It was a grisly scene. Three dead Nazis, two dead Poles. One cabin with a bunch of bullet holes, and three surprised partisans (five, if one counted the dead Poles). Thomas sighed. He and his companions, Édouard and Bernard, were supposed to meet two members of the Polish Partisan Resistance. Apparently, they had information relating to a very disturbing discovery that the French Partisans had made recently. Thomas didn't know too much about it. Felix, the leader of his cell, had been rather tight-lipped about the whole affair. He'd heard from some of the others that it had something to do with Nazi Research. Thomas had heard the horror stories, monstrosities stalking the battlefields at night, undead soldiers who felt no pain. He didn't think it was true. Or, at least, he [i]hoped[/i] it wasn't true. 

"Damn." Édouard said, finally. "It's a good thing we arrived late. We could've ended up like these poor bastards." He spoke in accented English, for Thomas's benefit. The Irishman could speak French, but not fluently. Much to his embarrassment, most of the cell could speak fluent English. 

"I don't think they would agree with you." Thomas slung his rifle's strap over his shoulder. It was bolt-action, and of German make. He'd lifted it off of a dead Wehrmacht, not too long ago.

"How many Nazis do you think there were?" Bernard spoke in French. Thomas took a second to translate.

"At least three." He said, slowly, in heavily-accented French. Bernard chuckled, and Edouard cracked a smile. 

They searched through the pockets of the dead Poles, and of the dead Nazis, to no avail. Whatever intel the dead Partisans had either died with them, or had been recovered by the Nazis. They looked around for anything useful. The Nazis had been smart enough to take the weapons of their dead with them, when they left. They'd left behind the sidearms of the dead Partisans. Bernard and Edouard pocket the guns, and they left, feeling defeated. 

[hr] 

The hideout of Felix's Partisan Cell was near Bordeaux, and was little more than a glorified campsite. If nothing else, it was comfortable. The French Partisan resistance was low on manpower, weapons, ammo, and information, but they had plenty of tents and blankets. Concealed by trees and hills, the hideout was as safe as they were going to get. The concealment was aided by size. There were only twelve Partisans in Felix's cell. Seven Frenchmen, one Frenchwoman, two Poles, one Russian woman, and Thomas, an Irishman. 

Thomas woke up to the familiar sound of Edouard shaking his shoulder. 

"Come on, you filthy Irish bastard! Wake up!" The harsh words delivered with humor. Edouard was his best friend. Perhaps it was the fact that they'd fought and bled together, but he felt closer to him than he did to any of his friends back home. Thomas sat up and followed him out of the tent. 

The hideout was against the rather sheer face of a hill, that served as a good wall. The tents formed a sort of semi-circle off of it. In the middle of that semi-circle were crates of ammo, a fire pit, and a rickety wooden table with a map of the region on it. Most of the cell was already gathered around the table. Chief among those gathered was Felix Chastain, an imposing Frenchman with a sharp, severe face and a wicked scar across the bridge of his nose. Thomas and Edouard weren't the last to arrive at the table, but they were close. When the cell had gathered, Felix started speaking. 

"We suffered a failure last night." He began. "The Polish Partisans were dead before Thomas and the others got there, because they were late." It was hardly Thomas's fault that they were late, but Felix glared at him anyway. "Their information is lost, and now we have to hope that the Americans still want to help us." He sighed. "We're meeting them soon, about three miles east of Bordeaux." He spoke in French, likely to spite Thomas. "There'll be a squad, and they're following our lead. We were going to attack a research facility North of here, but now we don't know where that's at. As such, we'll have to either search for it, or figure out a way to acquire its location." He paused. "I'll go to meet the Americans. Bernard, Edouard, Thomas, Anna, and Gerard will come with me." He looked around. "The rest of you will stay here." He paused. "Are we clear."

"Yes sir!" They chorused.

[hr]

Thomas stared at his reflection in the river near the camp. A head of messy, brown hair. Pale green eyes so wide that he looked perpetually surprised. A stubble that threatened to grow into an unfortunately patchy beard if he didn't shave soon. A nose, just a bit crooked from being broke one-too-many times. He splashed some water on his face, as he did every morning after the briefing. In part to wash the dirt off, partly to wake him up, and partly out of habit. He stood, and for a moment, he looked at his full reflection. Tall, thin. He sighed, grabbing his rifle from the dirt and slinging it over his shoulder. Edouard was calling for him. 

There was work to be done.