(Parachutes aren't regularly pulled by a cord with paratroops- they use Static Line, a method I've done myself- where the canopy is opened up and pulled out of the rig by a cord attached to the aircraft, pulling it out as you fall out of the back of it. German parachutes were also notoriously shit- they used one riser, which is insane even for round parachutes- you can't even steer vaguely, let alone a round parachute being terrible to control anyway (landings are very rough). The German rigs weren't designed to be compatible with weapons, and neither with other gear- so guess the main cause of German paratrooper death in this fight? It wasn't even groundfire, or anything like that. It was breaking their ankles on landing, or getting shot while trying to reach their submachineguns or rifles, which were dropped in seperately. The British Paras fixed this by using a bag containing...well, almost 40kg of weapon and ammo attached to your legs, and Parachute Landing Fall- a method that basically is Paratroops' Parkour to stop your ankles from getting sprained or broke. Anyway nowadays, shit can be carried on your rig because we use lighter and more compacted weaponry than our previous battle rifle and bolt-action counterparts, of which were heavier and generally less suited (which is a whole topic in itself, but TLDR, it's far more developed). A footnote in history that I feel might be needed.)

Scott opened up fire, the Sten's recoil noticeable but nowhere near as sharp as that of a Bren gun as the first wave of Fallshirmjager were effectively cut down. This was a bad landing zone, and no doubt, this wasn't going to work out well for them at all. The noise of cannon fire from Stuka strafes was louder than ever before, and even the rumble of the Bofors back up into the sky, the large 40mm L/60 Bofors being the most common of anti-aircraft weapons in the world and having a good reason for being such a popular weapon. It took out aircraft with a remarkable pace, and already, any low-flying transports were already beginning to feel the effects, with one or two completely off track or unsuitable for paradrops. It was becoming a total mess, and now, it had truly enveloped itself into hell.
"Shit, they're using this as a pretty fucking significant drop zone...it's only a matter of time before any landers pop smoke and let the flyboys know it's unsuitable. Once they know, we're not holding here. I'll fucking make sure that I'll be breathing if our CO even dares run...keep firing, lads." He said, rather cynically, as he pulled the mag out, pulling a new one from his harness, slotting the magazine into the weapon as he cocked it, the open bolt cleared and a round chambered.

The shrill of a Sten was systematic, and it's kick something Scott felt familiar with. These men, somewhat too. It was a hodgepodge, a mixture, a whole clusterfuck, just like the situation he was in. He was petrified. But keeping calm under pressure was what your leader was. And if your men saw that, they'd believe it. Somehow. All Scott wanted to show, was that he wasn't shitting himself. Men were on the ground now, and firing back, the crack of Karabiner 98K and MP40 fire, with even a single MG34 billowing across from afar, as the section focussed fire, aware that they were now keeping the pinch point intact, and stopping any runners. It was becoming a real hell, and no doubt, this wasn't going to stop any time soon. This war stuff was to Scott, what perhaps his father had seen. But nothing like this. It didn't shock Scott, but somehow, it didn't exactly seem normal either. They had serious fucking balls to do this. And Scott knew that it would take the equal same to stop them. Heraklion wasn't far, and somehow, Scott knew that they'd end up there, either with the platoon or without. The fire stopped momentarily, as the sight of paras on their end wasn't visible. They weren't in the thick of it now, they were moving elsewhere, to shoot at someone else. It wasn't good

Scott could tell it wasn't good when almost half a minute went by, with an eerie quiet in their direction, gunshots distant but as if it was echoing. There was a saying, from his company CO, Major Daniel Catterick- "If you're not in the heat of the fight, you're not soldiering hard enough." And it was truth. The noise of bullets whistling past your head, almost making you shiver, was what Scott thought to be getting stuck in. He cared for the people around him, but knew that in the end, they'd be fighting here, and being afraid of death wasn't the way to go. They would need to put up a good show, and in the end, at least know that they wouldn't be like the rumors that their new Lieutenant had now induced. A coward was more living than a dead man. But any dead man in the field had more to his name in heaven than a coward would ever be able to list, and it wasn't about Queen, and Country for a moment. It was about the people around, and somehow, as Scott shot a burst over into a bush, and then sunk back down into cover, it wasn't entirely too bad for a moment. And yet it was, that they weren't getting shot at, and not being in the fight. A terrible paradox. But war was mad, and Scott was at least sane enough to understand that in madness, only following it up would result in anything getting done. This was why the Lufftwaffe had the nerve to drop men onto this island, not send them in landing craft. And today, Scott wanted to make sure that they'd go forward.
"Get some new mags in, get your breath back- Section we're hustling over, since we've still got a few pockets left, but most of them are towards the centre. Let's close the gap in, or else they'll try and regroup. Staice, you keep lead- we'll go from bush to bush, myself and the Bren man will cover." He simply said, looking over, as he nodded, coughing a little as he adjusted his hat, looking over, aware that casualties in his section were none, yet the Fallshirmjager had taken significant hits, at this drop zone at least. Poor fuckers, Scott thought to himself. They had it bad, especially here- but at other places, they were unopposed. They'd have to just close in now, and Scott knew that if Hedger had a problem with that, he could ask the Germans they'd sweep up.

The pace was set, as they moved from the southern battery's sandbags, moving across the lightly grassed area, to a hedgerow, where the sight of Germans barely 50m beyond set the team on weapons blazing. Many of the Germans were running, unarmed, and it was a brutal thing to see, as he raised the Sten, and fired across the field, plucking the life from two and wounding one severely in the spine. It was horrifying to watch, but this was war. And they had Lugers that they would happily fire back if they had the chance. That wasn't something that Scott, and his section he hoped would agree on. Crouching behind a pine tree of sorts in the shrubrow, he kept his head back and aimed, looking for more. Fire whistled on by, as Scott saw it buzz through, tracing the shooter as a MP40 behind another shrubline further along, with which Scott adjusted his stance and opened up. The sights of the Sten were always funny to adjust to, but they were comfortable enough in Scott's eyes, and the German Paratrooper fell, a 9mm shot ringing through his ribcage and bringing him down to the floor in a bloody heap. The Bren opened up to his side, as the other half of the section moved over, with their Lee Enfields, to better cover and to push in. This was the thick of it, and Scott wasn't going to let these bastards take an inch now this was the situation. It was something inside, something perhaps of a hatred from Greece, of just getting into the fray. 
"Contacts, pushing on the far side of the shrubs, right by those pines! Toss some grenades up there, make em' run! If you see a weapon cache, let me know, and we'll put them out of German hands!" He yelled, aware that if the Germans could understand Scott's New Zealand accent, let alone English, they'd be pretty scared right now from his tone. Somehow, Scott wasn't surprised when fire came back just the same from their position further into the middle of the southern drop zone and it wasn't in response to Scott, but he laid down suppressive fire from his British-produced SMG, for whatever the rest of the team could now do, and generally bring about some more anarchy onto the far hedgeline. Every thought of mercy and hospitality was flushed from his mind. These were the elite, they were here for a good reason.to do what they did. They would have a better shot, and right now, were scattered, not fighting as a unit like Scott's section was, but were scattered elements that were able to only sometimes retrieve their weapons. A couple formed a threat, and a small fireteam, roughly in Scott's number, was trying to desperately hold their part of the drop zone, but were quickly overrun.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Scott slotted a new magazine in, pulling the spent 9mm mag back into his harness, and a new one in, followed by a simple cock of the weapon, a round going in nicely and cleanly. Good. Another reason why you oiled your gun. Scott knew that many of these men were not professionals, some, like Dimitri, a lad he'd befriended, were mere fishermen. Some, like Alexios, were former fighters, and now basically Reservists. Staice and Maxwell were knew, the latter a fellow man from Down Under, and someone he had more trust in. The former he knew would be a little scared, but he'd know that he would adapt, in time. War did that to people. Scott had seen the Greek campaign, and had bared a lot of the brunt in Corinth. Since then, things had been a literal train wreck in his company, and his promotion to Sergeant had followed. Now they had this to defend a last stand with. It didn't even sound like a Greek tragic play that Scott had seen. It sounded more like a comedy. A superior force, and Scott knew there were Greeks armed with knives and muskets, against a highly advanced paratrooper force armed with cutting edge sub-machine guns and rifles. It was desperate, and somehow valiant, but no matter how Scott played it in his head, a musket against an machinegun was only ever going to work out one way. It was while the heat of the battle was still raging on, the moment to reload, catch his breath, and think that rushed these thoughts through. A strange sensation, as he peeked over, from his cover, across the small clearing around a quarter of the size of a football pitch that had now become an area for dead Fallschirmjagers and busted kit. 

They were holding their ground well, and while the fireteam at the opposite hedgeline was dealt with within the next half a minute, Scott didn't want to go any further. This was going to become a mess otherwise, and he knew it well enough, as he looked over to the rest.
"Staice, bring yourself and your other man back here. We'll post up here, might have less cover but we've shocked the shit out of them. They weren't expecting to be counterattacked so quick, paras might be co-ordinated when they're together but they have a shitty way of dropping themselves in, so you pick off the worst. Dumb sods. Just breathe, set up somewhere comfy, and be ready." He said, as the fire calmed down, the other two sections perhaps a little relieved by this slight push, which pincered in the enemy at the two landing zones, Scott aware that it was a risky, but decisively well executed maneuver. He had good, well trained men at his side who'd not exactly follow him to hell, but come close. And perhaps there was no more running. He'd rather die on his feet than live on his knees, just like Scott's father had told him multiple times when he enlisted. Surrender was all good, but to an enemy that killed innocent people, what they did to people that shot at them wasn't to be thought about. And this time, Scott knew there could not be a boat. This was going to be a fight that could end very fast, if they captured the infrastructure, and the British, ANZAC and Greek forces were driven from the airfields, bases and ports. It would be the end of the game of war on Crete, and one more tally for Hitler's list. Crete, a Nazi jewel in the Med. That wasn't something that after Greece, many people wanted to let Hitler have the satisfaction on. And while war was brutal, horrible and terrifying, somehow, that in a twisted way kept Scott fuelled up. That smug fuck wasn't going to let himself have this, surely. None the less, at that time, their planes were coming in number, but here wasn't a place that was going to be filled with a significant volume of paras, like before. They were now dealing with the next waves that would perhaps be deploying across other drop zones in time, and if they could break this with the platoon, they'd be on the road to Heraklion. Yet there was still work to do, and roughly a squad-sized to platoon sized force could still be lingering in the pines, and waiting for the platoon to be less than aware.