May 30, 1940
"C'mon lad! Up we go! Take out that wet clothes and roll this blanket around yourself." "Than-thank you." "Don't talk for now. You're shaking. Drink this. I was saving it for when we dock at Dover but you can have it." "Thanks. The German?..." "Gone home, my lad. Those who survived... You boys were angels up there." "Thanks..." "Where are you from?" "Por... Por... Poland." "You Poles
Late afternoon, 12 May 1940, Somewhere over NW France
Two days ago, the German war machine had come to France, and “Marianne” was finding blitzkrieg to be an unforgiving dance partner. The initial thrust of the attack had broken through French lines in several locations; troops were already falling back before the flood, reeling from a coordinated series of strikes that had overwhelmed their defenses.
It had been two of the longest, most frustrating days of my life.
Updated 01-03-2014 at 23:32 by fast.git
Da boys (Smitch, The G Dog, and Adler64) and I have been getting some gaming in with more on the immediate horizon! That, coupled with a slow down at work after the holiday season that allows me to recoup my life a bit, has got my Wings of Glory sap rising (I was going to say juices flowing...).
Last weekend several of us met at The Hobby Shop in Miamisburg, which is south of Dayton, in good ol' Ohio. We played three games of Wings of Glory, took a beer break, I mean lunch break,
Updated 01-06-2014 at 17:27 by predhead
Early morning, 10 May 1940, Berry-au-Bac, France
Tendrils of mist curled skyward as the last vestiges of night fled before the dawn. The muted sounds of a little village waking up filled the air, heralding a day full of promise. The air was crisp and clean; the showers of the previous evening having dispersed. It was, by almost any standard, a beautiful morning.
Sergeant (Pilot) Christopher George Raymond, No. 1 Squadron RAF, noticed none of these things. Instead,
Updated 01-02-2014 at 08:40 by fast.git
May 29, 1940
"So, Joachim, is this your real name?" "Joaquim..." "Joaquim?" "Yes. Joaquim Ferreira." "So you are a Portuguese?" "Yes." "Not a Polish?" "No." "So why being a Polish?" "A draft RAF sergeant decided my nationality." "Really? Why?" "I don't know, Kyte... Probably..." Don't call me Kyte, call me David." "David Kyte?" "David John Kyte."