thread: http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=563591

“Children of New Alsace, I have a vision. I have a vision to change New Alsace forever. I have a vision that will guide in a new era for our people everywhere. I have a vision that will lead to prosperity and equality amongst all, I have a vision that soon the barrier between north and south will melt away under the victory of communism and guidance from our socialist brothers across the world. I have a vision that the teachings of Karl Marx will bring our divided people’s closer together and away from corruption, away from poverty, away from the privileged rich and peasant poor, a land were all are equal under the sun whose gaze sees no difference between men. I have a vision of sacrifice, where the memories and lives of heroic husbands and sons, nephews and grandchildren, who will happily give their lives for the freedom of a people will be remembered throughout history as the Liberators they are. I have a vision of bayonets and swords, rifles and bombs, tanks and planes, I have a vision of fire through which we will sing one song again and we will salute one flag. I have a vision of one leader, strong and capable, leading our people through our golden age. Ladies and Gentlemen, I have a vision. My vision lies South”

Nam Song-Chol, Vahiran Military Day, August 10th 1946

25st August 1946

It was a scorching summer morning in Lelvar, were even the weak veil of dawn mist failed to shield the land below from the sun’s rays. It shone brightly on the rivers of crystal which flowed freely through Lelvar’s flat plains like a long series of winding snakes. It shone brightly on the backs of the peasants working hard in their fields, working ankle deep in water to bring in their annual harvest and so stave off starvation in the coming winter. It shone on the tree tops of the western forests, where animals of all sizes and species skipped carelessly through their woodland home, delighting in the heat of the carefree morning. It shone on the mountain tops, where the peak was guarded by a permanent bank of pure white snow. It shone on the stone buildings of Tsingmao City, the seat of the Lelvar Government, where the skeleton of a small metropolis was beginning to from amongst the shops, factories and the port that had once held so many French and Japanese warships. It shone on the bamboo houses that were more common across the country, with people just glad to have shelter from the unforgiving rain and snow that would herald the end of such fine weather. Lelvar looked at peace.

Unfortunately, at the Airbase of Shoadong, based in the north of the country, two men knew different. They knew the problem of their country and now they were standing, waiting for the solution and, hopefully, the answer to all their problems. It had only been a week since the Premier of Lelvar, Jon Kwang-Ik, had sent out the message calling for international volunteers to help repel the invasion of the Vahirans. They had been surprised by the response and by the Americans who, although they would not get involved in the conflict, had promised to ship them out as soon as possible. It was a good thing too. The Lelvari Army did not lack courage but it did lack expertise and experience, something the Soviet trained Vahiran Army had in abundance.

Now the two men stood in the heat of the airfield, one of Lelvar’s many left behind as a gift by the Japanese. It had been designed for an air force many times bigger than what was assigned here, thus, it was used as both a barracks and an airfield.
One of the men, Colonel Ri Jun-Il, was to be in command of the combined Mercenary force with the job of integrating both the ground forces and the pilots into an organised unit. The black haired man smiled at the expressions the Mercenaries would wear when they landed at the airbase and saw that they were confront with.

Aside from two long runways and a small courtyard of bamboo buildings, there was not much to Shoadong. There were two newer concrete buildings that were only a few years old while the runways remained mere dirt tracks, unconverted from the days of the Japanese. The Japanese also provided the protection for the airbase, surrounded by the original 40mm AA guns that had been put there at the airfield’s construction. Only now, it was Lelvari who manned them and not Japanese invaders.

Ri watched as the C-47 lumbered down from the sky, turning gracefully to land on the sun baked runway that was as hard as concrete from the heat. He was wearing the standard Officer’s Uniform of the Lelvari Army, namely a French Officer’s Uniform with a sabre at his side and a revolver on the other. He also wore the traditional French Kepi with a blue, six pointed star.
As the plane ground to a halt and the doors were opened, Hwang bowed to the disembarking Soldiers and pilots, all of whom already looked more impressive than his own army, he knew they must have left Japan some time in the early morning or last night. The would have been minimal conversation.

“Greetings, Mercenaries” he announced, speaking English with an American accent, “Welcome to Lelvar and Shoadong Air Base”

--

Patrick Harper was sweating already, having spent all night in a cold and cramped C-47 he was now in the stifling heat that was Asia. It came across him like a blanket. The place seemed charming enough, but then appearances could be deceiving. He wasn’t here to enjoy the view, he was here to kill Communists and earn a lot of money while doing it. He had been a soldier all his life, marching with a brodie on his head and a Lee-Enfield in his arms. Now he was to be armed to fight a new threat nothing to do with his dominion. He took one look at the confused uniform of the man in front of him and new what this new command would be like already.
The Native Officer had an American pistol, Japanese trousers, a French jacket, boots and cap, along with a British Sam brown belt. This was going to be an interesting few months.

25st August 1946

Howard hated planes. But it was the fastest way to get anywhere, so he accepted it. He was wearing an American uniform, that still had Japanese blood on it, he didn't bother to clean it back in Japan. His two pistols and two knives were safely with him. Now he had a job, and that was kill the communists. As he disembarked the plane a Lelvari in a French uniform greeted the mercenaries. Howard could tell that there would be a lot of fighting before they could drive the communists back to their capital.

It was a pleasant freedom to fly, again, mused Leopold. He hadn't been in an aircraft since 1943, and then it had only been some piece-of-shit Fieseler Storch, gradually rattling it's way to HQ. The pilot had been a snivelling little Slav, terrified that the entire Red air force was going to dive out of the sun and annihilate his shitty little plane.

Pleasant, that was, save for the company. He had shared the cramped aircraft with all manner of useless idealists, slit-eyed Asians and bloodthirsty Americans. Only a few looked as though they knew what was coming.

They landed at some sorry excuse of an airfield, to be greeted by a maniacally grinning Lelvari in not-quite-French uniform. Leo rubbed his eyes and stood to, waiting for the diminuitive officer to finish his verdammt orientation speech and dismiss them.

The next man out of the C-47 Dakota sucked in a refreshing lungful of the tropical air. He unbuttoned a chest pocket on his flight suit and pulled out pair of aviator's sunglasses. He hooked their wire earpieces behind his ears and glanced around.

This will be an adventure, he thought dryly as he slung his duffle bag up onto his shoulder and lowered himself down the steep stairs of the cargo tranport. He got to the ground and looked around again. He'd done this before, and the last place had been just as lovely. The same backward airfield that could double for a mudpatch with a slight rain.

He looked back at the Dakota and gave a quick high whistle. A thin, lithe black canine stepped to the hatch. His broad, flat nose snuffled at the air. His red, reflective eyes were set far back on his narrow skull, the skin-taunt over bone. The large predatory canine gathered its legs under it and leaped down to the dried mud plain. It landed in a low, fluid crouch before rising up again.

It looked up at the man and thrashed its thin, whipish tail pleasantly. The man moved his free hand from resting on the backstrap of the Webley revolver on his hip and reached down to scratch behind the ears of the lanky beast who came up to the man's hip. "Quite a lot like Fungi, isn't, Ah'ron?" The man commented to his pet and companion. "But then again, a bit more grass, and it looks a tad like Togoboro Aerodrome back home."

Ah'ron's attention locked onto a chicken that was running across the baked mud strip. The man's eyes followed the chicken too. "Ah, now it's like home, sweet home...blasted chickens running about everywhere. Probably rats and all sorts of vermin, more than enough to keep a vornskr like yourself busy, eh lad?" The man looked down at the vornskr male who wagged that sinuous whip tail. The thick bulb at the tip of the tail thumped lightly against the man's leg.

The man hiked the duffle bag further up on his shoulder and moved to the formation line that was forming as the troops filed off the transport. Mercenary, he thought, such a dirty word, I would have perfered 'soldier of fortune' or 'veteran of monetary allegiance."

He pushed semantics aside and came into proper spacing beside the surly Hun who had been glaring honor daggers at the rest of the passengers. The Hun had been staring so hard that he could have sworn he'd seen the inscription "Alles für Deutschland" that the Hun had stamped in the air.

He set his duffle to the ground and came to a comfortable parade rest. His silver wings gleamed proudly on his chest just above the name plaque that proclaimed the man to be Squadron Commander Matthew Quiggles, Togovian Colonial Air Corps. Ah'ron circled around his master and sat down primly, tail curling around Quiggles's boots seemingly of its own snakelike accord.

Lee rolled his shoulders, momentarily relieving the pain from the weight of the Degtyaryov machine gun hanging there before it settled back to cutting into his flesh again as he strode across the airfield. Well, perhaps "strode" was not the correct word, insofar as one only five feet and three inches tall can stride. Nevertheless he joined the rest of the group relatively unnoticed, just another local, albeit an extremely well armed one. Lee still wore the Vahir peasants garb he had donned when escaping over the border, a sharp contrast to the uniforms and battle gear represented here. He took a look at those assembled thus far: All larger, older and definitely whiter than he was, Americans if he was any judge, though all whites looked the same to him. There were exceptions, like this countryman wearing the clothing of the bastard foreigners, and he knew there would be plenty of "Lelvarians" here, far outnumbering the taller, more pale mercenaries.

He shifted the Russian-made SVT-40 rifle he held tightly in his grasp with both hands, stolen like the machine gun from a Soviet armory. Lee wondered exactly what kind of assignments they would be given. As far as he was concerned, if it helped his people and hurt the Soviets it was fine by him. The short Asian took another look at the one wearing, if he identified it correctly, a Colonel's uniform. He would probably be their coordinator, so best to stay on the Southerner's good side, if he had one.

Andy Tran came out of the plane, wearing his V.E. Army Uniform, pistol on his right side, and the machete on his right leg side. Feel relieved that his out of the plane and get his muscle stretched. He scanning the area to see any heavy vehicles he can use or armory building which he likes to be fully equipped in gear. Walking around with his army bag on his back side, smelling the environment that reminded him on his last deployment, which only lasted 10 days before being pulled out for treaty agreements, but very harsh days when his commander order the men to dig miles of trenches.

The Lelvari Colonel watched patiently as the Mercenaries stepped from the plane, scretly pleased with every one of them. They were exactly what Lelvar needed to repel this Communist attack and he would die long before a united flag flew in the north of the country. He indicated for then to follow him towards one of the few concrete buildings that had been established towards the end of the way by the Americans.
And the Mercenaries got a first taste of their allies by the group of Soldiers sitting outside the briefing room. They were dressed in the short sleeve Uniform of the old French Army, complete with a French Rifle and the french Adrian helmet, all in a bronze-like colour. Some were smoking and all watched curiously as the Mercenaries were led inside.
Meanwhile a line of Moraine Saulnier MS.406's had banked in to land at the end of one of the runways, the old French fighter, judging from the line of them already parked along one of the hangars, was the mainstay of the Lelvari Air Force. The Pilot Mercenaries were going to have their work cut out.
One inside, the Colonel saluted to them and introduced himself,
"My name is Colonel Ri Jun-Il and I shall be the Commander of this little Brigade so long as it is in action. I presume you know why you are all here?"

Lee gestured behind him with the business end of his rifle, to the north. "To kill Soviets, and make money doing it!" he growled. And to avenge the death of my brother. His accent was thick and he could speak only broken English, but he felt he'd gotten the point across. Judging by the bemused looks he was getting from some of the others, they either hadn't noticed him before or dismissed him as just another one of the natives. He did his best to look professional, or as professional as you can look when everyone else is taller than you by at least four inches and you're wearing dirty peasant clothes and others have uniforms and their own weapons instead of stolen Soviet ones.

Quiggles's mind was still reeling from the disgusting sight he'd seen outside of the concrete bunker. It wasn't the shabbily dressed and disciplined infantry lounging against the building. He half-expected that of any member of the army which as a rule were dirty, vermin-infested louts, the lot of them. He did, however, not appreciate the complete lack of decorum they showed their own commanders. That spoke disconcerting volumes about the state of the Lelvari army, which made him pity any of the 'paid volunteers' that had to try to make something out of that mess.

No, Quiggles was disgusted and dismayed by the nauseating, insulting line of Moraine Saulnier MS.406s at the edge of the field. The MS. 406 was the ever present mainstay of French air power. However, since any time the words 'French" and "air power" were combined most of the world laughed and used any subject that phrase was applied to as an example of what not to do. The damned rattletrap was underpowered, undergunned, and a joke compared to any Allied or Axis aircraft of the last war.

Quiggles's look towards the communist turncoat was not bemused but disgusted, a further side effect of the sinking realization in gut. He turned to Colonel Ri Jun-Il and managed to summon up a salute from a deep part of him that could still see this organization as a military entity that deserved the correct etiquette. "Squadron Commander Matthew Quiggles, formerly of the Togovian Colonial Air Corps, reporting for duty, sir" He dropped his salute quickly to move onto his main concern once formality was out of the way. "Sir, I led to believe that you fielded American and British equipment as well."

"Luckily Squadron Commander, we do have a limited number of P-51 Mustangs being used as Interceptors and Bombers while there are also a few P-47's that we are using in the ground attack role," He smiled sadly, "The MS.406's are what your fellow Squadrons have been using and, needless to say, they have been given rather a pounding by the Veharan Army Air Force which is deploying Yak-3's and La-7's against us" He gave a small shrug,

"Armour is pretty much the same story, our Armed force is mostly Shermans or old French R-35's. However, we have been graced with a few M26 Patton tanks donated by the United States," he turned in time to see his own men saluted as he walked past. He turn saw the little local with the SVT-40 and smiled. He did not know who the boy was, nor did he care. The Lelvari Army was so desperate it would accept Women at this stage if they could hold a gun or drive a tank.

More and more French uniforms. Where were the American weapons? He heard the Lelvari said that their army had R-35s and Shermans. R-35s were probably outdated at this point. Howard stayed quiet as everyone else talked. The Lelvari equipped with French equipment wouldn't last long against the Soviets. The Mercenaries were here to prevent that.

Leo winced at the thought of relying on French and American armour. The R35's were obsolete, and could be almost entirely disregarded, while the M26's would be too few and far between. He'd seen Shermans in action in France, and had been unimpressed. They was suitable for medium infantry support, but against Russian armour wouldn't have a Goddamn chance, especially against the big IS-2's. The Americans had enough of them to overwhelm the enemy, but here? They were so strapped for equipment that they'd be re-using enemy vehicles by the end of the month.

He stepped forward to question the officer. The situation was looking bad already, and Leo was determined to find out exactly how much of a shit-storm he'd landed himself in.

"What about anti-tank equipment?" he demanded. "Mines, guns... anti-air? By the sound of it, our air support is screwed five ways to hell, so what's going to keeping theirs away?"

He gestured at the clutch of bedraggled Lelvari infantrymen, "And what about small arms? Do we even have automatics, or are we all getting these fucking Fusils?"

"A Combination of 40mm AA guns left by the Japanses and the heroic struggles of our Pilots are keeping most of their airpower at bay over the key areas. However, we are not here to discuss this. Your standard Anti-tank weapons shall be bazookas or 75mm towed anti-tank guns. As for rifles, you are not using fusils but these"
He took a gun from the desk in front of him, for they were now in the main briefing room, containing a desk, a couple of dozen chairs and a map of the country. Red and blue lines indicated where everything was on the map.
He held up the rifle for all to see,
"This is the MAS 36, a French rifle which I think is comparible to the Russian Mosin-Nagant so you have no worries there. Submachine guns will consist of MAS 38 and the Chaucat. I am afaid that is all we have to issue you with," He shrugged helplessly,
"For those who wish to be equipped with Adrian Helmets, there is a supply at the base for you, while you will also be given either a MAS 36 or 38. Any questions?"

Quiggles glanced around the line of soldiers of fortune. They were an odd disparate group; American, German, former Vahiri, Vietnamese, and a Togovian. Although they were quickly finding a common alignment in their current predicament, or so Quiggles estimated.

Reluctantly, Quiggles shook his head no. He had no questions. He was undoubtably quickly on his way to being a smoldering, greasy hole in the ground.

Leo shifted his weight from one leg to the other, assimilating the information. He locked eyes with the officer again.

"When do we get them?"

Andy was getting bored and ask a question to the leader of the pack.

"When on earth is this meeting going to start?" ask Andy
"Are we still missing some fellas?"

"The briefing has already started, young man" The Colonel explained patiently before looking up to the big map behind him.
"Your assignment will be slot into this gap here," He pointed to a salient just in front of the capital, with lots of little markers to indicate enemy formations of some kind. Soldiers will be issued with weapons and taken in trucks to the front. You must hold this line until we can get enough resources together for a counter attack. It won't be pretty, trench warfare, but we should be able to hold for a few weeks or so. Pilots, you will have to provide support from the air. Try to stop the Il-2's and Pe-2's from getting through if possible. Are there any questions?"

Leo sighed, unsurprised.

"None," he said.

A man dressed in camo and holding a duffle bag walked into the room where the others were. He was sweating and wore a semi-tired look, "Shit, I'm late... what did I miss?"

The armed but not too well unmarked deuce an' a half rolled into the ex Japanese air base taking the turn on half it's wheels, as if all the hounds of hell were ripping at said wheels. While they might well have been in the normal course of things, they weren't today, but the man behind the wheel didn't intend to let himself get accustomed to slow sure driving. Nor did the man manning the M 32MG relax just because they'd made it to the dubious - in their estimation - security of Shoadong.

Not stopping, the deuce roared down the base to the less dubious security of a long half tunnel of a large hangar - it may have been rusted through in places and the wide sliding doors not able to close completely, but they provided their own security there and that they could trust.

Once inside and the two waiting for them having forced the doors closed behind them, whoops of joy could be heard by those curious enough to be close. But there weren't too many -none really save for a few of the ubiquitous chickens - as Colonel Ri Jun-Il had done as requested and made the whole area off limits. To everyone, that is, save for the four from some place quite unknown to the vast majority of New Alscace.

"That’s the last piece of it. Twenty four hours to finish and static test. We already sent off a telegram as well. The Captain will be here by then." Remmy Lebeau slid out from behind the deuce's wheel, while the big man - he was fully seven foot tall and as broad as a mountain eased down from his spot behind the M32.

Monk, you and Ham get that crate unloaded and unshipped. Tom" Remmy nodded toward the wiring harnesses "That’s yours as always. I'll go let the Colonel know then beat feet back to help" The other three nodded and went to work with a will.

They'd spent six months tracking down the various crates that contained their bosses pet project. The theft of it had nearly killed the older man, and indeed he was too frail to have come with them, a fact that had him sorely despondent. Only the steady stream of telegrams as they found piece by piece the stolen invention kept his spirits up.

http://img364.imageshack.us/img364/377/deucedd5.th.jpg (http://img364.imageshack.us/my.php?image=deucedd5.jpg)

"You missed nothing that can't be updated upon," Ri smiled as the man entered, offering him a bow before indicating across the runway to another building nearby,
"That is where you shall be issued with your equipment, would you all like to follow me?" He asked as he opened the door and left through it.

However, before he had even been given the chance to close it behind him, a traditional howling filled the airfield, a long monotous roar that indicated the Mercenaries would get to see the enemy sooner than they thought. Already, MS406's were dragging themselves into the air, a long string of them while troops ran about the base to both man the AA guns to get under cover.

It was not long before the first attacker appeared over the runway, a big Il-2, painted in the dark grey of the Vahiran Air Force droned over the airfield, ignoring the flak and dropping a string of bombs onto the runway. The bombs exploded near and around the runway, sending plumes of dust and dirt high into the air. They were joined by Yak-3's coming in low to strafe the AA positions and the fighters sitting in neat rows long the side of the runway.

In one moment, the whole airbase became a symphony of explosions and chaos. The bombers and fighters were seemingly neverending in numbers. Colonel Ri ducked into a nearby trench. He could do nothing, it was all down to the defenders of the airport

"Fair enough, I'll just follow you then..." he said, it was soon after that he heard the first bomb fall. This was followed by multiple explosions and the sound of AA guns, he took a deep breath and exhaled, "Sounds like the fun is about to begin. Let's get to it, I doubt a pistol is going to do much."

Lee had followed the little group closely, but now that the enemy was attacking by air he separated himself from them. Yeon had taught him that columns of soldiers, grounded planes, buildings, trucks, tanks, jeeps and pretty much any obvious groupings or structures were clear targets for strafing or bombing aircraft. Lee had no wish to be killed by Soviet munitions before he got the chance to shoot some of the enemy. Moving closer to what seemed to be a barracks building, ready to dive for cover if he had to, the little Vahiran let loose with his Degtyaryov, yelling in his defiance in his native tongue at the bomber as it droned overhead, a target for his bullets and profanities. Absurd, to think he could damage the monstrous plane at all, but Lee needed to shoot at something, and freak chance was better than no chance. He ignored the defenders as they ran for their AA batteries or planes, he could do nothing to help them and none of them were even remotely interested in him at the moment anyway.

Ah'ron, the clever vornskr that he is, knew what the keening of air raid sirens meant. With the accompanying explosions and exchange of heavy gunfire, he was convinced that everything was coming down around him, and he sprinted towards the nearest trench. The large predatory canine dove into the trench and on top of Colonel Ri.

His owner however stayed out in the open. He squinted into the sky as he watched the Il-2s and Yak-3s circle from the attack and spray long lines of tracers into the aerodrome's buildings, flight lines, motor pool. He watched the Vahirian pilots, studying them. They were fairly skilled, at least no rank amatuers. They had guts. He had to hand them that.

However he did not have to tolerate them. He unsnapped his holster and drew his Webley. He smiled and took aim at one of the Il-2's exposed and vulnerable underslung oil cooler. He smiled and roared out challenges to Vahirian pilot's heritage and parentage as he took slow careful shots. He knew that shooting .455 pistol rounds at a heavily armored and fast moving fighter would have little chance of effect. It did however have a cathartic effect and Quiggles felt better doing it.

Remmy found his own trench to dive in. He and the others hadn't signed on to defend the base, and he had no intention of doing as some of the fools were and plugging away at the Yaks and IL2's parading over head - with pistols. Though the curses were note worthy and one or two got filed away for reference.

"Hey if you want to fais do do with those buggers you ought to go man one of the auk auk's " He yelled loud enough to be heard over the explosions "othersie they make you look swiss"

Elsewhere, many hours of flight time away, the Captain waved one last time to the figure in a high backed wooden wheel chair and the orderly that stood behind it. The way wsz returned by an an expansive mimend hug. Then the swift plane raced down the run way leaping into the sky.

Quiggles broke the Webley opened and tipped it over to eject the spent cartridges. He idly walked towards the trench as he took his time reloading the revolver. He glanced up watching the conflict boiling in the sky.

"Hey if you want to fais do do with those buggers you ought to go man one of the auk auk's " He yelled loud enough to be heard over the explosions "othersie they make you look swiss"

Quiggles looked down into the trench to find the source of that excrutiating swill of Cajun blithering. He locked onto a large man that took up most of his part of the trench. He could see that Ah'ron had tucked in behind the very large man, using him as a shield. He spent the remaining time needed to reload his Webley, trying to decipher the Creole's gobbledy-gook.

With the six chambers full, Quiggles snapped the gun back together. He let his arm hang down, the revolver resting on his thigh. He looked at one of the 'Auk-auks' or 'ack-acks' Quiggles supposed to be the bases anti-aircraft guns. "No, my good man, I think I'll stay to pistols. Case in point...."

A Il-2 rolled in and bracketed the ground in front of one of the anti-air machine gun emplacements. As the spouts of dirts kicked up by the rounds walked towards the emplacement, the pilot must have tapped the rudder to slew his guns around because the rounds jerked to the side a bit and one line of heavy shells ripped through the gun crew silencing the weapon.

Quiggles looked down at the large man. "Gun emplacements generally make pilots angry. A single man with a pistol is something of an oddity. Chivalry demands that you salute such noblity and ignore his futile, yet courageous efforts by not strafing him."

A heavy engine roar split the air, and Quiggles looked back over his shoulder. A Yak was diving down towards the trench like a homesick demon. He opened up with his wing mounted machine guns. It took a moment for Quiggles to realize that the rounds were seeking out the trenchline but him. "Great Scott!" The Catawaban officer yelled as he dove into the trench.

The gun which had been raked just moments ago was rushed by a dozen men who dragged the Lelvari corpses from their positions and took over the running of the gun. They ignored the fire from the Vahiran Air Force, braving death to resist the invading Communists.

The Yak-3 bore in, preparing to fire at the trenches in which a number of Lelvari Infantry were also firing into the air with their rifles, doing anything to try and help the hard pushed AA crews. However, as it continued it's 45 degree dive, a MS.406 pulled in behind it and let loose with it's two machine guns. The Yak-3 shuddered for a moment as a comet tail appeared from it's engine. The Soviet Fighter rolled awoy and crashed just outside the Airport boundary. The MS 406 pulled up and back into the fray, to the cheers of the ground troops who watched as black smudges engaged in the air, twisting and spinning and killing.

"Pilots to their planes!" Ri yelled, holding a chachaut LMG, "All pilots to their planes!"
A new roll of MS406's and, more importantly, a small line of P-51 Mustangs were now appearing from the hangars. They were manned by a flood of pilots who leapt into open canopies and revved their engines up before moving onto the runway.
"Mister Quiggles!" Ri called, "Congratulations! You're leading the P-51's! Good luck!"

Marcus sighed, "Gotta find me an armory..." he muttered before running off to get some cover, any dead body he could find would have to 'donate' its weapon to his cause, or so he figured. He dived into a trench and promptly began looking over the area, making sure not to have his head ripped off by some passing plane.

Well Remmy was six five and nearly as broad shouldered as Monk, and he didn't mind the mutt taking shelter behind him.

"Great Scott!"

That made the expat cajun throw back his head and laugh uproariously "Chivalary es fer civilized places, an this sure fire aint"

Colonel Ri's order to the newcomer had him laughing even harder "Oh Quiggles ain it? Laisez les bons temps rouler! An when you get done a hunnin, come play some Bouree' wid me an dey boyz" Any one as brass balled as the stranger deserved some good times after a strenuous days combat.

He looked over at Ri, all accent vanished, sounding completely like the Harvard grad that he was "Just wanted to let you know, Colonel, that we found the last crates, retrieved them and the Captain will be here tomorrow."

Leo had watched in appalled admiration at the antics of the Catawaban pilot. Himself, unarmed, having quickly taken cover and damn well stayed there. It took real balls to stand in the open during an air attack, or a death-wish, and he mockingly applauded when the man was forced to dive for the trenches.

A nearby Lelvari flak crew were shredded by an IL-2, and Leo saw his first chance to hit back at the Soviet enemy. He was on his feet in an instant, and running to the smoking gun alongside a small crowd of Lelvari gunners. He shouldered one out of the gunner's seat and slid himself in, gripping the firing mechanism with a practiced hand. The gun was a single-barrel Bofors 40mm, common throughout every army of note during the last ten years, and an old friend.

"Load me!" he yelled at the squabbling gunners, gesturing at the gun's empty ammo rack, "Chargez! Chargez!"

The Lelvari quickly straightened themselves out, snapping a fresh clip of 40mm into the rack, and Leo braced himself to fire...

"Mister Quiggles!" Ri called, "Congratulations! You're leading the P-51's! Good luck!"

Quiggles lifted himself up from the mud at the bottom of the trench and without wiping the mud from his face, replied. "It's Squadron Commander Quiggles, thankyouverymuch." He got to his feet and spit a bit of mud from his mouth. He holstered his mud encrusted Webley, knowing full well it would be a viceroyal pain in the arse to clean later.

He took moment to watch the futher mayhem in front of him as he unzipped his flight suit and pulled out a hankerchief. He unfolded the bit of cloth and used it to wipe his face clean.

He looked back at the Colonel to see if the man was serious about him running across an active flightline that was, oh yes, being strafed. To Quiggles dismay, the little oriental, with his newly procured submachine gun to buoy his confidence, was entirely serious. The Catawaban threw the muck filled hankerchief away and made to climb out of the trench.

He felt a large hand, more a bear's paw or baseball mitt than a hand, grab his. Quiggles looked back and saw that the ursine or atheletic equipment hand belonged to the large Cajun. The odd mixture of Ivy League education and Bayou-upbringing placed a thuroughly revolting severed alligator claw in the Catawaban's hand.

"Here mon, made by Marie 'erszel' with Erzule's on favah and da fur of a black dog boun' 'bout it." the Swamp accent was back again in full farce.

Quiggles was sure that it was back in full force, but farce fit just as well. He used that thought to distract him from what he was holding in his hand. The voodoo fetish was not a sight for the weak of stomach or the overactive of imagination. However, Quiggles had learned a long time ago not to turn down mystical gifts when they were offered. He unzipped a pocket in his suit and slipped the claw in before closing the pocket.

"Thanks, mate. Hopefully I won't need Erzule's favor..." With that he levered himself up and out of the trench. He felt like he was harkening back to his father's stories about the Great War, going over the top and into the fray. Quiggles pushed himself into a sprint towards the line of Mustangs as another part of his father's stories, machine gun bullets, sought to make sure they weren't left out of the telling.

~~~~~~~~~

Ah'ron stood with this front paws perched on the edge of the trench, watching his master run out into the lethal hail of bullets. He turned his head towards Colonel Ri. The vornskr knew who'd ordered his master into danger. And oh, he would pay should anything happen to his master.

But for now, Ah'ron looked out onto the carnage and whimpered after Quiggles.

~~~~~~~~~

Deep in a forest where no mortal tred, where trees rival mountains, a large reptile, like a thunder lizard of antiquity, lay curled around Her nest of eggs. One of Her eggs She had moved away from the pile so She could focus on it with more ease.

There She scryed in the translucent egg as a giant of a man handed a blessed object into the hand of one of Her children, specifically Her Fulcrum. The man, Her Fulcrum, may not believe in Her just as yet, but She did in him and loved him.

It set her long tail to amused thumps against the ground to see Her prodigal son handed a fetish of Erzule. The giant mythasaur hiss-laughed to Herself. For Erzule was another of Her names, another way mortals percieved Her just as this reptilian visage and the name Mira was Her facade to Her children in Catawaba.

For the moment, it seemed as if the Vahiran attackers were being kept at bay by the combined efforts of the MS.406's being launched from the immediate airfield, as well as a few P-51's that had been launched from elsewhere and were now being guided in to stem the flood of aircraft. The low flying Il-2's with their Yak-3 escort were contained for the moment, swirling around in the sky like a graceful dance.

The Lelvari Pilots and AA gunners, including those manning Leo's gun, took the time offered to either get their crates off the ground, or else to restock ammunition or chance the barrels for the smaller weapons. The Airfield was also alive with fire crews, rushing with buckets or hoses to extinguish planes, fuel tanks or buildings that had been set ablaze by the attack. The P-51's were being attended to and soon the first were already crawling into the sky to join the Ex-French Fighters in the defence of their home. Only Quiggles and a few more of the pilots had yet to reach the battle above them.

Ri looked up and saw that the battle was, for now, out of his hands. He relaxed and moved to one of the smaller buildings to connect a radio and report that a strike on an airfield far in the interior could only mean one thing. A renewed offensive. The International Brigade were gonna get a whole lot of action.

Remmy sratched the black pelted mutt behind the ears, as he whined "Don' worry de gris gris keep 'em saf. Now don' bite me cause I smell like Screetch, and don' worry he'll be fine...untill he meets up wid de captain. Then she teach him how is' done. Her mother, bless her heart, knew adventurin' from da inside out and she lives on in Cat. I'll put a liddle tusker ova da wood, Cochon De Lait, and we eat good tomorro. Give ya half the trotters, Screetch gets the others."

But he'd made his report and he was more needed back in the hanger. His gift from Marie Laveau was now in the right hands.

"Hey pup, wanna come meet Screetch? He not eat ya, you a toddle ta big"

Quiggles slowed from his sprint to job. Apparently this atrocious fetish had proved itself already as the Yaks and Ilyushas were driven back away from the field, at least for now. He rubbed a hand over the lumpy thing in his breast pocket.

He waved a hand to signal one of the line crews working frantically to get one of the P-51s ready. "I say! Does that plane have a pilot?" He called out.

One of the mechanics turned away from the plane and pointed further down the flight line where a couple writhing forms were being attended to medics. "Sous-lieutenant Zheng was running towards us when the Communists came in on him."

Quiggles, surprised by the well-spoken mechanic, slowed even more as he came up to the plane. "She ready?"

The mechanic shrugged. Quiggles turned on him. "What the hell does that mean?"

The mechanic shrugged again. "They were strafing the hangars, monsiuer."

The pilot gave a hard look at his plane. It wasn't spewing oil or fuel, that seemed a good indicator. It wasn't already on fire, smoking, or sparking. It was his turn to shrug. "She won't fail me." He said with weak confidence.

The mechanic stepped out of Quiggles way, allowing the pilot to round the fighter's big wing and get to the wingroot and climb up on to the wing. Quiggles leaned in the cockpit. Everything looked okay. Although seeing the control stick was an unfamiliar thing. His P-38 Lightning before the War and the Mosquito he'd flowned during the War had used yokes. He hadn't flown a stick in years since the old, reliable P-40 Kittyhawk.

"Already for you, monsiuer." The Catawaban looked back at the mechanic.

"You wouldn't happen to have a parachute?" The mechanic pointed back towards a burning building, and Quiggles's face fell. "Ah....I suppose that's where you store and pack them?" The mechanic nodded. "Right then, don't get shot down..."

He climbed into the cockpit and buckled in. As he waited for the ground crew to clear the aircraft, he anxiously rubbed the fetish through the mudsoaked fabric of his flight suit. He might need this wretched...blessed...thing after all. When the men were clear, Quiggles richened the fuel mixture and turned the ignition over.

The engined whine and sputtered until it caught and propellor clawed ravenously at the air. He throttled up and applied the brakes interchangeably until he was lined up on a long, clear straight away. He wasn't going to bother taxing to the runway, not under fire. This was a rugged plane built for fields. He just needed straight, flat ground.

When he was satified he was clear, he shoved the Mustang applied its famous horsepower, and the plane roared down the field. When he had enough airspeed, he rotated and brought himself up off the ground. He kept low, letting his airspeed build. He streaked out low over the roof tops.

Seeing his airpseed indicator climbing into the comfortable range characterized by a fighter like the Mustang, Quiggles hauled back on the stick and the Mustang leaped up into the sky.

~~~~~~

Ah'ron watched his master take off. He listened to the gentle giant who knew just where to scratch. The big canine leaned against the man's leg despite the smell of the big cat on him. Ah'ron actually liked cats as long as they didn't hate him.

He turned his tight narrow head up towards the man and wagged his tail a bit. He seemed nice enough, and he seemed to be talking about food from the way he was slathering and smacking his lips. And if he was going to get something whatever a 'trotter' was, Ah'ron was pretty sure it was edible if a human liked it.

All in all, Remmy had done well to make a good impression on the vornskr.

Remmy stood and watched the young pilot do a better than credible job of taking off in a strange plane. "maybe so he give Cat a flight for her money. But she never claimes to be no Aces High, just able to fly the Valk, and thats a wicked little spitfire of a jet." Remmy said absently to the vornskr as he climbed out of the trench and looked down at the sticky mud covering his feet. "And we have a swimming hole with no crocs or gators -all to ourselves too. This mud is as bad as the gumbo I grew up with." He shook his head as he found a patch of rough grass to scrape the worst of it off on, before taking advantage of the lull in the attack to go dashing back towards the closed hanger.

He was unsure if dog would follow him but hoped he would - the trench wasn't all that safe, and his companion might be awhile in coming back.

Lee abaondoned his Degtyaryov, tossing it into a muddy pit as he expended all the ammunition he had with him. It was a pain to carry, and besides he doubted this improvised army would have the ammunition for it, and he wasn't keen on aqquiring any in the field. "Viva New Alsace!" he screamed in English at the sky and zipping planes, untargeted and unnoticed, horribly mangling the words with his accent. Wisely deciding to get while the getting was good before such became a reality, he jogged off towards the hanger, wishing there was something more he could do. Lee had never seen the controls of an AA gun or seen the inside of any airplane, so as a ground soldier he was about as useless in an arial attack as a peace sign at a rifle convention.

Quiggles scanned the skies as his Mustang roared up after the swirling furball. When the Veharian aircraft were focused on strafing, the older MS 406s would have been able to get the jump on them, but he severely doubted that now since the superior Russian planes had turned on the older French crates that the status quo would remain that way. No, the other P-51s already in the air would keep things steady, but the Catawaban fully expected the more agile Yaks and the infinitely more durable and well armed Ilyushas to show their worth.

He spotted a Yak-3 backing in across his nose after one of the 406s. Quiggles rolled in the same plane as him and tapped the trigger for his guns sending a torrent of slugs and tracers from his six .50 caliber machine guns in his wings. As fast the the plane crossed his path, it was gone, and Quiggles wasn't sure if he'd hit it. He banked to the left and looked for another target.

Below him was an Ilyusha, he continued his bank and rolled up onto his wing and then over onto his back. He hauled back on the stick, sending the Mustang into a dive. The Il-2's gunner spotted the P-51 diving down behind him and rattled off a burst at the plummeting fighter.

Quiggles continued to pull back on the stick and came out of his dive below and behind the Il-2 with a lot of extra airspeed. Right now he was under the gunner's field of fire. He started to climbing, bringing his nose and guns' pipper up onto the heavy fighter-bomber's belly. Quiggles squeezed the trigger for a long burst into the Veharian's underbelly.

He then banked away to keep from crashing into the other plane and scanned the sky for more targets.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Ah'ron scrambled up and out of the trench, his claws scraping and scratching furrowsinto the dirt walls. He got up onto the grass and shook furiously to get some of the mud off him. The vornskr then trotted after the Cajun Paul Bunyan.

Remmy was happy to note that he wzas being followed as he stopped to pull open the door to the private hanger "We've made some frien's and I'm going to go build up the fire iffn'a ya don' need me."

"Naw, Ham's just about to get the crate open" Monk snorted as he turned from the mostly put together jet, grinning down at the smaller man - he was the tallest there, fully seven foot and twice as broad as Remmy.

"Yeah, just leave all the hard work to me. Lifting was just your speed and brain power. I have to do the delicate stuff" Ham, who stood 'only' five foot ten snorted as he wiped him hands with a shop rag and picking up a pry claw began undoing the massive crate. It contained the Valk's jet engine, and despite their joshing had taken even more than Monks superhuman strength to get safely from the deuce and a half. "They obviously never uncrated this, for which I am so earnestly glad. Trying to repair any damange here would be well nigh impossible" He muttered, wiping his forehead free of the heat - for despite the monsterous fan whirling noisily the hanger was very hot.

"No you go get dinner cooking" Tom's hamd sized mitts were flashing though the delicate work of the wiring harness with oddly graceful dexterity. "And later you can spell me"

When the Vornskr entered the hanger Remmy hooked a thumb over his shoulder "I think his names Ah'ron. He's the partner of one of ta new pilots. Don't know where he's from but he's names Quiggles, got bottom to him too."

That got the canine a round of head nods and "Hey fella, good ta meetcha's" from the others.

He looked down at the dog and grinned "Screetch is here some place, prolly asleep. He not eat ya, like ah said."

He headed out the back end of the hanger which put him in a small clearing in the trees and were his cook pit had been dug. Shortly there were tgwo pair of tasty trotters available for the four legged contingent, and the smell of pit roasted pork wafting over the airfield. He pretty much ignored the aerial battle going on over head -there was little else he could do.

Lee ducked into the hanger, somewhat releived despite of himself to be out of the field of fire. Of course, if a bomb hit the hanger he'd be as good as dead, but they hadn't yet so it seemed like a fine enough area to take real cover. He had only taken a step inside before he stopped dead and stared at the dissassembled jet fighter aircraft, attended to by a man so huge he looked like he could and probably did eat people of Lee's size for breakfast. Unsure of the situation, Lee stepped to the side and leaned against the sloping inward wall, rifle clanking against the metal. People weren't much inclined to take notice of him, and as far as he was concerned that was good. He liked to watch people, especially if they didn't know they were being observed. He didn't know if they would speak English, and they certainly wouldn't speak his native language, but it was an entertaining distraction from the war outside nonetheless.

Above the airfield were the twisting and ducking dogfights, in which Yak-3's, Il-2's, MS.406's and P-51's were engaged in a cocktail of battle, struggling for their lives. A single mistake could result in death, a lone hesitation could be enough for a pilot to let off a burst to destroy your plane. It was a fast and furious battle, the MS.406's were outclassed by the Yak-3's while the Vahiran Fighters were outclassed by the P-51's. It was a pretty even battle.

However, it was now to be added by another dimension. Above the original dogfight were a new series of formations. Above them were 'V' formations of Pe-2 Medium Bombers, escorted by more Yak-3's. These were dive-bombers, being prepared to finish off the hangars and fuel reserves of an already stretched defensive network.

Marcus looked up at the planes approching overhead, "Gotta be kidding me... I'm a bloody explosives expert, not a AA gunner. How the hell am I supposed to help out in this mess? Gah... gotta think of something..."

Leo leant back on the gunner's chair and took a slug of warm water from an empty ammunition tin. His face was black with powder burns from the gun, and every one of the Lelvari crew looked strained. They took advantage of a lull in the fighting to change the barrel of the Bofors, which had been thundering soundly for almost half an hour.

Leo slid from the gun, working the cramp from his arms and legs as he watched the distant dogfighting. No gunner would fire into such a mêlée, for fear of hitting their own side. He glanced at the faces of the gun crew, none of them much over twenty, and smiled. Every face looked to him, the big, scarred foreign soldier, with anticipation.

He took another drink, and slapped the nearest of them on the arm.

"Vous combattez bien, mes enfants," he said, looking each of them in the eye. The whine of aircraft engines and chatter of guns was constant. In the far distance, a Vahiran Yak-3 fell screaming into the jungle, it's tail aflame and the pilot unable to jettison. "Mais le jour n'est pas gagné encore.

Overhead, the fighters dispersed for another attack, IL-2s circling around the airbase to line themselves up. Leo dropped the ammunition tin as the crew's Bofors was finally raised to face the sky, the barrel fresh and cold.

"De nouveau à la guerre," ordered Leo, climbing back into the gunner's seat.

OOC: Translation - "You fight well, my children," "...but the day is not won yet." "Again with the war."

Sorry for irregular posting, but college is back on and I haven't been back to my house for a few days. Well done all of you for the posts, it's very fun to read.

OOC: Due to my inactivity on this thread, I declared that I am withdrawn from this thread. Sorry for my late post, I am going to be inactive for the most of this year, unless I popped up on some other threads.

The small man was noticed, the same as the strange canine had been noticed, by a pair of bright amber gold eyes. Screetch stretched and jumped down from atop the pile of crates where he'd been sleeping. If there were going to be newcommers about he'd better get on duty and let them know they were being watched.

Though he already weighed in at forty pound of pure muscle, the bobcat was only half grown - and his dinner plate sized foot pads made not a sound as he dropped the dozen feet to the hard packed, oil soaked ground that made up the floor of the old, mostly over looked hanger.

Unnoticed by any he stropped himself against the small man with an insistent, nay demanding merrrrrrrrrooooooooowwh! to introduce himself. He didn't figure his battle cry would be needed - no use wasting a perfectly good tremmoloing wail with the racket going on outside- Screetch was a very practical bobcat.

"Don't let him buffalo ya!" Remmy laughed as he tossed the trotters to the two animals. "His enemy is foour footed furred and gets into the record book as the worlds largest rats...and ya must of come in with the other new guys, or you're mighty brave to brave the Colonels off limits order."

Before Screetch laid claim to his pair how ever he went over to delicately stretch up and toucn noses with the unknown canine. He smelled like no wolf,or dog, or coyote that the bobcat had ever met, but that didn't bother Screetch none. Big Man had tossed him dinner, the same as he had Screetch and that meant he was a welcome guest...There were enough Nutria to go around.

Quiggles saw the pilot throw open the canopy of the Ilyusha as it began to roll over and head for the ground. While the pilot got out, the gunner remained slumped over his gun.

Then he was past at heading out of the fray for a moment. He scanned the sky and spotted a new swarm of dots above him on the horizon. He reached up to his throat and met with the mud-splattered skin of his neck. Along with a parachute, he'd failed to get a flying cap with his radio earphones and the throat microphone. He had no way to signal to the other pilots in the air.

He cursed and continued his turn towards the new contacts. He leveled out and began to climb towards his attackers.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ah'ron had noticed the Vahirian coming into the hangar. It was hard to miss that sort of relief blossoming into the aether in the hangar. He looked up and past the small, oriental man to the glittering pair of eyes atop the crates. He watched the cat jump down behind the man and attempt to frighten him.

Then the cat continued on to him and hesitantly sniffed at the vornskr. Ah'ron held perfectly still, uncertain of the cat until it gentle touched noses with him. The vornskr then exchanged sniffs. The big man who gave meat smelled of this cat, so he must be okay. Ah'ron gave a slight wag of his long whippish tail.

Lee had been watching the men with the plane, and though he was still alert to the sounds of battle (or perhaps because of it) he never noticed the bobcat until it pushed against him with that horrible, teeth-grating spine-tingling yowl. He jumped instinctively, growling unfelt obscenities about the animal's mother and her likely breeding habits, gingerly letting his hand barely touch the monstrous feline as it padded off towards the equally enormous dog he had seen coming in.
"I had," he said to Remmy's words with his mismatched English. "I'm mercenary, fight Soviet những con hoang. Who you?" His accent was heavy, but understandable if one listened hard enough and separated the words in the right manner.

The crew of Leo's gun grinned in delight at the compliment from the grizzeled soldier and began to babble to each other in their native language. However, then one of them looked up and pointed at the sky, yelling in horror. The rest looked up as well, to see the first of many Pe-2's peeling out of the sky and dropping vertically onto their position, engines and airframes screaming in protest. The other flak batteries opened up but too late, for the first bombs were already falling on the airport. One landed next to Leo's gun, slicing most of his crew into bloody scraps and soaking the rest with their warm, red blood. The other gunners looked at each other nervously but continued to load and man the gun.

A series of bombs fell near to the Tanaran hangar, blowing one of the doors clean off it's hinges and shattering one of the wooden beams in the other. The offending Pe-2's dragged themselves back into the sky, rear gunners peppering the airfield again as a goodbye present.

Almost unconsciously Ah'ron knew something was going to happen, something wrong. The word went into quiet clarity, then a beastial roar sounded in his ears. It was however unconscious that Ah'ron threw himself at Screetch to knock the cat to the ground and put himself over top.

~~~~~~~~

Quiggles lowered his nose. He couldn't go after the Pe-2s right off. With the Yaks below them any attempt to climb up after the rearward dive bombers or dive down after the ones attacking would put him in a prime position for the escorting fighters.

No, he would have to blow through their formation and continue on after the Pe-2s at the tail of the formation. He leveled out and placed the fixed sight on the nearest Yak. He cursed and pulled his nose up. This was Mustang with the new K-14 'gyro' gunsight. He almost forgot the smaller circle sight that was below his fixed sight. The smaller sight was here the K-14 indicated where his rounds would strike. He waited until he thought the Yak was in range and squeezed of a quick burst before jerking the 'Stang up onto its starboard wing.

He saw tracers dance around him and he continued into a barrel roll to throw off the Vahirians' aim. They weren't amateurs, but they weren't aces, yet. At the top of his barrel roll, Quiggles swiveled his head around and up to look back and down at the Yaks. There were a few glittering pieces of metal tumbling to the ground, but his target was still airborne. That Yak and a wingman were turning up after him. The others were continuing their dive down into furball below.

Quiggles turned his attention the dive bombers. He dipped his nose back down to gather a bit of airspeed and to set himself up under the vulnerable chin of the bomber. He hauled back on the stick and put the gyro suggested pipper on the bomber. The Catawaban tightened his finger on the firing stud, and the Mustang's six Ma Dueces roared out .50 caliber shells.

He watched the bullets stitch down its belly, when it suddenly blossomed into a crown of fire. Quiggles slammed the stick to port and banked away from the burning, plummeting wreckage.



"Here's your new Mustangs, boys. You can learn to fly'em on the way to the target. Cheers!" -LTCOL Don Blakeslee, 4th Fighter Group Commanding Officer, February 27th, 1944

The blast that took out one of the hanger doors took out Lee was well, in a manner of speaking. The little Vahirian was bodily thrown across the room, rifle separating midflight from him as he received his unexpected but entirely free flying lessons which ultimately ended halfway across the hanger with his nose in the dirt. Spitting out muck, too stunned to even swear, he shakily stood, checking himself out. Aside from a few minor cuts and bruises, he seemed okay, no bones broken or limbs ending in stumps, and he was probably lucky to be alive. Stumbling, he looked around at the others inhabiting the hanger as he went to retrieve his rifle. Lee sincerely hoped they weren't hurt- He had no experience in First Aid, or any kind of medical training at all, and if they had been injured by the bombs he would be able to do nothing to help them.

"I'm mercenary, fight Soviet những con hoang. Who you?"

Before Remmy could answer the whistle of falling bombs - coming far too close for liking ...

All with in the hanger had been flattened, and several peices of equipment had been damanged - the front windshield of the Deuce had been blown out among other things...

"That does it" Monk roared as he picked himself up outta the dirt where the concussion had tossed him. "Ham, start up that deuce!"

The smaller man scrambled to pick himself up, his extremely handsome face contorted in an hideous snarl of his own "Right on it Monk" Moments later he was nodding as the big truck's engine turned over easily. With his partner big machine gun over the cab could be brought into play.

Monk jerked the 50 cal HMG's muzzle sky wards and sent a stream of hot rounds towards the retreating Pe-2's along with curses of his own in a wide variety of languages.

Remmy would be cursing later when he realised that the flames in his roasting pit had been extinguished and he'd have to remove a large triangle shaped chunk of sharp edged metal from the porkers left ham...

Screetch had started to wail his battle cry as the large canine dove on him, but cut it off in mid warble as the bombs exploded. Several pieces of potentially lethal shrapnell wizzed past the pair, but none struck. Though as soon as the explosions died Screetch was flailing his way out from under the vornskr. He stopped to sniff Ah'ron over to make sure that he hadn't been injured then bounded out of the hanger to add his yowls of challenge to the rukus outside.

Remmy Looked the mercinary over, as he had all of his men and nodded "Ah'm Remmy and we're here to put this girl" He hooked a thumb at the dark grey painted jet back together so she can take out those soviet merdee cochons" He stuck out his hand for a shake.

Ah'ron stood up and looked around. Everyone seemed to be okay. He shook himself to get some dirt and debris out of his short haired coat. He was okay and as he watched the cat yowl at the fighters, the vornskr could swear he felt a hand brush behind his ears, giving a quick scratch before it was gone. He didn't know who, but he felt he'd done good.

The vornskr sniffed about and went back to his trotter which had come through okay. If there was anything his mother emphasized, it was never miss or turn down a meal if you're still breathing, you don't know when the next might be.

"I am Lee Kun," said Lee solemnly, taking the huge hand into his and endeavoring to move it in a shaking motion. It was like greeting a grizzly bear. "Any I can do..." his brow furrowed with concentration, "help?"

Any I can do help?"

Remmy was an amiable bear, and smiled down at his new friend "Sure" He hooked a thumb at the deuce an a half where Monk fired bursts of more carefully aimed rounds than it looked like "Keep an eye on those yahoo's and if they get shot give me, or Tom over there, a hollar"

The amazingly thin man who was moving back to finish his work on the Valk gave him a half wave - not unfriendly just absent minded - as he shoved a dense thatch of straw blonde hair out of his coke bottle bottom thick glasses. Shortly his dexterous hands and nimble fingers were back at work on the experimental jets electrical wiring.

"Now I got at go'an check the pit, see that the bar bee que is cooken bon temps. When et iz doone we all et good" His cajun accent retruned.