William Staice ran his smallish fingers through his dark hair, wondering once again what had become of his tin hat, wondering what had become of his original posting, his platoon billeted way out on the outskirts of Heraklion. The planes had started early, seven or eight, or something, then the word had been Chania was under attack, the Jerries were making a go at Crete. This was it. This was the real thing. He had been under Lieutenant Williamson, another Northern man, and Staice had thought him an alright sort for an officer. Maybe a little too old to be a lieutenant, maybe a bit too daft while we're at it, but the man hadn't cared if Staice and his mates washed their uniforms or got into the local ouzo nights- the Army was more fun than Staice had heard.

When the first word of the attack came, Williamson had them march into a grove and spread out, supposedly as protection from Stukas. In practice, though, that had meant Williamson's platoon had simply fallen apart. The olive groves were thick and nasty stuff, you could be ten feet away from a man and never know. Once the young private had realized he was separated from his mates, he had probably exacerbated things with his blindly wandering about, losing his helmet and making his already dirty uniform worse. At least he hadn't lost his rifle. Tommy Charles in his platoon had lost his Lee-Enfield, rumor had it the poor sod had been fined, straight out of his pay. The rumor mill hadn't been specific, guesses went from a crown to a full hundred pounds. At any rate, best to keep the rifle, after all, there was a war on in Crete that fine day. 

Staice had finally managed to make it out to the road, just in time for a convoy of Breda lorries to pass him by. He had ran after one, which had obligingly slowed down for a just a moment, tossed his rifle in the back, reached out for the outstretched hands of other squaddies, and reported himself available for duty. William Staice felt secure, he assumed this convoy was headed for the coast, to be taken to safety by the Royal Navy. Glad he hadn't missed a ride out, he settled back.

Abruptly, the Breda stopped, jolting Staice out of his reverie. "Oh, brilliant, will they be feeding us now?" he whispered in his Scouse accent to the private next to him, who gave him a scornful look and no answer. Staice was well hungry, there had been no breakfast this morning under Williamson. He wasn't carrying any rations, just weaponry. 

There wasn't time for any conversation. The ANZAC sergeant (Harris, was it?) herded them out of the back of the lorry, took his orders from a lieutenant. The look of the officer worried Staice a lot- this fellow was no Williamson. This bloke- Staice heard the name Hedger- had an immaculate uniform, a silver swagger stick, a pile of things that said bad news. No way would Hedger be as lax as Williamson. He'd probbly be on Staice about the state of his uniform, not to mention his missing helmet. Staice really wondered where his tin hat had gotten off to. Probably in for a fine, like Tommy Charles. What was the fine for losing a helmet, anyhow? He'd worry about that once he got wherever they were going.

Suddenly, Staice realized he was being spoken to. Harris, the sergeant with the peculiar hat, a New Zealander, maybe. The man stood with his Sten at the ready, urgently ordering them to take cover behind sandbags beside one of the Bofors guns. Staice's heart leaped into his mouth, even as his stomach rumbled with hunger. This ragtag unit was being evacuated, like he had assumed. It was going to stand and fight. 

Black and oily plumes of smoke licked by fire were already visible over Heraklion, the Stuka pilots going about their grim work with vigor. The sight transfixed Staice, and he looked off at it with wide eyes until someone tugged at his shoulder, pointed. Even larger planes were overhead, the Bofors beginning to sound. But even as the tracers lanced upwards, visible even in the harsh light of the Cretan afternoon, black dots appeared beneath the big planes. As Staice squinted, trying to make out whether these dots were bombs or some other engine of destruction, they suddenly bloomed like flowers in the sky.

Paratroopers.

Like everyone else, Staice remembered the Germans overruning Holland the previous year, largely through airborne operations like the one he now found himself inside. Williamson had said there had been men dropped at Chania this morning, but Staice hadn't been sure if he believed him or not. Well, here was the proof, raining down from the sky right on top of him. He had never been terribly religious, usually rolling his eyes the few times his father had been sober enough to force him into an Anglican church, but Staice suddenly found himself trying to recall a psalm or two. This seemed like the most appropriate time for one.

He couldn't remember any, though. Not a single ruddy one. 

"Ah, hell," he settled for as the men drifted closer. The roar of the Bofors was beginning to be supplemented by small arms- the rattle of Stens (including Harris), the deeper sound of the Brens around him, all pointed skyward in an effort to get as many Germans as possible before they could hit ground and properly defend themselves. And of course the sound of Lee-Enfields, punctuated by the bolt being worked.

Right, he was carrying one of those.

Licking his dry lips and wiping his sweaty palms, Private Staice lifted his rifle, sighted upwards, and squeezed the trigger. He felt the unfamiliar kick of the rifle against his shoulder, fumbled for the bolt, carried on. This wasn't the kind of fun he had under Williamson. This was the real thing. Now he was really starting to wonder where his tin hat had gotten off to. Not because of any fine, because it was supposed to protect his head. He had a sudden image in his head, blinding even as he tried to push it out. His head torn apart by shrapnel or bullets, blood and pick goop splattered over the sandbags, all over his uniform, the ground beneath him. He shuddered even as he sighted his rifle again.

Private William Staice wanted to live. And so he aimed, he fired, he worked the bolt, sweat streaming down in the heat of the Cretan sun.