| Sept 17, 1942: Somewhere at sea |
[08 Feb 2009|01:52am] |
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Finally. We're at sea, somewhere on the way to Gibraltar. I shouldn't complain, really - some of the other men had been waiting at the Embassy for days, but we got lucky. Pretty sure I never want to hide in the bottom of a Norwegian fishing boat again, though.
If our luck holds we'll be home in a few days. Home for me, anyway. Elena - well, all her people are scattered or worse. Don't know what I can do to help her find them. Still, I owe it to her to try.
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| Sept 16, 1942 |
[25 Oct 2008|12:53am] |
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I never see it coming.
Tonight we should be able to cross the border into Spain. Today... Marie is a sweet girl, she really is. She and her family are risking a lot by hiding us. But what am I supposed to do when she shows up in my room and says she's promised herself she'd kiss the first American pilot she met?
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| Letter from Rob Mitchell to Edward Kyteler, written 13 Sept 1942... |
[01 Jun 2008|09:52pm] |
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Given to Elena Ferrer to be delivered to Edward Kyteler in the event of Rob's death or disappearance. Warded to be readable only by Kyteler, with an additional charm to verify Elena's identity. No names are used in case the wards are broken.
Just in case something happens, I've given this letter to the Gypsy woman who's helping me get out of Occupied France. I've promised that I'll do what I can to help her rescue her people, since it's partly my fault that the Germans found them. I didn't expect the Germans to be using wizards to search for a downed pilot. Turns out it wasn't just me they were searching for.
The rumors are true; they are rounding up magick users. She can give you more information; it's too sensitive to be trusted to paper, even with wards.
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| Sept 12, 1942 |
[22 Feb 2008|12:32am] |
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Written on the back of a map of Occupied France, warded to be invisible to anyone else
This map has to be good for something, it sure as hell isn't any good for getting me out of here. How am I supposed to tell which part of the river I'm next to? It's not like I had the time to take a good look while I was dangling from my parachute - I was too busy trying to confund any of the Germans who got close enough when they were using me for target practice. And watching my pilots to make sure they got away safe, not that I could do anything about that.
I'm pretty sure that's the same barn I spent the first night in, but this time it's full of Germans. Guess I've got no choice but to head back into the forest. Damn.
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| August 29th, 1942: London, England |
[10 Sep 2006|04:58pm] |
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My weekend's pass came through yesterday. I didn't put in for one, so it meant they wanted me in Londinium. Perfect timing. Three of my men are dead, and Rossi lost his eye and half his fucking face, and I got to go brief St. John Saunders about what my pilots are doing.
Dying, mostly.
I need a drink.
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