[b]Over Crete[/b]

The thundering of flak exploded in the air alongside the Junker, deafening even the roar of the engines. From around them the yellow streaks of tracers carved through the air as their plane swept to the side, changing coarse. Black smoke from the engines of their companion craft choked the sky in thick ribons of black. Screaming through the gaps the fighter-bombers of the Reich dove bravely – or foolishly – into the fray, dead set on running disturbance against the ground and open up the skies for the Germans.

Screaming through the gaps German fighters engaged with British interception, further cutting sky with tracers. The thunder of guns swelled and ebbed as they zipped through, accompanied by the thunder of their plane's own guns weakly attempting to provide cover as they moved through the air.

As the Junker banked a sweeping band of anti-aircraft fire cut through the middle of one of the forward most troop carriers. With a fiery explosion it burst open in mid-flight, scattering twisted metal in arcing bends at the head of fiery tentacles. Trailing crimson fire the Junker dove into a plummet, the glider behind it dragging itself weakly down after it. The chord between the two broke and the freed glider banked and fought against its dive to resume control, going no where but one direction: into allied lines. William's heart froze at watching in an instant the fiery demise of so many boys. But he knew full well this was the cost for Germany's freedom. And they knew as well. Everyone was well aware of the cost of this war, and they went into it willingly or they surrendered well into the fact. Even as the anxiety of battle and its excitement played cat and mouse it was a sure fact that there was a probability they would all die. But it was for a good cause.

He looked back into his plane as they banked south. Into the eyes of the brave boys that followed them. In this moment he could see the true nature of the men that followed him. SS as they were, this moment was what separated the green from the old. The ones that stood with their faces pale as a winter's snow, eyes lowered from the door were those left to break. But for every greenhorn there were as many he could see that looked up in defiance to the face of death. Though they showed no open welcomeness or excitement, they were well acquainted. He had fought with many in mainland Europe. And it felt good to be back with what he would now call the old platoon after his English vacation.

Nearest to him was a man who looked in no ways a soldier of the Reich. He was small, nervous looking. Large bottled glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. His chest rose and fell slowly and tensely as he looked out the door. He held composure but was afraid at how swiftly and easily he could die up here. His hand held the rope handle above his head tight, his fingers wrapped around the straps that held tight his parachute and rifle. William studied him, measuring him up. He wasn't green. But he was by no means a veteran.

In the corner of his vision the lights by the door changed from yellow to green. He looked out the hatch. The battle in the air had waned and the Junker was making as if it were returning to across the sea. The sound of gunfire was still deep and vibrant and distant shapes danced in the air, aiming to catch up with the broken-off Junker and to pick off the isolated target. They had to move fast.

Reaching out he grabbed the small man by the shoulders, pulling him forward. “Jump!” he screamed, throwing him out the door. He didn't turn to watch as he reached for the next man in the line. Throwing them out the hatch one by one. “Jump!” he continued to order, “Los los!”

One by one they exited the craft, diving for the dry Greek hills below them. The distant crowns of olive and Cyprus trees swaying in the light breeze down below.

“Heil Hitler!” cackled a bull of a man familiar to William as he hit the door. He turned to smile at his superior officer as he dropped into the abyss. The officer's hand moved immediately to the next man in line, pushing firmly against the back as the bull's follower made the plunge.

He looked up, his heart racing as he watched the aircraft in pursuit dive closer. He could see the wings and the whirling propellers of the British interceptors draw closer. His grimaced at the thought of the mission ending so soon as he pushed another man out the edge. One by one the troops dropped through the hatch, diving to the ground opening their parachutes.

Turning to the line, not long now, he felt the hot sparks of metal against metal tear against the exposed back of his neck. “Gehts!” he screamed, hiding his pain with anger and force of will as he not only guided the next man out the hatch but shoved him into the open air.

“We need to move, now!” he roared, doing the same with the next man in line who went with no ceremony. White hot tracers tore through the air as the British fighters drew closer, their features clearer. It was no doubt the men left could see them now. One hesitated at the door at the sight, his knees locking as he hung in the hatch. William delivered a firm kick to the inside of the knee and shoved him through, diving for the next.

Sparks shot through the hull of the cabin and the small glass windows exploded inwards as bullets sheered through the metal. The thunder of the high caliber guns greeting them with fury as they dove. Lights flashed and flickered and an engine caught fire as a rogue bullet burrowed deep inside. The entire craft shook and rolled throwing them men against the wall and one out the door. There was a meaty pop and the next in line collapsed to the ground, half his head bursting like a grape as the interceptor's rounds found their mark in his temple.

His eyes disappeared with the top half of his head. His helmet becoming little more than a tipped bowl for the soup of gray matter and bone that peeled back from his limp body. A fan of blood splashed against the far wall as he fell to the ground and slid through the door. The man behind jumped back, slipping across the bloodied floor as they gripped the ceiling ropes in their white hands. “Schiesse!” someone roared.

“Verdammit, gehts!” William barked. Reaching over the pool and pulling a private forward by the neck. Throwing him out after the logrolling corpse. He watched them fall as he blindly grabbed for the last men. The grim image of the exploding body of the fallen trooper playing in his mind's eye as he filed them through. His heart raced, pumping white-hot adrenaline through him. The plane's engines hammered and wheezed deftly as the cannons of the fighters continued to blare ever louder. As the last man was thrown through the hatch the twin British fighters tore overhead of the Junker, their engines booming with thunder.

William looked to the opposite ports, watching through the cracked and bloodied glass as the fighters turned and came back. Blood washed from his face as he watched in horror the twin fighters arcing back around. White roses bloomed at their noses as they opened fire. Lines of tracers cut through the hull and brilliant golden fire exploded from the engines, tearing the side of the Junker open.

At the force of the explosion William was thrown back out the door. His face burning with the heat of the fuel fire. He turned in the air as behind him the aircraft burst with a buffeting and fiery thump, reducing it to no more than a molten comet streaking across the sapphire skies of the mid-Mediterranean. A reddened hand reached out for it as he tumbled back. He spun through the air, his strap failing and his weapons peeling off from his body. He watched in horror as his luger broke free into the air followed by his sub-machine gun. At this point, he had only one choice. He reached for his back as he faced the ground and pulled the chord on his parachute. He felt the force of the parachute exploding from his backpack and open up behind him. The snapping sensation of it catching air shot into his chest and shoulders. His helmet fell back and off before he resumed the slow and cautious descent to the island below.