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?”