Sean had continued to fire into the lines of descending Fallschirmjager - having emptied at least another four clips of ammunition into the helpless Germans before he decided to take a break. He wiggled his way back from the sandbags, handing his bren off to Private McKeon in return for Private Penfold’s rifle - the latter taking up the former’s position, a clip of bren ammunition already held in his hands in readiness. “You lads hold down the fort here, now - I’ll be back in a moment, jus’ goin’ t’have a look at how the other sections are doin’.”

The Irish Corporal rose from his prone position into a low crouch, moving carefully along the lines of sandbags that marked the end of the official British defences. As Sean cautiously made his way down the defences in the direction of where Sergeant Harris’ men were supposed to have been, he made a mental note of how many men were left in his section, clasping their shoulders as he moved past them, murmuring quiet words of encouragement. There were one or two men out of action, but they were not critically wounded, and being treated by medics (both British and Greek).    

The roar of bofor fire still filled his ears, along with the chatter of machine gun fire and the occasional screaming sound as planes rushed overhead - some of them British, but mostly German. Once he thought he had travelled far enough in the direction of the Southernmost AA Gun, (now in a position between his own, central section and the unmanned Southern defences), Sean set himself up against a pile of sandbags, ensuring that he kept his head low as he surveyed the violent, grizzly scene before him. 

There were dozens of dead (or dying) Fallschirmjager littering the Cretan soil before the British defensive lines, the majority of whom had been hit before they had even reached the ground. German weapons caches were also dotted about the battlefield, thus far abandoned because the men that had been responsible for them had been shot before they had had a chance to arm themselves. [i]Some of the Greeks could do with those - MP40s would be better than fuckin’ muskets, even if they were made by jerry.[/i]

Harris’ section had moved into cover in a cluster of Greek vegetation, and seemed to be receiving some fire from a group of Germans who had managed to attain for themselves an MG42. As he was surveying the position of the ANZAC’s section, movement from the North caught his eye - it was the Greek’s section, and [i]they were charging from behind the defences, too[/i]. It was a risky move, now that the Germans were beginning to regroup, and Sean felt a wave of relief wash over him when they weren’t all torn to shreds. Still, a few of them were pinned down by German fire, and their defences had been left unmanned - if the Fallschirmjager managed to push forward and claim the bofors, it definitely wouldn’t be good news for the RAF stationed on Crete. 

A plan formed in his mind, Corporal Gardiner began to make his way back to the central defences; and that was when he saw them. A platoon of roughly forty Fallschirmjager were moving toward the British lines in smaller squads, dashing between areas of cover. They were moving boldly, and covering ground quickly - assisted by the suppressive fire of an MG42 somewhere in the brush behind them. 

Sean knew that the Fallschirmjager were formidable fighters, and that his ragtag platoon had only been able to hold them back thus far because they had been disoriented and unable to properly defend themselves, separated from their weapons as they had been. [i]These[/i] men, however, were in a large group (when paratroopers worked best), and armed with a mixture of the best weapons available to the Nazi war machine. If they were allowed to continue forward unmolested, they would tear the sections out in the open to shreds, and be capable of securing the drop zone; which meant nothing but bad news for the Brits. 

Moving quickly, he made his way back to the central defenses - catching the attention of the section because of his urgent movements. “There’s a fuckin’ platoon of ‘em, movin’ forward - we need t’do somethin’ to stop ‘em, or the other sections are done for.” He met the gaze of a fellow British Corporal, speaking directly to him now. “Get some of the Greeks to grab the weapons caches closest to the sandbags; we’re gonna need some extra firepower. Get some fire down on Jerry when you see ‘im; make sure the bastard has to fight for every inch of ground he gains. I’m goin’ to find the Lieutenant.” 

The Corporal hurried off again, rushing to the Northernmost bofor, where he knew he’d find Lieutenant Hedger. Time was of the essence; every second that bullets were not being put into the torrent of Fallschirmjager falling from the skies, the lower the likelihood of a British victory in Crete became. The defences here, like in the South, were all but abandoned - which would likely serve to infuriate the CO of the other platoon, whom Sean had seen berating Myles before he had gone back to commanding his own men. He inwardly hoped that he was more competent than Hedger; the British would need intelligent officers in order to prevail. 

“Lieutenant, sir!” Sean near yelled the words as soon as he was within earshot, quickly moving down into the cover of the more thickly piled sandbags round the AA Gun. “There’s a big group of Germans movin’ up - they must’ve landed in the forest, and grouped up there. About a platoon worth of ‘em, I’d say - and movin’ fast. What’s to be done about t’other sections? If they’re left out there, jerry’ll tear him t’shreds as soon as they’re seen.” He paused, eyeing the drunken man with barely concealed distaste. “We’ve gotta act fast, sir - what’s your orders?”