Realistic or Modern Bella Strippa IC

[Pilgrim59]

JOINT ALLIED FLIGHT CORPS HANGAR


PREVIOUS MISSION DEBRIEF
Objectives: N/A
Damage Sustained: N/A



JOINT ALLIED FLIGHT CORPS BRIEFING

Germano-Italian Garrison (Objective Able) - picture taken by 27th Fighter Bomber Group's L-4 Grasshopper

Background:
In support of Operation Husky, Allied paratroopers and pathfinders have been dropped near Gela Airfield in an effort to establish I&R reports for AFHQ. In response, the JAFC will be tasked with providing low-altitude bombing of the northwestern garrison, call-sign Objective Able . Intelligence suggested two German mechanized companies and three-third of an Italian armored division within the Area of Operation. These elements will act as reinforcements for the defense of Gela Airfield and the Beach Landings, should they be left unchecked. Reports of hostiles interceptors and light anti-air are at play, while escort fighters are stacked at 60% of the way, expect aerial resistance once your bomber have finished your drop.

Objectives:
- Bomb Esercito Italiano-Tedesco Gruppe 12's garrison.
- ??? (unlocked during mission)

Estimates of enemy's strengths:
- Bf.109 E4/E7s
- 88 mm Flak.36 and Flak. 30 (20 mm)
- Small arms and dedicated AA trucks


Quartermaster Requisitions:
N/A


Minyari Safety Hammer Kabboom Trappy SpiralErrant

​

 

[Pilgrim59]

Sgt. Edward Ellington

Location: Hangar, Allied Tunisian Airfield
Interacted: N/A
Mentioned: Minyari

​

Brushing aside the legions of groveling sand with its sweep, the zephyrs of the Mare Nostrum passed by the idling hands of the Tunisian Airfield. Among its inhabitants in khakis and olive drab dungarees, a sign stood tall in faded red and whites - "NO SMOKING". A sergeant stood beside the sign, with his combat fatigues stripped from his torso and tied by his waist, striking his Dunhill cigarette and taking a few puffs beside the antagonistic sign, while the rest did not mind his supposedly prohibited acts. Casually exhaling and studying the fresh-faced replacements that passed him, Edward sighs slightly, hiding his amber eyes beneath the furrows of his thick eyebrows. Stroking his loose hair backwards, the sergeant flicked his tobacco delight into the ground, before extinguishing its ember with the heel of his boots. Before long, a soul disturbed the man with his inquiries, enabling Edward's frustration, like every other day with the rest of them and his rough replies - something he had hated initially, but now had been comfortable enough to follow suit.

"Excuse me, sir. Do you know where we're briefing at oh five hundred? Private Oliver Andr-..."

"Hey bud. Do you see any sorts of indications on me that would suggest of a commissioned officer?"

"Uh... no... sir."

"Then I suggest you cut the sir unless you see a damn butter bar or anything fancy on their sleeves and collars. Jesus Christ. That's three strikes up for ya. Get your shit squared away and don't take the front seats! Briefing's in five."

"Ri-right. Thank you, si-... sergeant."

"Fuckin' replacements." Edward grunted under his breath, before following the group of new troopers towards the stage.

The hangar towered above them, with a multitude of khaki-dressed officers and enlisted men gathering on scene by the secluded stage, of which is laden with weathered billboards, maps and some spotlight lamps that illuminated the stands. Edward made his way towards the sacred grounds, and took his seat in the back, eyeing the rest of the men, and among them, a captain, whose familiar visage shows some sense of comfort for the sergeant. Leaning back against his chair, Edward studied the huge American and British flags that hung above the lit stage. A sense of patriotism would entice many fresh faces, while the sergeant showed little interest with his weary eyes in the dim-lit shadows of the back rows.


Translation notes:
N/A

 

[Kabboom]

Henrique Banaskiewicz

"Come on you piece of..." Whispered a grumpy Henrique, as he struggles to pick the locks to a mechanic's lunch box. His faded boots stomping away at the irritating sand that refuses to come off of his pants, the constant clicking and clacking of the metallic picks against the rusted keyhole, jaded by both sun and sand, echoed through the relatively small room. It was only a miracle that Banaskiewicz didn't get caught, and subsequently beat up. Quietly humming to an old French song as he pushed and twisted the tiny sticks made of steel, his bumbling nose begun to itch. The first few times this happened, it bothered him thoroughly, since it was always the sand or the air or some other insignificant thing that fouled his day up, but after 300 nose itches or so, he had grown accustomed to it, rubbing his nose swiftly on his shoulders. "And... pop goes the egg, hehe!" He whispered triumphantly, as the box's cover popped open with a satisfying clunk, revealing the succulent reward: A peanut butter jelly sandwich.

Walking outside, Henrique feasted upon 'his' meal, making sure to conceal both his face, and his food, from a disgruntled engineer who soon sprung out of the same hangar he was in, arms flailing around a wrench and mouth flinging distasteful accusations and paltry insults. The sandwich was nice and squishy, minus the few hundred grains of sand that flew into his face whenever a jeep or a truck passed by. On his body, he had standard pilot gear, worn loosely as to allow him to live in the sweltering heat. But he was still dying of sweat and filth, for he held an array of stolen gear beneath his regular clothing, including but not limited to: 3 packets of "Lucky Strike" cigarettes, crumpled up as to make them smaller, 5 wedding rings he'd looted from friend and foe alike, 30 small pictures of pin-up girls and girlfriends, wives or even family of other men, all wrapped up neatly in a paper bag, and no less than $30, accumulated from his pickpocket runs.

To be even suspected, would spell his death. Even without knowing them in the least bit, many men would want Banaskiewicz beaten up, locked up, kicked out, or best yet, killed. But, as a side skill that came with this little thieving 'gift' of his, Henrique was very good at covering his tracks. He had even sacrificed his pristine-condition boots to get another weary veteran's fucked up poor excuses of human footwear, for the added gist of being silent when walking. As he finished his short yet sweet meal, spitting out the sand-filled crust at the end, he found himself in front of the hangar. His hangar.

Walking in with a hunched back and hands loosely stuffed in his pockets, Banaskiewicz eyed everyone congregating near the stage. A slight itch emerged in one of his hands, the itch one gets when they spot a potential target to pickpocket, but he decides to stay his hand. In the unlikely scenario that he gets caught, the trouble would not be worth it. This is the one place where he is forced to stay, after all. Trying his best to ignore the flags hung above, he took a seat, next to a weary-looking Sergeant in the back rows. Eyeing the man up for a split second, Henrique then decided he most likely wasn't the type that would chew other men out for... small misdeeds. And then, he drew his Fairbairn-Sykes knife, and begun work on one of his unfinished carvings, a blunt arrow-tip block of wood that was supposed to resemble the Eiffel tower some time in the future. As the knife begun to scrape against wood, Banaskiewicz hoped this briefing would be quick.

Pilgrim59

 

[Minyari]

Franco Bianchi

​

Overview

Rank	Captain
Position	Pilot - B26E
Location	Officer's Country - Hangar, Allied Tunisian Airfield
Interacted	N/A
Mentioned	Pilgrim59 Kabboom

• Reality Sequence

• The dawn’s early light gradually entered through the openings of the tent as the sun rose up. Two basic army coats on each side of the tent with only one occupant under the olive green blanket. Franco Bianchi. Struggling to get out of his cot, a customary voice called out to him outside of his tent’s entrance.
  
  “Captain Bianchi. Half a hour until briefing please get up sir!”
  
  Coming to terms with himself Franco replied, “Yeah yeah! Getting ready.”, climbing out of the cot he went over to the mirror and began to shave the small signs of facial hair. Quickly afterwards he got dressed into his service uniform and tied on his desert worn boots as he took a quick breath of air before leaving his tent with his cap on his head towards the hangar.
  
  Walking into the patriotic hangar Franco found it to be relatively empty still with the few staff officers already organizing for the briefing. A young second lieutenant speedly laced himself over to Franco with a folder, saluting before handing the folder over. “Briefing folder, sir. Good luck, Captain.” Accepting the folder, Franco began to read over the papers for the briefing as the young officer walked off. After reading through the papers and reports, the sounds of multiple footsteps and casual conversations made way into the hangar as they began to fill up the seats. After seeing a couple of familiar faces Franco checked his wrist watch as the scheduled briefing time was to begin.
  
  Walking up to the stage and centering himself to everyone in the hangar, the room immediately became silent from conversations. Taking a deep breath, Franco began his briefing.
  
  “Morning gentlemen, hopefully it’s been a good one. Command has given us a mission for today. This mission will be a key effort to the bigger goal of finally landing onto Europe’s beaches! What is this key effort we will be completing today? Why... thank you for asking gentlemen! We shall be providing support to our brother in arms on the ground that are gathering intelligence behind enemy lines by bombing a garrison that will be vital to the landings on the beaches of Italy. Gentlemen. No words can describe this mission other than completion with minimal casualties! We cannot and will not leave this garrison unchecked and we will bomb it and save our boys on the ground! And we will be going in low and quick. We will fly towards the garrison and once we’ve dropped out payload quickly evade to the left and loop it back to home. Expect light AA and fighter interception, when do we not gentlemen? Fortunately Command has generously offered fighter escorts for about sixty-percent of the route! Now let’s go kick some Axis ass and godspeed gentlemen!”
  
  Upon dismissing the crowd of airmen, Franco made his way down the stage and began to walk out of the hangar following suit of the crowd.
  

 

[SpiralErrant]

Bloody hell if it weren't half hot around here! Join the army they said, you'll see the world they said! Well so far Davey was seeing that the world was one airstrip after another with either a lot of rain or so much sun it threatened to drown him in sweat whenever he had to put his uniform on. It was damn pretty around here though, he had to give it that. A pity they couldn't see any of Italy proper, Davey had seen plenty of pictures of the place on postcards that made it seem like some place out of a storybook or a film. Maybe once everyone was done blowing each other up he could get some leave time and see about the local towns. Maybe he could find himself a local bird, it weren't like there was anyone waiting for him back home besides his mum.

For now Davey could find some shelter and shade in the hangar. He always liked to be prepared and get a feel for the plane he was set to trust his life to before takeoff. The Marauder here seemed like a sturdy enough lass. He'd been nervous at the idea of being stuck in the tail gun of a plane, even if it could fit a crew of this size, imagining himself having to crawl along the tail and be forced to lay down flat just to fit in. So it was a bloody relief to see his gunner's pit, though snug, was bigger than what he'd been used to in the defiant. It even had its own little chair on a frame like a tractor so he could swivel in and out of his spot, how bloody fancy was that?!

The call went out for the briefing and Davey had to pull his head out of the other mechanical quandaries he'd been thinking after his chat with the mechanics. He still left his mug on the chair.

Heat aside at least it was always bright and lovely around here, every time Davey stepped out the barracks or the hangar he was met by a beautiful summer day, the kind of thing you'd love to go flying in, shame people usually ruined his flights with shooting at him. The yank in charge seemed like a decent enough sort at least. He had a bloody high opinion of all his pilots by the sounds of how much he dropped 'gentlemen' in his briefing. Davey had to guess he'd never heard the language that got used in the canteen. Davey found himself running late and had to take a spot near the back of the class with the other naughty children.

 

[Pilgrim59]

Sgt. Edward Ellington

Location: Hangar, Allied Tunisian Airfield
Interacted: SpiralErrant Kabboom
Mentioned:

​

As the school of commissioned officers took their leave towards their respective tents in preparation for the coming mission, a few of the stragglers yet remained - among them Ellington, whose companion was a blonde individual, whose unkempt hair betrayed him of his more disciplined comrades. The Texan felt it was necessary to offer his courtesy to the staff sergeant. An understanding between the non-commissioned officers themselves, for they have sustained fires and bleeding steels to be sitting in the hangar with their chevrons telling the tales of their own endeavors.

Lighting a cigarette and passing one onto the man, Ellington studied his visage, wondering what kind of man was befit of his sergeant uniforms. It was, as he had thought, a promising pass of rites, in case death comes early. He then turn to his left, where a man was kept busy with the details of his wooden invention.

"I didn't know carving was a part of the reveille* details. Heh. Smokes?" Ellington asked, as he leaned over to the man with sculpturing details next to him.


Translation notes:
Reveille: Morning bugles and horns that is usually played in the morning to wake up the soldiers. Derives from the French word "reveiller" which means to 'wake up'.

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Henry McLewis

Henry was in a hurry. He'd gotten a letter from his wife this morning. She was pregnant. Finally. They'd been trying just before he left, and she was finally pregnant. He had spent a few too many minutes trying to preocess this and so he was running late. He was still adjusting his uniform, cursing Gaelic under his breath like a madman. He finally found himself in the briefing room, saying, "Sorry for bein' late, Sir. I promise it won't happen again." He saluted, taking a seat in the back with Davey, his fellow Englishman.

He sighed, whispering, "Of all the places in the world, why couldn't we be stationed somewhere that wasn't five hundred fuckin' degrees? Jaysus Christ. Not to mention someone stole some of me cigarettes last week. I swear when I find the bastard I'm gonna turn into ground fuckin' beef with the goddamn propellers." His Irish rage was unquenchable, hence his constant cursing. If it had been say, the Frenchman or one of the Americans, he would have kept his mouth shut. But he always talked with his countrymen, as a Englishman does. He then turned to the briefing, staying silent throughout.

SpiralErrant
​

 

[Darth]

SGT. BALLARD, DELBERT
JOINT ALLIED FLYING CORPS
JAFC AIRBASE, TUNISIA

A truck bounced along an old desert road, of which was in disrepair as it was riddled with cracks and potholes alike. As for the passengers of this sand-pasted truck, they each assumed each other were hardened soldiers of the North African campaign, the one that kicked Rommel and his Afrika Korps out of their desert foxholes at Algiers and Kasserine. But each of them was fairly mistaken. Almost every soldier on the back of that truck was either fresh from boot camp; "war virgins" as a more experienced soldier might dub them, or replacement troops sent to fill the shoes of the guys who got blown out of them. Save for one particular soldier sitting at the very end of the bench at the back of the truck. Sergeant "Del" Ballard, a farm boy from Kansas. Del was the only guy on the truck who'd seen some action; real action. A couple of months ago, Del was flying over the Mediterranean sea with a squadron of American B-25s. Del's unit was to bomb an Italian supply-ship convoy heading for the Italian peninsula. Their mission would've succeeded had their RAF fighter escort not peeled off to engage enemy intercepting fighters. With the bomber squadron exposed, a German squadron attacked from above and decimated most of the bomber unit. Del barely made it out with his life. As for Del's crewmates, one of the gunners died from hole two inches wide in his sternum, the rest were injured so badly they had to be shipped home. Only Del escaped unscathed, and he was reassigned to a new unit based in Tunisia: the Joint Allied Flying Corps.

Those guys had no idea, and that's the way Del wanted to keep it. Soon, the shambling truck arrived at their destination: the JAFC Airbase. The truck squealed to a halt, and the troops began to pile off, duffle bags in hand or slung across their shoulders. Del was the first to get off, jumping off the edge of the truck and kicking up sand as he landed hard. Del panned his head left and right, eying his new quarters. The base was alive with activity, a long file of soldiers running PT with a Sergeant. Jeeps and trucks crisscrossed the tarmac. And in the faint distance, Del could hear the low rumble of aircraft engines groaning in the sky. Del pitched his head up and saw a fighter and his wingman pass slowly overhead. As Del looked back towards the bustling base, he noticed a hangar not too far away on his left. A large crowd was beginning to file out of the hanger. It appeared that Del had just missed some sort of congregation, a briefing maybe. Del adjusted his bag over his shoulder and began to make his way to the hangar. As he walked along the sandy asphalt, a few jeeps honked their horns at him as he crossed nonchalantly, their drivers muttering something over the commotion of the base. Del paid little attention to the impatient drivers and kept his eyes forward. Del finally reached the hangar, and as he turned he found a rather large stage and a battalion of chairs arrayed in front. However, the hangar was emptying out, and there were only a few stragglers left sitting in a few spread out chairs. Del approached the closest soldiers to him: a trio of Sergeants sitting together in the back, one of them offering cigarettes. Del cleared his throat.

"Hey, uh, I'm a newcomer 'round here," Del said, trying to sound confident, "Y'all mind tellin' me what I just missed?"

"Judgin' by the look of things seems I might've 'have missed somethin' important."

Pilgrim59 SpiralErrant Kabboom

 

[Pilgrim59]

Sgt. Edward Ellington

Location: Hangar, Allied Tunisian Airfield
Interacted: Darth
Mentioned: Kabboom Rusty of Shackleford SpiralErrant Minyari

​

Turning his attention towards a newcomer, whose late arrival bespoke of his worn-out insignia, as well as his uncanny accent caught Ellington off-guard mid sentence. The Texan had little in him to judge the man's untimely arrival, especially when the latter bears the chevrons of a sergeant, much like himself. Carving up a smile, Ellington shrugged and looked on at the flags upon the podiums and replied to the man with a lax voice.

"Not much, bud. But I'll catch you up, since the Cee Ohs are sparing the strategem details from us. Same details, different faces, for some of us here. We're dropping our loads some hundred miles past the beach landing on the local garrison. We hit them, and we won't have to worry about them biting us in the ass when we take Gela Airfield. Something along that line."

Getting up from his seat, he shook the man's hand as a welcoming gesture, briefly studying his face before acknowledging his recent transfer to JAFC by the looks of his eagerness and inquisition.

"Ellington. Pleased to meet ya bud. The captain's probably workin' on our attendance list and sorties right now. So feel free to grab a seat or get your stuff squared away in one of them tents aroun' the corner. Can you believe this shit? Sergeants all in one hangar. Jerries are gonna hit jackpot if they decide to throw some lead at us right now."

Ellington remarked, as he turned to the rest of his peers within the hangar, whose presence were more welcomed than most - for he himself is wary of fresh-faced recruits, and would prefer to have someone with at least with three chevrons and above to be his battle buddy. A man of indiscriminate taste, the Texan sergeant had all but this one peculiar distinction in preference when it comes to ranks and the way that they conduct themselves. Even so, he held his attitude and continue to take a few more puffs of his burning tobacco.


Translation notes:
N/A

 

[Darth]

SGT. BALLARD, DELBERT
JOINT ALLIED FLYING CORPS
JAFC AIRBASE, TUNISIA

After a brief moment, the sergeant holding the lit cigarette turned his head to look at Del. The man smiled slightly before shrugging and standing up. According to the sergeant, Del just missed the mission briefing: A bombing run over an enemy garrison, just inland from the Sicilian shore; support for the guys hitting the beaches. The sergeant told Del his name before enjoying more of his cigarette.

"Ellington," he said, "Pleased to meet you." Ellington then blew out a large cloud white smoke.

"Same to you," Del replied, coughing slightly as the puff of smoke flew past his face.

Del never liked the smell of cigarette smoke. He tried one before, years ago, back when Del was still in school. It ended with Del coughing up a lung and nearly puking. Del coughed a little more before clearing his throat.

"The name's Delbert," he said, "But y'all can just call me Del if you want."

"Or Ballard, if formality's your forte..."

Del turned his head towards the tents Ellington had pointed out. They were arrayed simply, each lining up with one another.

"Let's just hope Jerry's got a blind eye today," Del said smirking in response to Ellington's remark about the tents.

"I was told to report to a 'Captain Bianchi' right before I left the station," Del said looking back at Ellington, "Don't suppose that name rings any bells?"

Pilgrim59 Minyari

 

[Kabboom]

Henrique Banaskiewicz

Picking at the individual splinters of the thing, mini-Eiffel was beginning to take shape. Not a very definitive shape, but a shape nonetheless. The winds inside the hangar were a lot more pleasant than the outside, mostly because they didn't carry a bucket-load of sand flinging directly at your face, and the huge air conditioning units stationed outside could still be faintly heard over the grand briefing. Henrique didn't seem to pay much attention, only glancing up occasionally at the officer with the fancy cap. His ears doing all of the work, with words like 'Europe', 'Italy' and 'casualties' standing out in his mind like a flare in the night sky. His attention soon turned to an airman with ridiculously unkempt hair, filing in near his seat, and then the Sergeant next to Banaskiewicz spoke up, handing him a lit cigarette.

Chuckling, Henrique gladly accepted the gift, giving it a good puff, before responding. "Oui, something to... spice up the day." It wasn't much, but Henrique wasn't in a talking mood. Not yet, at least. Taking another puff and listening to a particular lad cursing in a thick Irish accent about everything you could curse about in Tunisia. The weather, the ops, but most of all, the fact that someone had nabbed his cigarettes last week. The French-Polski had to suppress a giggle at that last subject, since the guy looked familiar. It's hard to forget a 6'3 beefy guy with a beard, especially with how loose he keeps his pockets. Banaskiewicz didn't even have to try with that, he just went and took it. The cigarettes were most likely long gone after all, traded to one of the guards for an extra pair of socks.

Yet another Sergeant walks in, talking to the Sergeant that first sat down, now identified as Ellington. Slowly putting away his prized knife, Henrique prepares to get up and go. The briefing seemed to be almost over, anyway. But Henrique has been wrong before.

Pilgrim59 Darth Rusty of Shackleford SpiralErrant Minyari

 

[Minyari]

Franco Bianchi

​

Overview

Rank	Captain
Position	Pilot - B26E
Location	Briefing Room - Allied Tunisian Airfield
Interacted	N/A
Mentioned	Pilgrim59 Trappy Kabboom Darth Safety Hammer SpiralErrant Rusty of Shackleford

• Reality Sequence

• Making his way towards the board with a list of assigned crews, the already assembled pilots gathered around the bulletin board were conversing among themselves but quickly silenced with Franco's appearance. Clearing his throat, Franco quickly summarized the game plan for the beginning flight course and weather. After answering the few questions, Franco quickly dismissed the pilots to assemble their crews listed on the board.
  
  It would be up to the rest of the crew members to make their way to the board to see their crew assignments. First one the list would be none the less Franco's crew list in bold.
  
  "Bella Strippa" - Hangar Field #13
  CPT. F. Bianchi
  1LT. H. Banaszkiewicz
  1LT. A. Salvatore
  2LT. H. McLewis
  SSGT. D. Bennett
  SSGT. T. Caronette
  SGT. D. Ballard
  SGT. E. Ellington
  
  Once catching a glance at his crew and seeing mostly unfamiliar names, except his trusty dorsal gunner, Franco got a hold of a jeep with the text painted on the side of the jeep, "Bella Strippa Taxi", sitting in the driver's seat as he awaited his crew. Padding down his uniform and pants, Franco located his "Lucky Strike" cigarette pack professionally pulling one out before sticking it in his mouth and lighting it with his initial imprinted lighter. Exhaling a puff of smoke, the captain leaned in his seat lazily as he stared up into the clear blue sky, the horrendous heat bothering him the least.
  
  

 

[Pilgrim59]

Sgt. Edward Ellington

Location: Hangar, Allied Tunisian Airfield
Interacted: Darth
Mentioned: Kabboom Rusty of Shackleford SpiralErrant Minyari

​

Ellington chuckled lightly at Del's remark, as well as the Frenchman's words, as he turn to answer the prior's question.
"Oh right... he's the captain of the Bella Strippa. Guess that means you're with me. Should be..."

Gazing outward at the multitude of officers near the billboard, of whom had finished their reprising role of the crew's list, Ellington turned back to his fellow comrades.

"Looks like the officers are done with their flight sorting. Come on, I suppose we should get our shit and get a move on. Here, I'll get someone to store your baggage, Del. Better get to the jeep, Captain's waiting."

Ellington offered to carry Del's gears as he let everyone else within the hangar to follow suit, as he took note of the Captain's idleness on the jeep in wait - prompting a sense of urgency to those that remained in the hangar.



Translation notes:
N/A

 

[Kabboom]

Henrique Banaskiewicz

"Let's go, friends," he waved his hand at the group of Sergeants and Lieutenants who were near him for the entirety of the briefing session. The cigarette bounced up and down on his lips, teetering off the edge of his puffed mouth before being fixed into a more stable position with his fingers. "Our mission awaits." Henrique finished his sentence, as he pulled his shirt a bit higher to prepare for the sandy breeze outside the sterile-smelling hangar. His shitty boots carrying him as quickly as possible to the board, which had all the officers and airmen congregating around it.

He had mentally prepared himself to elbow in to have any hope of reaching the board, but surprisingly, as most of the men caught sight of Henrique approaching, many within the group dispersed as if they had spotted a quickly descending bomb. It seemed he was picking up a reputation for himself. He was going to have to watch himself from now on. But that matter is for later. Glancing upon the names on the board, Banaskiewicz was pleasantly surprised when he saw the names of his teammates. This was going to be one fun flight.

Spotting the dusty rustbucket with "Bella Strippa Taxi" written on the side, with the Captain having a smoke in the driver's seat, the French-Polski cleared his voice, as he prepared for a greeting. It wasn't a very well-kept secret, but Henrique can't properly pronounce the word Lieutenant. The cock-eyed French commanders he was subordinate to during his time in the French air force didn't help either, but it was worth a try. With a puff, and a shriveling nose, he announced his presence to the Captain, standing at attention.

"Lootenet Banaskiewicz, reporting for duty, sir!"

Minyari