FourtyTwo

Second World War RP?

(Spot the references in character history. I couldn't help myself.)
(They are both NCOs as I plan to have maybe a handful of NPCs under their command, if that is okay- though this can very easily be edited to whatever you have in mind.)
(Also, if you say that Boonie/Giggle Hat isn't allowed for Scott, I know it doesn't fit the theater as well as the Pacific but still, he's a fucking Down Under person :D)

Name: Scott Patrick Harris
Gender: Male
Nationality: New Zealander (ANZAC)
Age: 22
Physical Appearance: Scott is a fairly well built lad, being slightly tanned yet mostly pale in skin color, with brown eyes and brown, short hair, standing around 6"3. He can usually be seen wearing a green boonie, or British nicknamed "Giggle" hat, and a standard British khaki green uniform, and usually can be wearing a shirt, shorts and a primitive load bearing harness, for ammunition and grenades, like many of his counterparts. He has a fairly tactile pair of boots, perhaps in far better nick than most soldiers', and a few cuts and bruises. In particular, due to general clumsiness on the way out of Corinth, he received a shallow cut in his left arm, and hence has a bandage still left on, leaving it for the moment being.

Rank: Sergeant
Weapon and Ammunition:
-Sten MkI
-8x 30 Round Magazines, 9x19mm Parabellum

-Webley Mk IV Revolver
-2x 6 Round Magazines, .38-200 British

2x Mills Bomb "Pineapple" Grenades

Brief Background:
Dictatorship naturally arises out of democracy, and the most aggravated form of tyranny and slavery out of the most extreme liberty.
Plato
"And you could say right there, Plato understood Hitler." Scott

Born in Auckland, New Zealand, Scott was born into an already militaristic family, though his mother was a primary school teacher. It was his father being a soldier in the ANZAC Expeditionary Forces who fought in the Battle of Gallipoli that Scott always looked up to, and wished to follow at some point, his study of Ancient Greek first to mind however and something that he wished to undergo as a degree, from his mother's tales of Socrates and Plato's theories. The experience of the Med was something Scott never saw he'd see if that was his path, but following his own recruitment into the New Zealand Army at the outbreak of war, he did just that. Before this time, he had done well in school, and was going to go to university- but the war saw different to that. The Japanese threat was something that did scare him, but he wasn't deployed to fight them. His division was off to fight the Germans, and like his father, he was off to the Aegean, as a part of the New Zealand Expeditionary Forces- which was again, like his father's unit before him, to become a part of the ANZAC.

He was deployed to the Battle of Greece, or Unternehmen Marita as it was known to the German invaders. He was a part of the larger 2nd New Zealand Division, particularly in the 5th Infantry Brigade, 21st Infantry Battalion that reinforced the Greek Army- though the German spearhead punctured any defensive that the Allies put up. Following a botched evacuation from Corinth to Crete, Scott was promoted to Corporal, following the loss of a handful of section leaders on the way out. The situation, even Scott can see, has gone to shit. He has accepted that on Crete, the war may take a very different path- there is no more running on a golden isle, where the local populace themselves are even armed, to stop the German thorn from pushing this last island into enemy hands. If Scott knows anything, it's that there are no more islands to retreat towards after this battle- and that there is either evacuation to Africa, or resistance. Like the Greek plays that Scott has studied, it's a setting for some drama.

---

Name: Dimitri Costas
Gender: Male
Nationality: Greek (Cretan)
Age: 20
Physical Appearance:
Dimtiri stands at about 5"11, with a fairly olive skin and black hair as you would find on many Greeks in this part of the world. He has a fairly stocky build, and seems healthier than most, perhaps due to the fish-based diet and intensive work he had as a fisherman before he joined in fighting. He seems to have a few cuts and bruises, like most, and can usually be seen wearing a British-donated basic uniform with Greek insignia, comprising of a green shirt and shorts, with a small pack and a load bearing vest to boot. He wears a simple Steel helmet, with a netting attached, if at any point any shrubbery is required to be added as a camouflage. One distinguishing feature of Dimitri is the anchor that is tattooed onto his back- something he received just before the outbreak of war, by a visiting tattoo artist in Heraklion- something that many people did not opt for. While some would consider it perhaps a tattoo associated with the navy, for him it is his relation to the sea, a person who fishes, that it reminds him of, and sets him apart.

Rank: Lance Corporal (Future Resistance Cell Leader?)
Weapon and Ammunition:
-Bren MkII
-7x 30 Round Magazines, .303 British

Brief Background:

"We will fight them on the landing grounds? Shit, they're fucking falling out the sky! Last time I checked, that wasn't a landing ground!" Dimitri

Dimitri was born in Myrina, Lemnos- an island at the time that was recently made a Greek entity following decades of occupation and rule by the Ottoman Empire, and truly brought itself into the Hellenic world. He was brought up stoically Greek Orthodox, and his father was a fisherman, originally hailing from Crete- while his mother was a housewoman, and took care of Dimitri and his siblings. They moved to Crete when his grandparerents fell ill, to help care for them, and hence, Dimitri would really consider himself a Cretean in this respect, though he always did appreciate the mountains of Lemnos. He joined his father as a fisherman at 14, ditching any further education, and was always quite courageous, or somewhat able to lend a hand when needed in the worst of the Aegean storms. Dimitri didn't enlist when the war broke out- he was too young, and his parents relied on him to help keep the family's trade in fish going.

The Invasion brought his two older brothers to fight for the Greek Army, and the news reached them of their deaths when the British and Commonwealth, as well as any Greek forces managed to evacuate themselves to Crete. He felt angered, and joined up in the local militia as a result, particularly into the 1st Greek Regiment, of which was swiftly attached to the 5th New Zealand Infantry Brigade that Scott was also in. The regiment, despite usually being armed poorly with anything that came to hand prior to their arrival on Crete, was now relatively well provided for due to British donations of equipment, and Dimitri found himself a good leader of a small number of Cretean men within a fireteam. He was adept at carrying around the heavy Bren Gun, and while not being standard Greek equipment, on Crete, it was a weapon he'd put to good use. Dimitri's promotion was for the same reason that Scott's unit had seen in Corinth- a poor evacuation of officers had left a gap in NCOs, and his role as a Lance Corporal. Dimitri wishes that this isn't a fight that will ultimately be lost. But the sheer number of paratroops and the state of the defenders, already makes him think about the aftermath of such an invasion. And that he will fight to keep his homeland clear, even if there is a sea of German soldiers rather than cod in the Aegean around Crete, even if the rest of the Allied forces leave.

Second World War RP?

Hmm, interesting. I'd love to do something that isn't D-Day however- and there are more than enough interesting stories that arose from the Invasion of Crete, such as the following resistance that basically occurred on the island, so I push for that RP the most. Alternatively, as a second vote, I guess the assault on Caen will do just fine.

Oh, and believe me, there used to be an interest like hell before for these RPs, myself included, but it's died out of late. Good to see you running something.

Juggernauts (BigPapaBelial and kingkonrad) IC

The sight of AOR2 camoflage was somehow sickening to Ross, even now, as he followed up behind, moving into the compound that he was in, Mk48 high as Ross just felt sick. Through the visor, the sight of a fellow operator like this was enough of a reason to find out what the fuck was going on. Somehow, he didn't like this. It felt fucked up, and the small village had been mostly cleared out now, the alleys and corners of this small village now swept dry. It was done and dusted, and yet Ross knew that there had to be more. There was only one, the gibbet of the SEAL's partly disembodied body being perhaps something as a momento, as sick as it was to these bastards. The rest of the team had to be somewhere, and somehow, Ross knew he had to call it out.
"Shite. Fuck....okay, Carl, keep on sweeping. Merlin, this is Knight Actual, we've got one SEAL, KIA, they fucking strung him up, over. What's the current sit rep in the area?" He asked, looking around with the Mk48, the barrel warm as he saw his fellow Juggernaut move up, heading to the smaller complexes of huts that were in this village.
"Affermative, Knight. We've got new intel on the team we're hunting, we're going to send a helicopter to your location ASAP, we need you rapidly redeployed. The Wildcat is off station, so we're sending our best alternative. Stand by." Merlin responded, as Ross moved up, following behind Carl as he then headed through to the roof of a hut, seeing a squad disembark from a small truck.
"Bollocks." He simply said, then standing on the roof as he aimed, and then fired, hearing a response from Merlin as he opened up, quickly sending 7.62 through the canvas into the men getting out, and any others getting torn apart, bullets whizzing by back at him as whoever was left behind cover sent shots back at the armored target.
"We're sending an AH-64 to your location, it'll be two minutes out- light your position up with white smoke, over." Merlin said, as Ross laid down fire, feeling his suit take hits as he quickly finished the last man off, the reinforcement team now completely quelled and giving Carl time to continue onwards with clearance as he then stopped firing.
"Say again, over?" He asked, as Merlin repeated it.
"You have an Apache coming to your village, they're requesting you pop white smoke, over. ETA is two mikes." Merlin added, as Ross checked that his headset wasn't playing about. He heard that right, that was for sure, as he moved down, off the roof, barely being able to clamber down the steps on the side, breathing hard as he checked his corners.
"Copy that, we've got a courtyard coming up, we'll ping it." Ross said in response, moving up through an alley, sweeping his sectors as he spoke through to Carl.
"I swear to God, if we're improvising transport, this is going to be fun again." He simply said, chuckling as he heard a slight creak come up, and even in his suit, the heavy helmet and lumbering gear that he carried, could be one that any operator would have been able to respond to.

The door suddenly opened up , as Ross was just able to keep his weapon high, the man that burst out almost falling over with his AK, as Ross then sent a sharp kick into the man's abdomen, as he fired rapidly. Shots pinged off his suit's armor, a sharp kick across Ross's chest and helmet as he felt the bullets richochet and make a dent, at this point blank range. 7.62 tracers, and they did fucking make a feel in Ross, though the man was on the floor and unable to get back up. Ross was fast enough to know what to do, and he already shot twice with the LMG, though he didn't know entirely why he'd done what he did in the way he did. The shots landed in the man's legs, particularly in the thighs, and Ross had only understood that he was still truly feeling the shock even in this adrenaline. He didn't want to kill this guy outright. He wanted to make him suffer. The man yelled, his AK on the floor as he looked down at him, like Damocles sword being thrust across his neck.
"You fucking savages." He said, shaking his helmeted head, grabbing a smoke grenade from his chest rig. Pulling the pin and lobbing it far forward, into the clearing, he looked back down at the man, who was wailing in pain.
"Fuck you." He simply said, kicking him once more, just feeling anger and unchannelled rage come back out. You had to control it, direct it towards your enemy. That was what he was good at. But sometimes, no matter what psychological training you had, it had to come out one way or another. This was his way of directing it, and he knew the man would bleed from here. The bullets had gone through the bone, and they were embedded. He'd bleed out in fifteen minutes, and since medical attention out here would be shitty, it was no doubt that if blood poisoning didn't get him, he'd most likely bleed out anyway. Moving past, with the fastest pace he could muster without tiring himself out, he saw Carl come into view, as he looked back, blood on his uparmored Kevlar shinpads.
"We might get some noise soon, no doubt. Get a perimeter set up, once that Apache's in, I suggest we hook up on it's wingtips. Fuck me, I've heard stories of people doing this, but if the intel is good, we'll be rapidly redeployed, and with air support. Fucking hell." He said, just hoping that this would somehow work, checking his own Mk48 as he heard the distant noise of the AH-64D Longbow echo over the mountain valleys, and begin it's approach in, like an Angel of Death. But if it was death from above, then Ross knew that himself and Carl were death on the ground, and no doubt, would be able to put more than just fear into the enemy's hearts. Moving up, Ross found a position behind a small wall, and could already pick out hostiles in the distance noticing the smoke, and sending vague rounds in their direction. They had no idea how many times they outnumbered the two Juggernauts- their squad alone did two and a half times over, but that wasn't the point, and Ross knew that this was why they kicked so much ass out here, when they operated like this. Unlike an airstrike or a gunrun, it was something that perhaps was manifested more appropriately, and provide a force multiplier. The enemy knew to hide when there were airstrikes. They thought that they held the advantage when they had numbers. Right now, armed with a 7.62 caliber Mk48 MOD 0 LMG and a suit of armor, it would take more than being outnumbered to really put the strain down, as Ross opened up, quickly sending three of the men down, and any responding fire temporarily to a halt, as he viewed the world through his quad-NVG optical set.

The Matter of Britain

(This is confusing- you said Gunnar's armies were camped up between Powys/Gwynedd, but they're now at the River Severn? I assume this is in the higher levels, towards the current-day Brecon Beacons.)

The Arrival

The sea was a cauldron, further out into the Mare Interterra, the very late evening bringing only very little light through the cloud and fog. The longboat rocked, the spray willowing in as Halvar looked out, sitting on the front of the boat. He wore his whole armor, helm to his chain-mail suit, the two-handed axe sitting on his back- and it something he knew would come in useful when they were coming in closer. The ship already was travelling at around 10 knots- the favourable wind behind the ship being of a great assistance, though the crew knew that while the ship could go faster, it was not worth the risk at this time of night- with only a few of the crew rowing as a result. At the front itself, it was a bad place to be if you were seasick, but he was observing, with good reason. The chalk could be seen to be reflected in the very distant remnant moonlight, out of this stormy patch, that of a small island. Lundy. It sat in the middle of the Mare Interterra, between the realm of Dyfed and Dummonia, and currently, was in the possession of the latter. A small monastery and a few farmers were all the authority of the island, but Halvar knew his men needed to find food, and perhaps something economical in the process. Halvar knew that they Kingdom of Dummonia would not respond, not to an island like this, which was fairly isolated and cut off. Slaves, wheat, whatever Halvar knew there was on this island, they'd strip it dry, and allow themselves to at least intern themselves out of this storm. There were four other longboats to the right of Halvar's, their red and blue sails distinctively different to that of a regular raiding party. This seemed more organized. Halvar looked out, as he was tapped on the back, by the ship's rigger- Jens, of whom Halvar trusted enough to be his second-in-command aboard this vessel.
"Halvar, we have sightings on the island. What are your orders?"
"Full sail, we aim for the southern corner. There are cliffs and shallows, be very careful steering us through. The helmsman can read these shores like a manuscript, I hear, but I do not want to ground this ship here. Relay to the other ships, we will lead them to the shore." He added, looking back, wiping his water covered face as he looked back, at the crew, who were bringing themselves to bear with weapons and their padded armor, as well as dealing with the sail and masting of the ship.
"You want to eat!? You take the women, kill all the Monks you see, and any peasants, we put to work in the galleys of Harald's Longship. I promise you, you will find blood this evening, and we will make good our killing!" He said, with a respondent hurrah coming from most of the crew, even some of the other longboats, though it was more scattered.

---

The boats landed at the quay, to the sight of several scared peasants. It was still a sight to see, the flaming lamps aboard the longboats illuminating the crew, who were indeed, coming in with a purpose. Even the slave rowers looked like they meant business, as Halvar looked to the rest. The small beach was probably the only landing site, but it wasn't going to be defended well. He followed the crew, as they made the drop out off of the front of the longboat, already walking up. A few of the farmers yelled back, holding pitchforks- these people mainly being mixed, either Celtic or Romano-British. They were all going to have to be put to the sword or made to kneel. And today, Halvar felt like doing more of the former. The other longboats had already followed, as he looked back, his two-handed axe sternly in both hands, the flaming torches held by some at the back illuminating the fear that was the Viking force.
"To arms!" He yelled in Norse, as the rest of his men yelled, already charging up the beach, as the peasants quickly found out what a Viking charge looked like. Most were cut down in seconds, the sand running with blood as they rapidly subjugated the fishermen and farmers that had offered a first wave of resistance. Even Halvar had himself, managed to cleanly almost cut open one of the fishermen, armed with a mere pitchfork, from ribcage to shoulder with the blood-stained Norse axe, something that left the man bleeding and dead within moments. Adjusting his helm, he moved up, the hill to the rest of the men, the tiring action something that Halvar didn't give a fuck about. Now, they'd ruin any man that dared oppose them, and while perhaps they'd be slower at the top of the hill, he knew he commanded a significant set of power. Already, Halvar's archers were picking off any runners that dared not surrender with their hunting bows, many wearing lighter chainmail vests and red hoods, over leather and iron protection. Whilst not the most numerous, they were accurate, and held their own very well in a melee, something that Halvar always ensured his archers could do- fight alongside the rest of his warriors, whom were armed with far larger axes and swords. The 70 man force had lost one or two, but that was nothing. Tens of peasants were now dead, and that was a good thing.

---

Within minutes, the men of Halvar's raiding party had cleared the island, or swept up survivors and anyone that had offered any forms of resistance to the Norse raiding party. It had been a place that no Viking or other raiding party had perhaps attempted to claim, but this was't a kingdom. It was a small island with a relatively moderate farming population, if even that. It was just merely an invasion to grab supplies and rest for the night, a simple raid to put . They had been on the waves for a few days, and Halvar could tell from any man that fighting broke that up. Lundy was a stop-off point, before they sailed up the Severn, past the Brythonic Kingdom to where Halvar wished to have an audience with the King of Manx. He had stopped at the King's island already- and been very critical of his methods. This was a pirate, a simpleton that did not see a wider Norse empire as an existence. Halvar knew that he was a key figure, but how long could his forces be united? His home island was indeed, well fortified. The castles and settlements could easily resist any naval incursion by any other rogue Viking force, or the Welsh or Eire peoples, simply because Manx's naval superiority was a Norse one, not a "British" one. Yet Gunnar seemed like a fool, from what he heard. And bringing about an allegiance to the King of Norway, was Halvar's ulterior motive. With either Gunnar bending the knee or with his head at the end of Halvar's axe, to turn the tides in one way or another. All Halvar knew was, that he wanted to be a Jarl of his own part of this country. Lundy was a tiny place, and as Halvar had commanded, the Monks were all slaughtered, decapitated by Halvar's personal crew. The rest of the longship crews swept the rest of the island, bringing all the surrendered men, women and children to the monastery, a small but spiritual place that now stank of blood and dead bodies. He had to go have a look.

Looking around at the steps of the small hermitage, he saw Jens come over, at least a dozen fishermen and farmers behind him, subjugated on their knees and truly conquered indeed. New rowers was all that Halvar thought.
"Well done, Jens. Bring these men to Harold's ship, ever since we lost a few of his rowers, his ship has been slow." He said simply, as Jens commanded another pair of Norsemen, armed with spears, to bring them out of the monastery, then looking to Halvar again as they yelled at the group and then swiftly left.
"And the women and children?"
"Have the children's throats cut. The women, is our pleasure to have. The monks must have some wine and bread, so we shall have ourselves a little feast, before we depart tomorrow morn."
"Yes, sire." He simply said, as he headed out, going to rally a few of the men to do the job, as he stared at them, almost remorseless in the way he looked. They didn't understand him, and he didn't understand their cries, in Celtic. It wasn't like that of the Scots' Celtic that he had heard before, it was a more alien language, perhaps further south in the country.

---

The hours passed, of drunkeness, practically emptying the Granary and Foodstores of anything edible, and generally having fun with the female population, of which even Halvar got involved in. He wasn't a strong drunk, but the hermitige burned, it's dedication to a Catholic God now a burning pyre for all to see. Halvar didn't entirely care for what his crew did, so long as they worked and they fought as hard as he demanded, and that they always held him as the leader of this party. He knew that so long as his men didn't suffer, they would not have any thoughts for rebellion. And that was why the traditional Norse action of pillaging and raping was something that Halvar was determined to keep alive on this island, until tomorrow came and they would depart for the Severn. There were many things to achieve, and he wasn't even very drunk, because he knew foremostly, what they would need to accomplish. The winds and the rain had died down, and while the fog remained, the illuminated darkness, lit up by burning farm houses and the hermitage, the occasional movement of Norsemen with fire torches could be seen to bring some more light in. But they'd be going soon, that was all Halvar knew.

(Bits of this post feel really incomplete- it isn't the best, but I did what I could.)

The Matter of Britain

The Guild Is Fucked

The Matter of Britain

The Guild Is Fucked

The Matter of Britain

I'm in, fair enough.

Heavy Nazis, Heavy Guns- Restarted (ONL and kingkonrad)

Swordfish knew that she wasn't usually as large as Sturm Adler and the rest of the 505th, but in this suit, she felt just to their scale.
"I give...well, about ten seconds if the timer in my head is correct. Explosion might throw you a little, it's not going to be as explosive as it is implosive. It'll collapse the fucking temple on itself!" She said over the comms, seconds ticking as suddenly, the roar kicked in. She had been mentally keeping a counter on the timer, aware that it was the only way to keep track of explosives. If it went perfectly, when she counted the last number, it would go. And right now, she was glad she was inside the suit, even 100m away.

The explosion was thundering, and the whole radar bunker collapsed, the tower falling down and crashing into a barrack as it snapped into two, the concrete structure not bearing under the immense force of the charge. No more radar, she thought to herself. The fire kicked up a little, and she heard a slight clanking, clinking of small shrapnel, though it didn't even consider going through, as she moved up, adjusting herself as she held the MG42 high.
"There we are! Okay, before they bring any fighter-bombers from the mainland, I say we get out of here. Back the way we came." Swordfish said, looking over to him, as she moved up, bullets pinging off as a MG on the far side opened up, the shots ricocheting as she smiled. This time, she was more potent than they were. She turned and simply belted out a volley of shots from the weapon, quickly taking the emplacement out and two supporting rifles, before moving back, headed out of the compound towards the hole in the fence. A very distant noise of planes could be heard, and Swordfish knew this couldn't be good, no way no how. The exoskeleton meant it could hold the extra pressure plating and weight of the suit, and move it faster, but she knew Sturm Adler was a little more flexible, and in terms of movements, a little more infantry than "mechanized" infantry. Still, getting out of here was a priority now, and her heart did indeed shudder, a wicked smile on her face, one that seemed to just acknowledge the scale of what they did. The noise did get louder, as they left the compound, burning and bright in the dark night, as the planes flew over.
"Shit, we got Hawker Typhoons, rocket-armed! No telling if they saw us- just fucking run!" She yelled, aware that there was no way of telling this time. The Allies knew that this was a Nazi myth that could have had truth to it, an inch. Heavily armored infantrymen, who were impossible to fell, and to records, hadn't been felled. Any stories of them were usually taken as such, a ghost story that simply didn't have any reliable proof to it. But through the thick reinforced glass visor, Swordfish knew that the Typhoons were rocket armed, and that would be enough to fell them alright. And she didn't feel like letting down the 505th on their first run. She looked over in the corner of her visor, turning her head a little, seeing it through the night vision.

"Oh, schiesse....head down!" She yelled, watching them come back around, herself knowing that they were almost at the end of the lava field. It was get exposed and blown up, or get a little warm for a while. Swordfish knew her choice, as she intentionally slid forwards, hurling the suit's arms in front, as she crashed into the rocky membrane of the lava field, aware that it was flowing barely meters away. The ground was sizzling, she could even feel it through the suit itself, as she kept down, the noise loud as hell as they swept past, perhaps the pilots in disbelief. They eyes seeing things, she hoped to herself, as they flew past, the propellers spinning loud as hell as she waited five seconds. Swordfish barely clambered up again, looking at the suit's arms, and dusting each one off, clearing the black and scortching hot rock off, which had barely been probably formed. The suit wasn't damaged, she hoped at least the same was the case for Sturm Adler's.
"The lava is barely a meter below this, it's sub surface. Come on, let's get ourselves back to the U-Boat. Our job is done here I guess, while I think we have more than plenty of ammunition, I'd like to get back to get an hour of time with you, Sturm Adler." Swordfish said, cheekily at the end, as she moved up, looking around as she looked back at Sturm Adler, smiling through her visor as she then looked to the water. Moving up, she slunked down as she stepped on a rocky part of the lava falls, stepping off the rocks and going back into the water. The lava flowed into the stormy sea, something that became a little more obvious from this angle as she activated the huge oxygen tank on the suit's back, disengaging the night vision set as the suit sunk to the floor.
"Get the air back on, follow on me." She said, looking back as the water jets on the feet of the suit whirred into life, the new ground below Swordfish as she felt the suit take a little pressure on, nothing dangerous but just a symptom to be used to.

Armia Krajowa - WW2 Polish Resistance RP

It's an invasion. Bombing was significant, yes, and I mean, Warsaw suffered. But it was mostly intact, you have to understand. Tanks and infantry are rolling in, the aftermath of invasion brings hell, but the Germans keep the systems running in Warsaw initially, because they're there to run things. The trams run, the Jews are rounded up within a year, and things are organized- they leave the water on for themselves. Later, that changes of course- people starving to death and the like says it all, then everything, everything that stands is bombed. The Soviets in the East (that is something many forget), and the Germans in the West split Poland into two, and flooded the place. What happens next is big. They create the General Government (area around Warsaw, and where they initially want to move all the Poles to) and then create the Gaus of Posen and Danzig-West Prussia, which they start moving Poles out of (Source? My mother's side of the family, down to my great-grandparents, they returned to a blitzed and ruined farm that wasn't torched by the Nazis, but by the invading Soviets, as they spoke German....it's more complicated than that). Warsaw isn't that packed before the war- afterwards, it's stuffed full of not just Jews in the Ghettos (from all over Poland) to being filled with refugees from northern Poland, and German soldiers who are basically setting up in the capital- as a extension of a German rule, and there's quite a few. In 1939, military forces, over time, reserve battalions and reserve police, mostly German, and 1944, the Germans are in full force, even the SS I believe. They had an iron grip- this is the very aftermath, barely days after the surrender of Poland, and whilst there are refugees, a lot of which ran from the Soviets who believe it or not, many were scared of (this is my father's side of the family who were unlucky enough to go to Gulags), and I do believe that even into 1944, the Germans did keep a pretty fuck off appearance to any resistance effort. This is why the Uprising is so big- because it was so large-scale an effort, it meant that the citizens of Warsaw were basically involved on a mass scale to bring about liberation for their city, hopefully to be reinforced by the impending doom that the Red Army spells on Nazi Germany.

That penultimate last bit about reinforcing of course, didn't happen in this direct order.

Also, there is one thing to note. The Soviets aren't all the good guys either. I really hate media for portraying that. Once you study Stalin, and view it in particular from Poland's point of view, the AK isn't just a liberation front. It's a terrorist organization to Stalin, and the aftermath of the Uprising is just as significant as the events before it, for the AK at least. I really hope this is something maintained- the end of this RP for many of our characters, for being merely affiliated with the AK in the aftermath (if they survive) is probably death.

Heavy Nazis, Heavy Guns- Restarted (ONL and kingkonrad)

"Yep!" She said, her Sten in hand as she saw the British squad turn, and look at the anarchy from the huge fireball, the fuel depot up in flames as they raised their Lee Enfields and own Stens, unaware of the female operator that was out of sight and about to kill the four of them. The 9mm rounds punctured the men's bodies like an arrow through a balloon, the subsonic rounds plentiful in quantity and accurately placed, as to put them down without a fight. She had to run.

Swordfish began running, moving from underneath the Willys Jeep across the compound, fixing a new magazine in as she saw Sturm Adler in the distance. He'd recognize her, and likewise, she could see the outline, trained her mind out to focus on it in particular. It was walking death, and Sturm Adler was bringing it to this compound. She slid under the fence, the entry point, moving with a certain pace and vigour of an athlete, as she moved back towards their infiltration point. over the rocky lava field and avoiding all the hotter parts between the cracks- not bubbling, but occasionally visible with a glowing orange. It was about 200m, but it was covered fast with her bounding legs moving fast over the snowy darkness. Her suit came into vision, as she smiled, already looking back.
"About to come in, Sturm Adler. Hold the line a little longer, let's stir up a nightmare here before we leave. I want whoever survives to tell the remaining forces of the Allies on this island that there were two of us, and they couldn't stop us." She said, smiling as she opened the top up, throwing herself in as she then sealed it down, exhaling hard.

The suit whirred into life, Swordfish feeling the armor come alive in her hands again, as she loaded the MG42. It was lightly armed, but well armored, for what it was. Moving up, she couldn't move as fast as she did running, but was hauling herself across the field with movement, as she approached the edge of the complex. Charging through the fence, she saw a set of contacts move from the barracks, the MG42 already opening up. The weapon tore through the small squad, as she moved up, looking to Sturm Adler, who was holding out on his own.
"Got your back, Sturm Adler. You're up on point. I'll follow. Let's flush the rest of this compound out, maybe wound one or two." She said, aware he was the more developed in combat perhaps, and with this whole armored debacle, while it wasn't her specialism, it was the soldier's who had been the hero of Moscow, the man who had fought through hell and high water to clear the Kremlin and take on enemy after enemy. She sent fire down on a Willys Jeep that drove in with a .303 M1919 attached, quickly hosing down the group, feeling shots richochet off the steel plating of the mechanized diving suit as she moved up, the light thud digging into the snow as she smiled through her visor.