The driver's cab of the Italian Breda-32 was stuffy, to put things bluntly. Myles' nose twitched with each intake of the fat Cretan driver's body odour.

"I take you fast," the Cretan had said. "I get you there quickly."

Myles had turned to find someone less eager to arrive at the front, but a Greek colonel had chased him with a cane. A series of whiskey induced insults flew in short order, with the Greek colonel uttering "Πάρτε για αυτό το δειλός φορτηγό , σας ξέρω !" behind a drawn revolver. Myles had relented; he had thought of taking the matter up with his commanding officer, but for the time being, he had to hide himself from view. One could only escape battle so many times before someone looked into the matter, as France had shown him.

Air raid sirens were blaring from the low-built town of Heraklion, and peering out from the dusty wind shield of the Breda, Myles' stomach sunk as he saw in the horizon a fleet of German war planes heading for the town. Stukas, probably, he reasoned. They would bomb everything of importance first, and then it would be time for the German's airborne green devils to take the jump. He was immediately thankful that his fat companion had driven them around the town's outskirts, rather than through it.

"Not long. Look," the driver babbled.

Myles looked ahead, and saw British Army trucks on the move at an approaching junction. No doubt they were heading to reinforce the town's westerly defenders, and Myles' platoon had likewise orders. He sighed, and reached for another swig of whiskey.

***

The Breda pulled up alongside the more modern and efficient British Bedford QLs. Twelve in total, which meant at least Myles had some serious backup. He immediately exited the driver's cab, pleased to be away from the fat Cretan's body odour, and in the fresh air.

Looking around, he took note of his surroundings. Sandbags and shallow trenches formed a wide cemicircle; ahead was sparse woodland and low lying shrub. Anti-aircraft guns of various nationalities and years of production were dotted about the place, having been moved out from hiding the night before. Intelligence had asserted that Fritz would make two assaults on the town - both airborne. One would fall to the west, and one to the east.

What Myles was looking at was the Commonwealth's first and perhaps last line of defence against the German's westerly assault. Behind the line, about two miles or so, sat Heraklion. The officer winced as he saw the German planes make their dives, dropping incendiary charges and unleashing their cannons on whatever took their interest.

"Mr. Hedger," someone called. "Where is your platoon?"

Myles winced. It was Lieutenant Bailey of the 14th Infantry Brigade. He led a platoon of British infantry attached to the brigade, and had been designated as the local commander for Myles' area of operations.

"Lieutenant Bailey, a pleasure to see you," Myles said, all smiles, as he turned.

"Your platoon, Hedger," Bailey snapped.

Myles almost shrugged, but then stopped himself at the last second. "These Italian trucks don't move like ours, Lieutenant. They'll be along in short order."

As if a saving grace sent by God himself, four more Bredas rattled down the roadway and parked themselves next to Myles' truck. His platoon disembarked in short order, displaying a mish-mash of Greek and Commonwealth uniforms, and some civilian clothes.

Bailey stifled a laugh, and replaced it with a very British, "Christ."

"Yeah," Myles replied, swaying slightly with the whiskey.

"Well that wont do. A second rate officer with a third rate platoon. What does that blasted Freyberg think he's playing at? We're at war! How can I hold this line with ... oh forget it," Bailey muttered. He turned sharply to Myles. "Have your men deploy along the south line. I trust they can use the three Bofors?"

Myles looked at the three AA guns, dotted down the line and surrounded by neat sandbag circles. Probably not, he thought. "Of course, sir."

"Good. See to it that your position is manned," Bailey said, and turned to walk off back to his own men.

"Yes sir," Myles responded with a stiff salute.

"Oh and Mr. Hedger," Bailey said, stopping to look at Myles. "There's no running from this fight. I've heard a bit about you - a legend somewhat. Two wars, and only three battles. If your men pull out of here before mine do, I'll shoot you myself. I'm not letting any bull shit excuses pardon you from what's right."

Myles sighed inwardly. "Yes sir, understood."

Leaving Bailey to bark his orders at his more impressive collection of soldiers, Myles turned to his own.

"Sergeant Harris, take a section of men, and man the southern-most point of the line," he said with slurred but loud speech, "Sergeant Stathos-" he paused to take in the Greek man's apparel. This is my other sergeant?. "Er, Sergeant Stathos, take another section and man the northern area of our line. Whoever is left, you're with me in the centre."

Crude Operations Map

The spring's sun was warm, wafting through the windows in a cool golden glow as the morning crawled deeper into a clear and clean afternoon. Clear blue skies lay open across the skies. An uncharacteristic openness he found for England. There was a refreshing ease in the weather as he looked up out the window from the bread knife he held gingerly in his hands. The curved metal blade curved up to the ceiling as if some flagpole with no banner to man the mast.

Outside the windows in the gardens below of Ditchley manor the current resident strolled the gardens. His mad bulldog face gabbing and barking in his mad-dog English with a male companion. Not too far away the bulldog's wife prowled between the rose bushes, shadowing the pair of gentlemen. It was only 12:45. Winston Churchill had just stepped out from his study after his scotch and whiskey to patrol the petunias, basking in springtime pleasantries.

Even to the adder hidden in their midst, the comfortable warmth and the youthful life of the pristine English countryside was enough to encourage one to forget one simple, horrifying fact. That outside these walls, across the country-side, across a spit of water called the English Channel, there was war. William was no stranger to war as he watched the man he was assigned to through the clear crystal glass as he watched through the windows of the dining hall.

No one was around. No one to watch. It had to be over a year now. He felt he perhaps forgot he was even German at all. He had lost himself so deep into the Scottish act, he feared that when he walked into Berlin he would have the same insincere drunken drawl. William scowled. He couldn't bring it to mind. Not here. Not when he ensured preparations were so close. He wasn't William Hans Gröber anymore. He was Dougal McAffroy.

Dougal McAffroy wasn't from Köln. Douglas McAffroy had never even seen Cornwall, let alone the European mainland. Dougal had joined the military hoping to see the fields of France, to kiss French lips, and drink French Bourbon. He wanted to taste German chocolate, feel Italian women. He wouldn't mind wading through storms of sand and silt in North Africa, where lived a class of people so backwards it was like he was in the ages of Saladin.

No. Dougal McAffroy was in England. Surrounded by Englishmen. But Dougal was also stoic, well-tempered, and could hide any sort of resentment, impatience, or feeling of injustice. Despite him having hated the English before William ever came to dislike them. At least not these fat pompous types, their noses shoved so far up their own asses. They were cold as iron to William. Almost more so than the German people. And people like Churchill were still rolled into that ancient tradition of Victorian culture, where the men were strong and powerful, projecting themselves ever more forward.

Oh how deep inside William wished to cut the dicks off the men who thrusted. But he mustn't be as crass as the American.

His hands trembled as he wrangled with the welling of William. The light of the spring-time afternoon shone off the shaking metal of the knife blade as he angled it down. Holding it in one hand by the handle, and the other by a black-gloved hand. He must be careful to not touch the steel, lest he come to contact with the Wolfsbane.

There were so many preparations he lost count. He did them robotically, planned out methodically every time he assisted in laying the table. He even began to forget how or why he managed to get to this strategic position. How the English bulldog could not sniff out the rat. They were not terriers, for sure.

And it was in the meditative poise and practice that he put the silverware down with gloved hands that he allowed this to be committed to memory as much as it was forgotten. Anything written could be found. The only thing that could not was the mind.

Wolfsbane, hemlock, cyanide, even dimethylmercury. He had laced everything with anything he could procure. He imagined if anyone asked it was better for them to never know. Silverware thinly coated with Aconite, hemlock sprinkled in the food, cyanide added to the pies, and dimethymercury to the whiskey.

He had come to start drinking his own bottles of cheap scotch. When prompted, he claimed he never acquired the taste for expensive alcohol. He'd shrug it off. He was a tailor's son after all. How peculiar.

He looked up from the table as he lay out the silverware, thinking to himself. Would he be eating today? “No, I'm sorry sir. But I just ate.” was the prepared reply. He recited it carefully under his breath, paying close attention to the vibrato restriction of his throat as he molded his accent around the words.

“No, I'm sorry sir. But I just ate.”

“No, I'm sorry sir. But I just ate.”

“No, I'm sorry sir. But I just ate.”

“No, I'm sorry sir. But I just a-” the grandfather clock on the far war chimed. Its loud clanging rings echoing through the austere confines of the Georgian-era dining hall. The loud brassy rings of its chimes echoing from brass curtain rod to tiled black and white marble floor. From the austere teak tables to the richly wood paneled walls. He looked up. 1:00.

That clock always ran fast, but soon the Minister would be arriving. He leaned up to look out the windows, and sure enough Churchill was strolling through the gardens, waving a thick cigar through his heavy fingers as he marched up to the house. Walking under spring blossom and budding trees. Winston Churchil was a monster of habit, and from the kitchen the succulent smells of this afternoon's luncheon wafted out.

He leaned down over the table, laying out the last batches of silverware. The poison invisible over the steel. Today would be duck roast. Everyone would be making good use. Everyone had to die. It was a sacrifice that had to be taken.

For the fatherland.

Better to not ask.

As the doors were thrown open and the men of the house walked through followed by their wives William stepped back from the table. Keeping a polite face as he greeted the cackling and smiling men into the dining hall. The thick smell of tobacco smoke filled the great chamber as Churchill puffed the sausage of a cigar clamped between his teeth. His great bulldog face peeling back into a smile as the venerable Ronald Tree finished some humorous anecdote. By this point, the instincts and training honed over the years took control, and William could feel the time blue.

Calculated, authoritarian, and Victorian. The men swept around the table as did the women. Finding their seats. Dougal watched with innocents as he hovered in the background, retreating away from the table as the servers came in. William watched from behind his glass eyes as his prey took their seats. Churchill and Tree reaching out for their light whiskey and scotch. They boomed with conversation. Ignorantly sipping the hidden toxins.

The seconds passed to minutes. Or the minutes moved through the minutes. Time was lost in the patience. But the food was brought out. The finely roasted smells of glazed poultry exploding like a bomb as they were wheeled out of the kitchen. The cook placing the tray of duck to the table, garnished with vegetables from carrots to artichokes. The steaming caramelized glaze smelled of maple syrup and bourbon.

(Action Tiem)

The men ate. Dougal disappearing into the backdrop as silverware chipped and glided across gilded white china. The flush and white meat of the roasted duck gingerly hanging from the prongs of laced forks. The smell and the taste was tempting. It made Dougal's stomach turn inside. It twisted hungrily, watching. Wanting to lash out like a hound. But behind it on the leash, was William. The leather straps of restraint wound tight around his clenched fists as he watched and waited.

Then there came the shift at the table. A slowing of the pace, and a change in the complexion. It started first with the women. Barely a few minutes in. Their delicate tasting and appraising of each piece of duck affording them the longest exposure to the traces coated along the blade. It came to them like illness. Slow and steady. Organically. Their faces lost color, and they complained of feeling faint. Then something else happened. Something deep and internal when they realized something was wrong. Something sincerely, deeply wrong.

And it wasn't the food.

When they found out, so did the men take notice. Tree and Churchill both looking up, then standing to help their wives. Panic stricken murmurings floated from their mouths. Wide-eyed expressions searching. They shouted for Dougal to get help. He panicked, hesitated. Shot for the door, crying for help. William watched from behind, seeing the circus on fold with a deep curiosity.

When Dougal returned, rushing, heart racing, and ahead of the other servants he came back to a scene from a Sherlock Holmes novel. On the floor lay the women. Leaning over his wife Forest, too weak to cry, and too close to death to stand. Staggering on his feet, holding the back of his chair as he tried to stay strong was Churchill. The old dog's face looked to have seen a ghost. His eyes half-rolled into his head. He muttered under his breath, seemingly to plead with Dougal.

But his face turned to horror. A deep batty expression, driven to animal horror when the wool had been pulled of. Realizing in the moment before he passed Dougal was not who he seemed. In the moment before his heart stopped William stepped forward, the subtle change in composure. The coldness of his expression for the deed. Two soldiers connected as one, and it was realized between the two.

It was over.

And now William sat, standing at the door of a great airplane. Looking down at the island of Cyprus below. Flak cannons bursting around him like the spring flowers that were no doubt still in bloom outside Ditchley manor. The warm wet air of the Mediterranean brushing passed the SS officers cheek as he watched the ground below from the cut out in his aircraft. There would be no poisons today. Today would be the jump.

The Junker shuddered under William's feet, jostling him by the open door at the side of the aircraft. His grip on the handle above him tightened reflexively as he looked down at the island passing below him. The afternoon was as clear over Crete as it was during that fateful day in Oxfordshire. Not a cloud dotted the blue heavens. Only the dark swarm of the Luftwaffe graced the azure scene. And the blooming black flowers of flak.

Behind him sat the hull's worth of forty-odd SS foot soldiers. They leaned against their rifles, rocking as the plane rolled and muttering low under their breaths. The chaotic bumping of the Junker was by no means a relaxing ride, and it had only gotten worse since they left Italy. Several already had already vomited on the floor, and the sickly yellow-green fluid washed back and forth across the thin metal. Its pungent strong smell mixed with the acrid sulfuric stench of aircraft fuel.

The general mission was clear. To land on Crete and support the Fallschirmjäger regulars in seizing the island. To drive out, route, or kill the Commonwealth men and their allies. To establish Crete as a staging ground for Greece. Off the coast the Royal Navy patrolled, taking potshots against the Luftwaffe swarm. They'd need to be dealt with later.

For William and his men though they had another objective than to simple seize Crete. The location of, and eventual capture or termination of the British operations commander on the island. Baron Bernard Freyberg.

The plane rocked again and William's helmet knocked against the frame of the doorway. He took a deep sigh. Alongside the door the signal light switched from red to yellow. It was nearly time.

“KOMARADEN!” William boomed, shouting over the roar of the engines, “Take positions! Check gear!” he ordered.

Their drop was soon.

The clear sky above Crete would normally have been a good sign, the hot sun and blue sky warming every soul and smile on the island. On a day like this, the inhabitants of Crete would have gone fishing, work in the fields and all went to church later, before coming home and all enjoying a pleasant meal, surely with a few pints of Greek beer to cool themselves. This could have been a day like that. But from what heard in the driver's seat of the first Breda of the small convoy headed for Heraklion, this was nothing close to it. And one would see that the trucks were all shit.

As the first Breda truck parked beside Second Lieutenant Myles Hedger's truck, a very, very angry Greek man stepped out of the truck and continued on about his ranting, in Greek of course. "...and if I ever again had to choose between this piece of crap Italian shit and a Turkish mule, I would burn the mule and shoot the truck! I tell you, I have never driven a worse car in all my life, and I've done this close to 30 years, and never has a truck broken down so many times..." The ageing Greek man kept on, letting his anger out on the truck by kicking the front tire, the hood, and the front of it. Alexios cared little if they had to use them again, if so, he'd prefer to walk with his own two feet, at least they worked.

Alexios eventually calmed down again, at least enough not to shoot the truck, and assembled with the rest of the platoon under command of Second Lieutenant Myles. He heard some of the words the other British officer said rather angry, English wasn't his best language but he had picked up bits and bobs through his life. What he understood was "...third rate platoon...", figuring that they were said platoon, and to some extent it was true. They were men in all ages and occupations, all with varying amounts of experience in war, but they were the last they had.

Suddenly Second Lieutenant Myles called out for Alexios, and he jogged up to him to get his orders. "Yes, Sir?" He was told to take a section and defend the northern defences of their flank. Alexios nodded and turned around to take command of one section, containing both British and Greek troops. "Men, follow me." He shouted at them, first in Greek, and then in English as he realized the British knew very few words of Greek, save from the casual gesture of "Hello., Good morning., What's the time? and of course, One beer.".

As they made their way to their positions, Alexios turned around and grabbed the shoulder of a Greek soldier. "Dmitri Costas? Do you know how to operate one of those Anti-Aircraft guns? I have never used any such thing, and can't show the others how to." He quietly said to Dmitri, lifting up the red fez he wore to scratch his balding head. Back in the old wars he had killed Turks and Bulgarians alike, but this would be the first time he'd kill a German. To him they must have been just like Austrians, only worse. And he hated Austrians.

(OOC- is it okay if Maxwell , your character due to their ANZAC origins is with Scott's section? Could also have Poly too, if you want your character to tag in. Also, Dimitri is in Alexios's section I believe.)

Sturmgeschutz said Leaving Bailey to bark his orders at his more impressive collection of soldiers, Myles turned to his own. "Sergeant Harris, take a section of men, and man the southern-most point of the line," he said with slurred but loud speech,."

Scott clutched his STEN tightly, looking up to Myles, the British officer somehow still not accepted in Scott's mind. This was a man he had heard a lot about. The fighting on Crete had begun recently, and had heard bad things about him. Scott was of course, afraid to die. Like every man was, he was fearful that his life would be extinguished, and a letter would be sent home to his mother and father, telling them of how brave a soldier he was. But his CO was somehow driving him fucking insane. He looked like the kind of man that would put others to die for him, and never fight himself. He didn't know if he'd entirely survive this ordeal. But if he did, he would make sure that that fucker was

The lorry had been a piece of shit all the way, but that wouldn't stop him. He had a few men under his command, including Private Maxwell, and four others of the section including himself, one Bren, one PIAT and two Lee-Enfield armed soldiers. It would do, and they needed to stop flankers, which was exactly Scott knew they oculd pull off.
"Lads, on me! There's a set of sandbags we can entrench behind, at the bottom end of the Bofors batteries- post up and shoot fucking any German you see!" He yelled at the top of his voice, knowing his four would understand perfectly well what that meant.

The New Zealander was almost accustomed to the Cretan heat, but it was kicking today bad, and even in his rolled up sleeves and Boonie hat, it was still killer when push came to shove and they were moving quickly to the end of the battery. Quickly running behind a sandbag, the sight of paratroopers ahead and above was a sight to see, albeit one that did put some fear into Scott's heart. These men had serious fucking nerve.
"Contacts, straight ahead! Lay down fire!" Scott yelled, aiming down the Sten's sights at a set of paras that were coming down, noticing that they didn't have their weapons. They'd been dropped separately, under differently colored parachutes, and this wave was now right in the open, unarmed. They didn't carry their weapons on their parachute harnesses- they were either attached separately on bags under their legs, where many paratroops would suffer broken ankles if not conducting the correct PLF, or the weapons come separately. Two came down almost immediately on landing, like a sack of potatoes dead with 9mm rounds, as .303 fire, automatic and bolt action fired, went down range towards the falling men, Scott's section opening up all weapons.

--

Being with the old man was not something that pleased Dimitri entirely, but he knew that he perhaps was a little better versed in war. Looking back, he shook his head, but looked to the Fez-wearing Greek, then looking to the gun.
"Can't be that hard, we need a healthy supply of 40mm shells and to man the cranks." Dimitri said, then looking up, the sight of planes and paratroops coming down, as he stepped into the small battery, looking at it.
"Fucking hell." He simply said, looking to Alexios, then back up at the sky, as he put his Bren down at the front.
"Borrow this if you need to, fire on anything that pisses us off sufficiently. Let's fire this thing up." He said, grabbing the cranks, quickly moving them into position, about 60 degrees the sky, towards the landing area's direction.
"Load shell...fire!" He yelled, aware that they had to fire off a lot of these, the flak attuned to go off at about 500m or so- a close by shower that would kick off any low flying transports.

London, Cabinet War Rooms

Clement shifted uneasily in his chair, as his gut continued to churn with anxiety, disbelief and despair.

"Poison, no question of it," Sir John Dill grunted. He was met by a few lolling murmurs from the rest of the war. His hasty appointment as caretaker Defence Minister was a natural choice, though in the context of the situation, no one had summoned the thinking space to really care either way. They were all shaken to the core by the unexpected demise of their energetic leader; Winston Churchill. "What kind of poison, we're not sure yet, but-"

"What does it matter?" Lord Halifax spat. "The man is dead. The nation's rock has fallen into the sea. We can't tell them. We have to hide this from public view, there's no question."

Arthur Greenwood coughed as he lit himself another cigarette. "Agreed. As far as the nation is concerned, Churchill survived an attempt on his life."

"The truth will get out," John said resignedly. "Better to tell them now, than for us to be known as shameless liars."

Clement sighed. "No, the news would smash the morale of the common people. Of the army. If Hitler can reach the highest level of government, then who is safe? The message it would send will be catastrophic. We must hide this, for as long as possible."

Arthur nodded approvingly, as did Lord Halifax.

"Then it is settled. In the meantime, we need to throw the spotlight off recent events. We need a victory," Clement said, his limbs feeling light with the unreality of it all. "We need to give the people something to cheer at. If we go on like this, Churchill's absence will be noted sooner rather than later."

John stood, and strolled over to the operations map. The members of the War Ministry eyed it with disdain, as they took note of Greece's recent recolouring. "The Germans want Crete, and they want it now. Our boys over at Bletchley inform me that their only real means of acquiring the island is by the air, and early reports of the battle are indicating that this is proving disastrous for them."

"Can we hold it?" Clement asked, grasping at the one straw left in the basket.

"Perhaps. We'll need to divert troops from North Africa to be sure, but we're already suffering man and material shortages there as it is. If we move men from the African continent, we might find ourselves falling from the frying pan and into the fire, as so to speak," John replied, stroking his chin in thought. "Our only real option is to ensure the island's airfields aren't lost, and that the men we already have there can hold them with what they have."

"Shell them," Lord Halifax interrupted. "Can't we shell them with the Navy?"

John shrugged. "If we destroy them, they'll be of little use to us. The island will be worthless, until we can repair them. The battle will lose all strategical significance."

"But it'll lessen the likelihood of a German victory, and that gentlemen, is what we need," Clement grunted, taking a stand. "Whether the Navy does it, or our lads on the ground do it themselves, we need those airfields taken out of the equation."

Murmurs of approval sounded from the other members of the War Ministry - except from John, who quietly shook his head.

"Then let's get to it," Lord Halifax said. "All in favour, raise your hands."

Sean Gardiner sat in the back of an Italian truck, looking severely out of place on the island of Crete with his pale, sweaty skin. It was not that he didn’t like Greece’s climate, it was that he was unused to it - it was severely different to the drizzly and often cold temperatures he had grown accustomed to back home in Ireland, and the heat had been bothering him ever since the day he had arrived. As if it wasn’t bad enough that it was extremely hot, Sean had had to move about in his British Army uniform the entire time - which was made of a thick fabric which certainly didn’t make it easy to breathe.

The truck bounced and jostled about with every bump in the road, large or small, and there had even been a few times when Sean had nearly been thrown off his seat (although he did not think the uncomfortable plank of wood he was sitting upon could be called that, by any stretch of the imagination). His hands readjusted their grip around the cold metal barrel of the weapon that rested between his legs for the fortieth time that hour; palms warm and sticky with sweat, born from a combination of the heat, the uncomfortable transportation, and the overwhelming sense of unease that he felt beginning to consume him as it spread upward from the bottom of his stomach.

Where is that God damned Englishman?

He was referring, of course, to the man whom he had had the misfortune of being reassigned to upon his transferral to the island of Crete.

On mainland Greece, Sean had been assigned to an element of the British Army’s 38th (Northern Irish) Light Infantry, which had been sent along with the British Forces to assist the Greeks in their losing fight with the Germans. On mainland Greece, Sean’s commanding officers had been competent and highly efficient (as most Northern Irish men who make a career of being in the military are), and even caring. Although casualties had been larger than expected on the mainland and the British had been forced to pull back, Sean had always felt relatively confident of his survival when serving under the officers of the 38th. Now, however, he felt entirely different.

Upon arriving on Crete, he had been hastily reassigned by a rather stressed looking officer to serve in the platoon of a “Second Lieutenant Hedger”, along with a pair of young lads who had also come from the 38th - George Penfold and Harry McKee, 18 and 20 respectively. Sean immediately stepped up to make the changeover as smooth as possible, as was his duty (being a Corporal).

He reassured the two young lads in as appropriate a fashion as was possible (his superior rank preventing him from lavishing them with his full sympathetic attention, as his fatherly instincts were pushing him to), and the trio had then made their way to report to their new commanding officer - and, upon meeting him, Sean’s feeling of unease had begun. Since then, it had only grown, gradually consuming him with every day he was exposed to his CO’s drunken (and perhaps deliberate) incompetence.

Now, barely three weeks from the day of Sean’s arrival on the small Greek island (which had somehow become so critical in the fight between the Greeks, British and the Germans), he found himself in the back of a shitty Italian truck, sitting in the middle of George and Harry. The two young lads had seen combat, but less so than Sean - and even he was no seasoned soldier by any stretch of the imagination, and he knew it.

Across and slightly down from him sat one of the platoon’s Sergeants, a man who came from New Zealand. Sean had only been introduced to the man once, but he had remembered his name - Scott. The name of one of his cousins. The Irishman offered the man a small smile when their eyes made a brief moment of contact, before turning his head away - blue gaze focusing on a section of the tarpaulin above a nameless Private’s helmet.

Suddenly - and after what had seemed like an eternity in the back of the truck - the hunks of Italian scrap metal screeched to a halt. The ANZAC Sergeant and his section quickly exited the vehicle, followed just as swiftly by Sean and the two young Irishmen he had taken under his wing: George with his short ginger hair, youthful features and green eyes, and muscular Harry who had brown hair like Sean’s wife but broad shoulders like his father’s.

The two Privates stood in a braced position near the truck, awaiting orders - Corporal Gardiner taking a handful of steps toward his commanding officer, waiting just within earshot as the orders were given. His gaze followed Sergeant Harris and his section as they rushed to their position, eyes then flicking to the Greek as he and his men moved off to man their own position.

”Whoever is left, you’re with me in the centre.”

Those fateful words caused a feeling of hopelessness to rise over Sean that threatened to consume him, and for a moment he simply stood still, struggling with his internal feelings of despair. Come on, Sean! He may be an idiot, but he’s an Officer. You signed up for this. For King and Country! Think of your wife, of James and Susan.

Shifting the Bren that was resting on his shoulder, and with a hardened furrow to his brow, Sean finally managed to push himself to action after what seemed like an age (but had only been a handful of seconds). He approached his commanding officer (who himself seemed to be doing very little), an all-business look about him. He offered a hasty salute before launching into his speech, words distinctly marked by his County Down accent. “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?”

As he waited for a response, it was as if his ears had suddenly been switched on - the sounds of the German planes flying overhead filling his skull, alongside the chatter of machinegun fire and the dull sound of anti aircraft weapons being fired at the luftwaffe above.

Sean Gardiner was suddenly aware that he was on a battlefield, in the middle of a war - and that his CO’s breath reeked of alcohol.

It was going to be a very long day.

Over Crete

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.

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.

(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.

South-southwest of current landing zones, Rethmnon-Heraklion corridor

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.

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.

“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?”, 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 his 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."

*This is hell* Will thought as he bolted his enfield and checked his clip 6 bullets left he noted. Already there was a small pile of casings on the ground to his left and he rolled one between his fore-finger and thumb as he puffed a cigarette. He had shaken uncontrollably when the shooting began but after a few minutes of cowering in the dirt lifted his rifle and began to fire back hitting one grey clad soldier just as he hit the ground, it was exhilarating. The combat did not last long and he soon heard the voice of his NCO telling them to dig in. He replied with an "Aye sir" in his thick Scott accent.

(I know short post but I'll post again later just figured id get atleast something up now)

kingkonrad said
Being with the old man was not something that pleased Dimitri entirely, but he knew that he perhaps was a little better versed in war. Looking back, he shook his head, but looked to the Fez-wearing Greek, then looking to the gun."Can't be that hard, we need a healthy supply of 40mm shells and to man the cranks." Dimitri said, then looking up, the sight of planes and paratroops coming down, as he stepped into the small battery, looking at it."Fucking hell." He simply said, looking to Alexios, then back up at the sky, as he put his Bren down at the front."Borrow this if you need to, fire on anything that pisses us off sufficiently. Let's fire this thing up." He said, grabbing the cranks, quickly moving them into position, about 60 degrees the sky, towards the landing area's direction."Load shell...fire!" He yelled, aware that they had to fire off a lot of these, the flak attuned to go off at about 500m or so- a close by shower that would kick off any low flying transports.

Alexios nodded, and gave Dimitri a few pats on the shoulder. "Excellent, I'll get you the shells you need, as long as you send the Germans to Hell.". The young Greek soldier quickly proceeded to man the Anti-Air Gun, but they no time to simply watch, as the German paratroopers could be seen falling from the sky. Alexios had never in his whole life seen anything like it, the wars he'd fought was the wars of the old guard, the kind of war the Germans and Italians refused to play these days. As Dimitri opened fire with the AA-weaponry, Alexios slung
the British machine gun he'd been handed, and started moved down the line.
"Stand your ground, my fellow soldiers! Do not let the Germans take one inch of our ancient motherland, stop them at all costs! For centuries, Greece was under the iron rule of heathens and conquerors. This will not happen again, not while we fight for our liberty, no more!" He shouted out in Greek, the response varying. Some of the Greeks shared his sense of patriotism, while others quietly stared at the front for paratroopers. "You and you, come with me, we need to find shells for that gun, ella ella!"

One of the Bredas they had driven luckily had a few crates of the 40mm shells Dimitri requested, but even for a hardened man like Alexios, it wasn't painless to carry it back to the frontline. And the sight of endlessly falling paratroopers did little to boost moral. The sudden sight of movement on Alexios' left flank however was something different. They had just gotten the crates to their AA-gun when the section under control of a British sergeant, Harris he thought was his name, had climbed over their own defences and advanced towards the enemy. It reminded him of the battles of the Balkan Wars, men charging across open fields to face the enemy face to face. And he was darn close to ordering a counter attack himself, hadn't it been for the angry British officer legging it down his line.
-"Who is the bloody commanding officer here?" The angry Britishman shouted out, and Alexios stepped up to him.

"I am, Sergeant Stathos. We follow and join counter attack, Sir?" Alexios asked, though he realized what the answer would be just as the words left his mouth.

-"God damnit, no! Hold the line, that's your orders! Where is Hedger?!" Lieutenant Bailey kept on shouting, before he kept running down the line to where the other British troops were. To Alexios it would have been logical to follow up on the counter attack, drive the Germans out of their positions and scatter them. Then again, he had his orders, and shouted out to the Greeks to hold their positions. In the sky, he still saw more paratroopers descend from the planes, and put down the LMG Dimitri gave him earlier. He took his old rifle, an Austro-Hungarian Mannlicher-Schönauer with the same scope he used first 20 years ago, still as good as it used to be. Taking aim, he fired a shot at a descending paratrooper, the 6.5×54 piercing his body just underneath the chest.

"Be careful for friendly fire. Our British friends might return in our direction."

Sean was appalled by the behaviour of his commanding officer, but he didn’t let it show. After all, this was the British Army - there was a chain of command that had to be respected, else the entire thing would fall apart - even if the man above you and giving you your orders was a drunken, cowardly idiot. He allowed himself a small smile at the sight of Lieutenant Bailey berating the drunk who called himself an “officer of the Crown” - a sense of relief washing over him at the thought that at least this more intelligent-seeming man was also around; if Myles cocked up, there would be another officer around to clean up the mess he’d made.

The Northern Irish Corporal was slightly taken aback at his CO’s rant - not only was it prejudiced and downright racist, it was extremely hypocritical. Not only were Sean and the men of the 38th far more disciplined and better trained than the average English soldier, they were likely even more patriotic - they were fighting to prove that they were a valuable addition to Britain (and the Commonwealth), and not at all like the Irishmen in the South who had fought a Guerilla war for meaningless independence and the ability to opt out of fighting against Nazism and dictatorship in the War.

Sean Gardiner and his fellow Irishmen were brave, loyal and disciplined soldiers of the Crown; and had this blithering, drunken idiot not been his Commanding Officer, Corporal Gardiner would have put him in his place.

Suppressing his anger, the Corporal gave Lieutenant Myles a small smile, nodding his head. “Bravest men you’ll find, sir,” He replied, again shifting the Bren that sat upon his shoulder - tilting his head ever-so-slightly skyward to peer at the masses of descending German paratroopers. I suppose they are a bit like pigeons - even if they’ve got less of a chance of flying away. “Aye, sir - we’ll get right on it.”

Sean moved forward to take up Lieutenant Myles’ abandoned position as he moved off to check on another of the platoon’s sections; the thought that he was now the highest-ranking soldier around making him feel slightly reassured for his safety and the safety of those around him. Even though he did not want to be in charge, he knew he’d do a better job than Myles.

The Irishman lowered himself down onto his stomach, setting up his Bren upon the sandbags in the way that he had been taught - resting the end of the gun against his shoulder in order to minimise recoil. Private McKeon quickly moved forward to take up a position by the Corporal’s side, removing a mesh bag full of ammo clips from his belt and laying it on the ground between the two of them.

Meanwhile, Private Penfold moved forward as well, taking up a position on Sean’s other side - beginning to take pot shots at the descending Germans as they helplessly fell toward the ground: the distinctive crack of bullets being discharged from his bolt-action Lee-Enfield filling the Corporal’s ears; a German paratrooper slumping lifelessly with almost every shot. Penfold was no marksman, but he was good for his age.

Sean looked after his Bren well; as any sensible soldier would. After all, the ability to fire bullets at the enemy before they can fire them at you means the difference between life and death on the battlefield. It was extremely well cleaned and oiled, and the trigger hardly required him to put any pressure upon it in order to fire.

Breathing in deeply, Sean took aim at a cluster of paratroopers; squeezing down on the trigger. A burst of rapid gunfire followed, the recoil of which went directly into his shoulder - absorbed by the mass of his prone body. Even though they were high above him, Sean could see a distinctive splatter of blood as his bullets tore through a paratrooper, whose body crumpled - continuing its descent toward the ground, lifelessly. Two out of the other three who were with him met a similar fate, and the third only lived a few moments more before Sean picked him off as well.

He continued shooting until he had emptied his clip, every cluster of bullets that left the Bren finding its mark in a German’s body. While Private McKeon slid a fresh ammo clip into place for him (which only took a few seconds), Sean turned his head in either direction, checking on the progress of the other sections. The New Zealander and his men had moved forward from their position, and had a group of jerries pinned down almost directly in front of Sean’s own position. Although Sergeant Harris could probably handle the paratroopers, Corporal Gardiner decided to give them a hand - aiming his weapon toward the cluster of crouching and low-lying Germans, beginning to fire into their midst.

It was like sitting shooting ducks; the majority of Sean’s bullets finding their marks, those that did not serving to suppress the paratroopers even more so than they had already been, so they could hardly moved. It was almost inhumane, killing the Germans in this way - but Sean quickly reminded himself that they would have done the same to him; suppressing any feelings of remorse he might have felt for the lives he was snuffing out.

Those which Sean had not killed would be pinned down for the next few moments, allowing the ANZAC’s Sergeant’s section to move in and finish them off; giving the British a small victory in the battle that was likely to rage on for days, judging from the sheer amount of Germans that were continuing to leap out of planes and into the sky.

“Fuckin’ jerries,” He muttered, once again taking aim at the skies; settling back and peering down the sights of his weapon. “You won’ be takin’ this island, that’s for sure. Not while we’re breathin’ - eh, boys?”

Myles happened upon his Greek sergeant, "I dare say you're quite the shot with that stone age weapon of yours."

Bailey's men hadn't moved from their positions, and Myles had noted this. Though he was not a particularly courageous man, to say the least, even he saw the illogic of allowing the Germans to flee and regroup. Then he had an idea.

"Sergeant Sta- ... Stathos is it?" Myles asked the Greek sergeant with a questioning glance, "well, whatever your name is, how would you like to become a hero of your entire country? It seems to me that old Bailey over there very much wants to avoid going after Fritz, where as I, a much more aggressive man of command, feel we should rout them entirely before they can come back at us."

Myles walked a few paces, hands behind his back, cane tucked under his armpit. "It seems as though that Australian buggar has already taken the initiative, it would be terribly wrong if the Greek of all people sat back and let his country get saved by others, wouldn't it? Lead your section on the attack, and link up with the Australian. Was he Australian? I can't remember. In any case, I want the two of you and your men to chase Jerry as far as you can. I'll hold back here with my section, to try and keep Bailey a happy boy."

Chirping crickets chirped within the brush in the afternoon heat. The sounds of combat continued in the distance, ebbing and rising in furocity as the German assault continued. The low booming thud of bombs rolled through the distance. To the north a low black haze drifted through the skies. Drawn through the clear blue by the efforts of the Luftwaffe against the allied defenses. Under their radar, the countryside was quiet and even nature seemed to ignore the conditions in the distance. All the same there was a low uncertainty about it. A tense uneasiness that hung through the air and bound all things living to a dreary sort of anxiety.

The grass crunched underneath William as he crawled up the hill, keeping low as he scanned the distant hills. His breathing was low and repressed. As if he was afraid behind each crest or bush there hid some British rifleman. He was unarmed, there was little he could do in such an event.

He crawled to the peak of the hill and sat up. Leering across the landscape before him.

Rising and dipping gingerly was the continuing landscape of wrapping and branching hills. A mat of trees dressing the sides as they continued their march. But there was something promising to the officer. Across the landscape, running along the crows on the hills and dipping into the valleys below twisting and dusty roads wound and wrapped their way across the landscape. Signs of civilizations that wound about seeking the numerous olive groves and vineyards that dotted the terrain below. Nothing he could use until he found a name. But he doubted many of these roads would have as much as that.

He lapped his dry lips, panting in the high heat of the afternoon. Rivers of sweat had begun beading at his brow line. Sure enough, this was Greece.

He looked across to the distant crowns. Glimmering stop the next hill he saw – to his pleasure – what looked like a structure of some sort. Between the trees the faint suggesting of white mortar and human orderliness stood behind the cover of nature. One looked like walls. And above them a tower. Perhaps a bell tower. Could it be a church? If it were, it'd be on his map.

He smiled, panting. He laughed dryly to his fortune and went forward.

Dimitri looked up, to Myles, and then to Alexios.
"I'll have my Bren back, if that's okay with you Sergeant." He simply said, nodding his head to the weapon, as he looked to the weapon, which had kept fairly fixed, not being skilled at using it but being able to at least load 40mm clips and fire them at a rough angle at the sky, which had irritated the enemy. If they were moving, Dimitri was with Alexios, and he wanted to at least have his weapon back- even though it was in a better nick than Alexios's dated Steyr-Mannlicher. Once he got his gun back, he moved up, heading to a Pine, as he then got down by it's side, and flipped down the bipod on the Sten, a heavy mechanism that went and plonked itself onto the floor. Picking it up, and chambering a new magazine, Dimitri aimed and fired down range, aiming for supression rather than accurate fire, aware that this was a SAW- not a LMG. It was a Squad Automatic Weapon- a weapon that fired rapidly and quickly down range. A pair of Paratroops were in his sights- and before they got to fire back with their Lugers, before making a dash, they were sliced apart, Dimitri aware that he could only keep up a particular level of firepower. They were doing very well for the moment- but this was a disorganized and off-guard team of Fallschirmjager. Together, that was when they were lethal. The fire from the Bren stopped with the end of the magazine, with which Dimitri pulled the weapon in and brought up, pulling the magazine out. A new one found it's way in, with bullets riddling his posiition, just somehow hoping that they didn't find target on his new cover, and that the rest of the section would open up.

---

Scott looked over, to his team in particular, nestled in the hedgerow and any other cover that could be scraped from it.
"Fuck, Myles better follow suit. If he sticks back with his section, then he ain't going. We're in the thrust of it now, it's his turn. Or those Greeks." He said, as he looked over to his section, watching the area ahead for any more paras, aware that he had semi-spoken to himself. He had a habit of doing this- but he knew that it wasn't anything big, if someone was at least listening. A couple moved up as the noise of MG34 made Scott duck, as bullets whistled at the tree overhead, the Sten's aim quick in his hands as he sprayed into the area, before breathing, and exhaling again, getting his nerve. Gunner was right of them, 100m. Easy shot, right in the shrubs. The Sten rattled, and the man took some steel to the head, dead in his prone position.
"Bugger, if the platoon's got a M1919, we could do with it here." He simply said, watching the area ahead as he knew that now, they were taking their fair share of fire, and all was well again. They had the initiative...but he felt something was up with Myles. He should have come with Scott, led from the front. Sure, he let Scott do what he knew best...but still, a CO didn't drink, nor did he sit back. He was as fighty as his men. If not more. Worryingly, Scott knew that Myles, while drunk, wasn't exactly the most competent. Perhaps it was a good idea that Scott had things under a vague command. And besides, Bailey wasn't his CO, the man he reported to. He wouldn't get bollocked by him. He kept a good conduct as an NCO, and even if Myles were to pass down a bollocking from Bailey, his equivalent, he'd still be fairly in the clear.

Alexios had taken a couple more shots at the descending so called "Green Devils", when his superior officer Hedger showed, complimenting him and his rifle. "Thank you, Sir. My rifle is very good, follow me since 1912. Austrian weapon, but still serve Greece proudly." Was his first response to the officer, though the Englishman wasn't there to compliment him. The fact that he said Alexios could be a hero of Greece, and it was only appropriate that the Greeks went on the offensive rather than the British forces, would have alone been to convince the Greek veteran to get a move on. "Yes Sir! We will take fight to the Germans, chase them into their little hole."

Dimitri had gone up to him and requested his Bren back, which Alexios gladly accepted, handing the young Greek his weapon, before turning to the rest of his section. "You heard the Britishman, we shall take the fight to the Germans! For far too long, the fascists have pushed us back, taking our land and raping all we hold dear. I say, no more! Let us join our British comrades, and show the Germans what it's like to be pushed. And this time, we will push them to the sea! Men, take your weapons, and follow me!"

And like that, two-thirds of Hedger's flank were on the counter-offensive. Alexios ran just in front of his section, as they climbed over their defences and headed in the same direction of the British, or Australian counter-attack according to Hedger. But just ahead, they already met resistance; His young Greek trooper, Dimitri, found the enemy before they could find him, but in a matter of second, was under fire himself. Alexios dropped on his stomach a few meters next to Dimitri, alongside several other Greek troops, firing back at the German paratroopers with their rifles as they only weapons, or so Alexios himself thought. The rifles did well to give Dimitri the cover he needed, precise and constantly buzzing the Germans ears. "Keep firing, suppress them!" They kept on firing as the rest of his Greek section followed shortly after, adding more men into the fray. Alexios pulled up and back the bolt of his Steyr-Mannlicher, ejecting the round before pushing another round into the chamber. The Germans were few and scattered, but through his scope, he still saw Germans marked for his bullets.

The German paratroopers with only their Lugers and occasional MP40's and Kar98k's posed a stiff, but short resistance, who managed to get one of his men. The sound of small-arms fire was cut short though as the familiar sound of a fully fledged machine gun opened fire. Alexios pushed his face to the ground as he first thought it was German, but the sound came just left of him, from one of his own soldiers. "Pavlos, I didn't order that machine gun to follow, it's too heavy!" Alexios shouted at the soldier, who gave him a brief look of confusion before resuming fire at the Germans. -"But you said to take all our weapons, you didn't specify which ones." The soldiers replied, and though Alexios sighed over the fact that it had been carried all the way, the firepower of the machine gun proved to be of good help, so he didn't say anything else about it.

"Dimitri, keep the pressure on the Germans. I will go find the Australian in charge of the counter-attack." Alexios shouted to him, ejecting the last round from his rifle and pressing down a handful of rounds into the chamber, before taking off. On their left, he could hear more gunfire, and as he run closer between the bushes and olives trees, heard an English voice. "Are you Australian officer in charge of this? Sergeant Stathon, I lead the Greeks on your right. What is situation, we push further?"