Looking for a co-GM!
Tiger Tiger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
– William Blake
Great Britain, July 1940. The lone British war machine is reeling from the military disaster of Dunkirk, where only 20,000 troops of the British Expeditionary Force escaped from France and the rest dead or taken prisoner by the advancing Wehrmacht. Now, the German Luftwaffe prepares to launch a crushing air superiority campaign across the English Channel, with British factories, seaports, and civilian centers all newly designated targets of Operation Sealion. With the great empires of the United States and the Soviet Union infuriatingly neutral, the United Kingdom braces for a final death struggle against the Nazi menace.
But how could it have come to this? How could have hope dissipated so quickly?
As far as you are concerned, you will never know. The 20,000 survivors of Dunkirk and their rescuers in the various branches of the Royal Armed Forces have been prevented from contacting their families and forced to remain on their respective bases. New recruits to the Royal Army, Navy, or Air Force, for now, have been directed to other bases of operation.
You are a newly minted aircraftman in the British Royal Air Force. The first thing you are greeted by as you arrive on your first base of duty is an empty airfield and around five to seven other fresh recruits just as confused as you are. However, you have certainly heard rumors about what transpired in the last few months in France - that the Germans have developed a secret weapon that made our men literally lose their minds, that the dead in Dunkirk were slain not by the Wehrmacht but by their fellow soldiers, that the survivors on base have been indefinitely confined to mental institutions, robbed of their sanity, their rationality, and their hope.
But, of course, those are just rumors. High Command will release pertinent information when it can.
Meanwhile, you are one of the lucky few aircraftmen in the RAF who have been assigned to Turin Squadron, a special detachment of the Royal Air Force that, for all intents and purposes, does not exist. You have been especially chosen for your supposed 'fortitude of mind', whatever that means. The only thing you have been told at the briefing is that you will play a special part in the defense of the British Isles against the Luftwaffe assault. As far as anyone else in the force is concerned, you are part of other, officially recognized squadrons. You are not told of the exact nature of your missions, only that your first will start in forty-eight hours.
You attempt to sleep peacefully after the briefing, pushing out of your conscience the nagging feeling that you have absolutely no idea what you have gotten yourself into.