Enalais said
Name:The Forsaken
I'm not going to lie: you seem to so often shift thoughts so often in mid-sentence I can't help but feel brain jacked and confused. Could you clean it up?
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I'm not going to lie: you seem to so often shift thoughts so often in mid-sentence I can't help but feel brain jacked and confused. Could you clean it up?
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.
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.
kingkonrad said
This somehow reminds me of Arma 3....Survive, Adapt, Win echoes in my mind...
Survive, adapt, physsssssuuuuuxxxxx.
Lower Queens Schul, Zealot New York
The low murmur of passing air was the only sound that swept through the blackened husk of the once bustling synagogue. Still the imprint of forgotten papers littered the ground. Black stains and moldy blackened books littered the floor between pews and tables where from the broken and cracked floor grew glowing green mushrooms. The air was musty and damp, smelling of eternal rot but throbbing with a certain energy. In places the ground seemed almost melted and twisted from a strong heat. But the integrity of the structure had remained firm despite the wear.
Above, the ceiling groaned from centuries of weight. Much of the old drop ceiling had fallen out and cleared away by the synagogues minority residents keeping the floor clean and the memory of a once thriving old-world community cleared for any eyes who wished to see it. Illuminated by the dim lighting of the interior the raised bimah stood dusty, where stood the tall stoic form of the ghoul who kept it. Black robes fell heavy from his shoulders. He didn't have much else to wear. A thin beard fell across his chest and a cap covered his balding and peeling head.
There was a soft mournful way he spoke as he read the faded Hebrew of the Torah scroll between his bony hands. His hands shook weakly as he read allowed to the grim and silent congregation of pre-war Jews, facing him and the city of Jerusalem, somewhere beyond the Atlantic. Its survival in this new wretched world unknown.
In the light and given the decaying condition of the scrolls it was hard to believe if the figure at the bimah was actually reading it. But word for word he recited its passages as he had over the two centuries. Hoping that it brought comfort to the survivors and reminders to who they were. The Torah and the Talmud were God's rock, and it anchored them all. Like Moses in the exodus the old laws were their water to life and clarity.
They were Jews, and for all their torture as a race over the centuries they wouldn't falter. God's people didn't simply give up. And in the gaping maw of disaster's coming bravery was in memory. Their collective history as a race and people. As a faith.
The recital came to an end and the small community of surviving ghouls broke into a low song. Raspy and coarse, they rose from their pews. Looking to their ancient and distant homeland as the long robed priest closed the scrolls and turned to the Torah Ark, a small simple feature, a faded rose-red banner with the ten commandments sewn in gold in the crimson fabric draped over top. Along side an oil lantern burned, illuminating the decrepit shrine in a lonely orange glow.
In the old Hebrew tongue they presented their solemn song as the ark was opened and the ancient frayed scrolls were deposited. The lonely priest looked down at them with frowning eyes and sighed, closing the lid and sealing the ancient scrolls away.
He took a low bow, joining the song in a low and operatic voice, vibrating with a staccato rhythm and he joined the prayer. Things had changed. But they still remembered. That was all that was needed to keep them there. To stay anchored to the rock.
As the service closed and the temple went silent the communion – the Minyan – broke from their place of prayer, drifting into a side room in the structure with their heads bowed.
Leaving the tired and dark sanctuary of their worship they moved on into a much more austere and civil chamber. Though graying and peeling back couches and arm chairs filled the room's center, circling about a lonely central table. Wooden chairs, likely pulled from the ruins of restaurants sat in the corners alongside mismatching end tables. A dull light from flickering florescent shone from over head, basking the tired mummified faces of the old Jews as they crossed into the sitting room.
“Whenever I come in here and look up, I hope to see Albert in the corner. Reading the papers from just before the world ended!” exclaimed a scrawny ghoul. He turned to smile at his companions as he came in, “He'd shout whenever I come in, 'Oy Moses, gas is up a hundred dollars again. How am I to drive to synagogue, Moshe?
“And I'd say to him: 'Albert, what does it matter. It is all over anyways and we all live here now!' to which he'd say, 'I know! But I still feel I should drive across town to go to that cheap butcher in Jersey!'”
“May his soul rest in peace.” replied another solemnly.
“Maybe he finally found it.” Moshe shrugged, “Or maybe he hopes peace will come at a discount around Hanukkah. I don't know.”
“Well perhaps you will give us the gas prices then.” the black-dressed ghoul said, passing alongside the smaller Moshe as he took a seat on the ancient couches.
“You know I would love to, but Wall Street is still on vacation, Leonard.” sighed Moshe.
“Nonsense, they've always said we ran Wall Street. So what would you say the price of gas would be these days?” one of the ghoulish congregation said, walking the parameter.
“Oh, I would not mind to see the days of five-dollars for a gallon!” Moshe cheered, sitting down opposite of the Kohanamen, “That would be a steal. Especially for anyone with a corvega! And maybe now we will start seeing the Taxis come back. New York isn't the same without them.”
“Taxis.” scoffed the previous ghoul. His charred skin more red from the rest. His wide barreled hat more ratty than his skin was, “I remember how well most of them would drive.
“I swear, if Dogballs had an army of cab drivers we would have the entire Wasteland conquered by now. How's that for a thought? America: conquered by negroes at the command of the Jews. The dead would be spinning in the ashes crying conspiracy!”
“Then let it be done, Rothman! Let's find us some cab drivers!” he laughed.
“Good luck with that, I hear their booked well until 2800.”
“Oh I've lived two-hundred years longer than I should. What's another six-hundred!” Moshe smiled, “Can't say the same for out 'Solomon', but what does it matter.
“By cab conversion though, how fun would that be? I remember when some hick new to the city found out and tried to tell me about Jesus.”
“Oh, how did you respond?”
“I just stayed quiet. I didn't have anything witty at the time.”
The low murmur of passing air was the only sound that swept through the blackened husk of the once bustling synagogue. Still the imprint of forgotten papers littered the ground. Black stains and moldy blackened books littered the floor between pews and tables where from the broken and cracked floor grew glowing green mushrooms. The air was musty and damp, smelling of eternal rot but throbbing with a certain energy. In places the ground seemed almost melted and twisted from a strong heat. But the integrity of the structure had remained firm despite the wear.
Above, the ceiling groaned from centuries of weight. Much of the old drop ceiling had fallen out and cleared away by the synagogues minority residents keeping the floor clean and the memory of a once thriving old-world community cleared for any eyes who wished to see it. Illuminated by the dim lighting of the interior the raised bimah stood dusty, where stood the tall stoic form of the ghoul who kept it. Black robes fell heavy from his shoulders. He didn't have much else to wear. A thin beard fell across his chest and a cap covered his balding and peeling head.
There was a soft mournful way he spoke as he read the faded Hebrew of the Torah scroll between his bony hands. His hands shook weakly as he read allowed to the grim and silent congregation of pre-war Jews, facing him and the city of Jerusalem, somewhere beyond the Atlantic. Its survival in this new wretched world unknown.
In the light and given the decaying condition of the scrolls it was hard to believe if the figure at the bimah was actually reading it. But word for word he recited its passages as he had over the two centuries. Hoping that it brought comfort to the survivors and reminders to who they were. The Torah and the Talmud were God's rock, and it anchored them all. Like Moses in the exodus the old laws were their water to life and clarity.
They were Jews, and for all their torture as a race over the centuries they wouldn't falter. God's people didn't simply give up. And in the gaping maw of disaster's coming bravery was in memory. Their collective history as a race and people. As a faith.
The recital came to an end and the small community of surviving ghouls broke into a low song. Raspy and coarse, they rose from their pews. Looking to their ancient and distant homeland as the long robed priest closed the scrolls and turned to the Torah Ark, a small simple feature, a faded rose-red banner with the ten commandments sewn in gold in the crimson fabric draped over top. Along side an oil lantern burned, illuminating the decrepit shrine in a lonely orange glow.
In the old Hebrew tongue they presented their solemn song as the ark was opened and the ancient frayed scrolls were deposited. The lonely priest looked down at them with frowning eyes and sighed, closing the lid and sealing the ancient scrolls away.
He took a low bow, joining the song in a low and operatic voice, vibrating with a staccato rhythm and he joined the prayer. Things had changed. But they still remembered. That was all that was needed to keep them there. To stay anchored to the rock.
As the service closed and the temple went silent the communion – the Minyan – broke from their place of prayer, drifting into a side room in the structure with their heads bowed.
Leaving the tired and dark sanctuary of their worship they moved on into a much more austere and civil chamber. Though graying and peeling back couches and arm chairs filled the room's center, circling about a lonely central table. Wooden chairs, likely pulled from the ruins of restaurants sat in the corners alongside mismatching end tables. A dull light from flickering florescent shone from over head, basking the tired mummified faces of the old Jews as they crossed into the sitting room.
“Whenever I come in here and look up, I hope to see Albert in the corner. Reading the papers from just before the world ended!” exclaimed a scrawny ghoul. He turned to smile at his companions as he came in, “He'd shout whenever I come in, 'Oy Moses, gas is up a hundred dollars again. How am I to drive to synagogue, Moshe?
“And I'd say to him: 'Albert, what does it matter. It is all over anyways and we all live here now!' to which he'd say, 'I know! But I still feel I should drive across town to go to that cheap butcher in Jersey!'”
“May his soul rest in peace.” replied another solemnly.
“Maybe he finally found it.” Moshe shrugged, “Or maybe he hopes peace will come at a discount around Hanukkah. I don't know.”
“Well perhaps you will give us the gas prices then.” the black-dressed ghoul said, passing alongside the smaller Moshe as he took a seat on the ancient couches.
“You know I would love to, but Wall Street is still on vacation, Leonard.” sighed Moshe.
“Nonsense, they've always said we ran Wall Street. So what would you say the price of gas would be these days?” one of the ghoulish congregation said, walking the parameter.
“Oh, I would not mind to see the days of five-dollars for a gallon!” Moshe cheered, sitting down opposite of the Kohanamen, “That would be a steal. Especially for anyone with a corvega! And maybe now we will start seeing the Taxis come back. New York isn't the same without them.”
“Taxis.” scoffed the previous ghoul. His charred skin more red from the rest. His wide barreled hat more ratty than his skin was, “I remember how well most of them would drive.
“I swear, if Dogballs had an army of cab drivers we would have the entire Wasteland conquered by now. How's that for a thought? America: conquered by negroes at the command of the Jews. The dead would be spinning in the ashes crying conspiracy!”
“Then let it be done, Rothman! Let's find us some cab drivers!” he laughed.
“Good luck with that, I hear their booked well until 2800.”
“Oh I've lived two-hundred years longer than I should. What's another six-hundred!” Moshe smiled, “Can't say the same for out 'Solomon', but what does it matter.
“By cab conversion though, how fun would that be? I remember when some hick new to the city found out and tried to tell me about Jesus.”
“Oh, how did you respond?”
“I just stayed quiet. I didn't have anything witty at the time.”
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.
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.
Snow said
Oh, hey. I could actually get on the site today. Hopefully it stays that way.
inb4 Mahz fucks up again.
I also have a post started but I should go through and do some short posts for some other RPs before going to work on it again.
Polyphemus said
Having done that, I am still unsure. I am sorry to bother you by asking questions about your post, but I would greatly appreciate an answer, solely for my own edification- is Churchill dead?
Very clearly so.
No way you can really recover from a cocktail of toxins such as which William fed him, and a slow exposure to low-dosaged of dimethylmercury, which is pretty much undetectable and you don't know you were poisoned by it until you show the symptoms; by which point it'd be too late. However in the dinner scenario it was not the dimethymercury that got to them.
ONL said
I must throw my curiosity, and quite a bit of confusion too, into the fray; Is Churchill dead, did they pull a "The Eagle has landed" operation where it was merely a decoy and the real Churchill is alive?
I greatly question the reading ability of most people here.
If you'd just go through that "massive" bit of text in the second post...
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.
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.
It can still be a thing if folks want it to be a thing still.
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