Metal Birds

Chapter 62: By the Minutes

Portsmouth, England, June 4th 1944

Arthur had slept that evening. After lunch, he had curled up into a heap on a bench, wanting nothing more than to sleep for ages. They had been postponed, as that morning a heavy fog had fallen over Britain and the coastline. The sea had been in too much of a turmoil to attempt conquering, and it was at the worried and reluctant words of men such as Eisenhower and Churchill that they were to be sent out they next day.

Well, in the terms of the Nations and paratroopers, that evening.

They had flown to Portsmouth on the third of the month, the previous day. In preparation. He had needed to gather a multitude of things. His uniform coat, his satchel and radio. His shoes, after they had been fixed properly. And of course, his bible and rosary.

When he woke up on the bench, just where the paratroopers were set to gather, he first saw the sky. And for a moment, he didn't move. It was evening, and growing darker by the minute. However, he caught the colors properly. The sky was a pale magenta, mixed with salmon. The clouds themselves, still stormy and brooding, had become violet and blue in the near distance. On the horizon, they had turned a sharp shade of pastel pink. Inwardly, he found the urge to lay there and stare at the sky.

"Are you awake, Cher?"

Francis voice stirred him from this, and he sat up. His wings immediately drooped to the ground, and he rubbed an eye. As he glanced up from the ground, he spotted Francis standing there, arms crossed over a steel helmet. He wore a long, beige coat, and supplies had been strapped across his shoulders and chest. An extra bag hung from that, and a rifle was slung over his shoulder. Standard wear for a French paratrooper, with its modifications.

The man looked sprightly, at least as sprightly as he could given their situation. He had a small, absentminded smile on his face, and there was a new energy in the air about him. It would make sense. His previously outcast government had begun to rebuild itself the previous month.

"Afternoon, Francis." He hummed, moving to stand. Francis merely nodded.

"Are you ready?"

"I've only got a few things to check. But yeah." He turned to the man with an upturned brow, unable to help but notice the hope in the man's eyes as he looked on. "Where is everyone else?"

"Waiting for you, over there. We're flying out over the gliders, and we're supposed to report on the beach before moving on."

Arthur nodded as he heard Francis let out a breath, beginning to walk towards one of the now empty plane barns. Save for a few pilots running in and out to check and double check and triple check they had everything right, it was merely the group of five waiting for them inside. Paratroopers stood beside the planes, checking their watches, writing in paint on the sides of the planes. The names scribbled there said 'we've been here, but will you see us again?' 

Alfred had been unable to attend.

Arthur sighed, looking over his shoulder to see the Spitfires and cargo planes being wheeled about to face the runway. Matthew, Aarav, Seamus, Dylan and Alistair sat in a circle, huddled and exchanging this and that -weapons, supplies, food, and whiskey, from Alistair's side of the circle- and they went uninterrupted as the two approached. Matthew glanced up after a moment, a cigarette hanging out his mouth as he attempted to light it.

"Good to see you're awake."

"Yeah."

It was evident that the realization of what they were doing hadn't settled. At least, not yet.

"When're we supposed to be heading out?" Dylan chimed from where he sat, cross legged and loading a pistol.

There was a pause as both Francis and Arthur moved to settle among the others, Arthur shifting to grab the lone helmet that sat in the middle. A medic's cross was hidden beneath the netting and loose camouflage. He let out a small sigh, pulling his satchel from his shoulder, absentmindedly beginning to rifle through it. There were bandages, and tweezers and scissors were tucked in the bottom in a wrap. A small quad of tourniquets were nestled along the side, accompanied by some packets of Mercurochrome injections. An antiseptic. There were iodine swabs, morphine syrettes, and a tiny collection of pins and adhesive tape to hold bandages apart and together.

He had that, not to mention the waist pockets he had. What wasn't full of ammunition for the sniper's rifle he had, and the handgun at his hip, were filled with medical supplies. His breast pocket was still reserved for his bible, which was now worn and cracked. He was jam packed with enough to care for a city, it felt.

Even so, he wouldn't use it just on his fellow Nations. They had a greater goal, yes, but they were also guardians and assistants to their people. If needed, they would be right down there on the front lines, fighting.

"About an hour after sunset." Alistair muttered from where he was attempting to fix something on his boot.

Arthur glanced up at the others, who had all busied themselves with something or other, and sighed. It wouldn't feel like that long of a wait, in the end.

He had been appointed, unofficially it felt, as the leader of he group. While he didn't necessarily like it, he didn't mind it. Arthur would be the one to lead their flight to France, and to decide how to go about reaching Berlin. To him it felt monumental.

The thought caused him to glance down at the planes outside, his hand settling where his rosary was, now accompanied by a single dog tag. There wasn't much description needed there. The Nations qualified as anything and everything branch wise, and they lacked military serials. His was simply read.

M. Arthur Kirkland

Angel Britannica

He shifted, realizing the light had quickly left the sky, draining most of the colors there as well. At this, Arthur moved to double check everything was packed, and finally come to stand. This prompted the rest of them to look up.

"It's about time we get out to the runway." Arthur stated, putting on an air of confidence. It was but a few minutes later that the first propellers could be heard, beginning to be spun into action, motors thrumming in metal hulls, wide aluminum wings forming dark silhouettes among the dark blue and grey of the sky. One by one, they rose to stand with him, and on their own, began to meander out to where paratroopers were climbing aboard the cargo planes, and escort pilots made the final affirmations for take of. They were given the clear, and Arthur took his place near the end of the runway, looking up for a moment.

"No turning back now, boys." Seamus chuckled, and a small collective laugh rang about the group. Arthur put on a smile. This was the beginning of the end. He glanced back, making sure they were in proper formation before beginning to jog. He kept telling himself that this fight, like the rest, would be worth it. The final fight. A true war to end all wars, though he didn't dare say that aloud.

Helmet strapped, flight goggles down, coat closed up, bags all sealed, weapons on safety, for now. The trudge began, a jog, a run, a sprint, and then they were airborne.

One foot, and then the next, the propellers singing and cheering behind them. The men below watched in a quiet epiphany, as minute by minute they rose to the sky, wings stiff and wide outstretched as they began their flight over the English Channel, and into occupied France.

Some time later, the shapes of the planes became evident behind them, and Arthur pressed on. He watched ahead, seeing where the moon cast light on the opposite shore between the clouds, and he took a final heavy breath. Seamus was right.

There was no turning back now.