[b]South-southwest of current landing zones, Rethmnon-Heraklion corridor[/b]

William came down hard and fast. With a smashing crush he came crashing into the bough of a trees, sending his swinging through cracking branches and fluttering leaves as the canopy was torn by the upper crown, tangling itself in the spindly arms of the tree before he came to a stop hanging somewhere between a full dangle and resting against the firm support of a twisted branch. His head still flying he breathed deep as he hung, counting what blessings he had that for whatever reason he didn't skewer himself on one long spear of wood.

He looked about himself, isolated and alone in the wilderness and head already sweating from the heat and the untempered excitement. The roar of the exploding airplane still rang deep in his ears and he could still feel the hot embrace of the explosion in his bones. He figured somewhere on his body he was burnt. But the adrenaline course too swiftly in his veins still for the numbness to go away. He had only to hang from the boughs and collect the course of his thoughts, and establish his bearings, however rudimentary that was. He hoped to have gotten more time, and perhaps it had been thought out better. But it had been a mad dash since he got back from England. T'was too hard a fight to return. And as soon as he did he was here.

Absolute splendid luck he felt. Could have found an alternate route to say the least as opposed to declaring he had to move in with the regulars and split off at a certain point. But he was here now. And nothing could change that.

A thick tangle of spindly bushes grew around the base of the tree below him. If they weren't thorned or their branches too thick, he at least could land in them and suffer minor cuts. It was perhaps his only choice to make. Then he'd need to relocate his men, which was easier said than done. They no doubt would have meandered broadly.

All the same, there was the blessing that the actual landing zone was a ways off. And the gunfire was muted by the distance. With any luck they could collect themselves unmolested. At the same time though, they could be as easily reported in my those pilots when they returned to their air field, at the latest. So time was limited.

William took deep breaths. The Cretan air was dry and salty on his tongue. He wasn't as sweet or cool as the alps. But at least it didn't taste like London.

Hands rising to his chest William fumbled with the clasps that held him to his chute. With a click they released him and he fell out of the embrace of his chute. The tension of the straps releasing from his body as he fell from the tree, landing in the bushes with a crumpling crush. Sticks prodded against his back as he fell into the shrubs, and the release of leaves fell in after him, laying across his face like limp flower pedals. Crunching and crashing he fell through, sharp twigs brushing against his cheek. He grunted and groaned with each and every stick to smack against the side of his face until his fall broke and he lay still in a bed of weeds.

Grumbling, the SS officer pulled himself from the nest of weeds and twigs. Briskly brushing at his dirtied gray uniform. “Verdammt.” he swore under his breath, “Fuck this island already.”

Collecting himself he stood up, looking over the wooded countryside he found himself in. He scanned the scenery, searching for some landmark as he rifled through his breast pockets, and pulling out a small aluminum-cased compass. He also produced a small folded map.

Kneeling by the tree he unfurled the map on the ground, putting down the compass in the corner, and got to work establishing his bearing and direction. He needed a landmark first of all. But the dry hills that surrounded him could do little to establish this he found to his horror. They all looked the same rolling and bending over the uneven rocky terrain. Groves of cypress and wild olive grew in clumps along the crowns of the hills. Dipping and rolling valleys snaked along the terrain. He grimaced as he looked about, scanning the dry bushy landscape. The light of the midday son singing his eyes as he sought out some distant clue to his position. Or even of the gear he lost in the drop.

North was by all accounts behind him, and it was as good a bearing as any to have. Given their plane's bearing from the main group the rest of his platoon would be spread out over that. He folded the map, slipping it back into his pocket. The compass case clapped shut and it went back in.

He turned to the north. This would turn into the most dangerous trek he could take. Unarmed and lost. He counted blessings, knowing the sounds of battle were at this position a distant dream almost. His boots crunched over the rocky soil as he began his hike. Vigilant and cautious.