Myles stood unwavering at the edge of a sandbag wall, staring at the falling paratroopers with drunken glee. Tucking his cane neatly under his left armpit, he fumbled for his revolver with whiskey-laden fingers, and pulled it out. He pointed it to and throe at the dozens of Germans drifting slowly from the air above him and his men. The poor bastards had missed their drop zone, and with an apparant inability to steer their angle of approach, they were helpless. 

Naturally, his platoon took aim and put to rest the helpless souls. Myles smiled in amusement as he saw their rag doll forms spasm with the impact of each bullet, before going limp. He raised his revolver and fired off a couple of shots at one of them, though he wasn't sure whether his target was already dead; everything was so blury! 

"Bloody Fritz, they're... they're... oh, nevermind," he mumbled. 

"Mr. Hedger!" 

Myles turned and smiled stupidly at the crouching, panting form of Lieutenant Bailey. It appeared the man had run the stretch in the open from his own position, to Myles'. His chiselled, red face heaved with each intake of breath. 

"Where the Hell are your men off to, Hedger?" Bailey demanded. "I told you to hold this God forsaken line, yet the moment I turn my back, your bloody men are running rampant in the midst of the enemy." 

Myles raised an eye. Were they? He looked up and down his platoon's position, and noted his southern section had vanished. "Oh," he managed.

"Oh? fucking OH!? Get your shit together mate," Bailey shouted, thrusting a finger into Myles' chest. "If you fucking lose my flank, I'll shoot you, I swear to God."

Were Myles thinking clearly, and not clouded by drink and the euphoria of a perfect battle - a battle where the enemy weren't shooting back - he might have simply nodded. Instead, he smiled again, held up a finger and spoke in a forced sober tone, "My good Lieutenant Bailey, I am an Officer of Crown, and as such, I understand the workings of war."

"I swear to Go-" Bailey's face twisted in anger. 

"Now, now," Myles chuckled. "You see, the true strength of an officer is in allowing himself to stand back, you see? To allow his men to think for themselves, and to react to a situation as it emerges. Micro-managing so many bodies, it's not only tiresome, it's bloody ineffective If I don't say so myself. Just because one of my sections is exploiting the enemy's weakness, doesn't mean we're forfeiting the battle, dear boy." 

Bailey shook his head. "If we lose this line, you'd better hope you die in the fighting. And if I have to come back over here to watch this circus of yours slowly buggar CreForce's chances of survival, you would do well to hide."

Myles raised a hand in salute. "Yes s-si-HIC-sir. Understood." 

Bailey departed in short order, muttering a stream of obscenities. 

[b]“Sir! Myself and Privates McKeon and Penfold are left, along with a few others and some of the Greeks. We’ll set ourselves up in a defensive position near the AA Gun. Do you want me to move the other men into any particular formation?”[/b], came a thick Irish accent from behind.

Myles burped, and slowly turned. He looked the man up and down questioningly, and then recalled his earlier words to his men; this was part of [i]his[/i] section. 

"Gosh blimey," Myles laughed. "Irishmen, eh? What you boys lack in discipline, you make up for in courage, don't you now? How about you join me in this hilarious pigeon shoot of ours?" he stopped to point up at the massing shapes in the sky, mentally blocking out the more alarming sight of those of the enemy that were making it to the ground and dispersing, "you see them? I take it you do. Put holes in them, priva- er, corporal. Keep putting holes in them until there's no more left." 

With that, Myles marched off further down the line to check on the his northerly section. Not that he particularly cared how they were doing, but he had to look the part if he didn't want Bailey chewing him up later on. "Jolly good lads," he called, passing by his nameless soldiers, "keep it up. You're doing God's work."