FourtyTwo

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

Swordfish chuckled, as she tilted her head, catching a glimpse of Sturm Adler by her side in the corner of her visor, as they moved out towards the U-Boat, back in the sea. It took time, but it was time to think for Swordfish. This was the life, this was what they did. The formerly liquid rock dropped off the suit, rather than clinging her down, and the MG42 was out of a firing position, freeing up the suit's arms. It was a solemn feeling, as she turned on the lamp when they were under 500m, dropping off the island's shelf, quite literally, into where the crust was at it's thinnest. It was just darkness everywhere apart from the light, below, above, to the the side, only Sturm Adler's suit reflecting as the pressure bumped up a little. It wasn't significant, but it was increasing.
"We've got almost half a day's sailing to Iceland from here, including us getting kitted up. Not much time, but if it pleases you, we can try and make some." Swordfish said, in a rather charming voice, knowing she was such a tease sometimes, and that of all places, perhaps a couple of hundred fathoms under the ocean, she could still tease him well enough, and didn't he know it.

---

Half an Hour Later

The U-Boat rolled silently under the waves, coming to an almost complete stop as Swordfish looked over, engaging the water jets, dropping herself a little further to aim for the pressurized airlock located at the rear top of the sub. Passing by the bridge, she grabbed the handle with her two huge arms, almost clawing wholly around the huge Navy-specificiation rotating wheel that slowly and surely opened it up. A regular diver would have trouble with this, but they'd be able to do it, with some effort. For Swordfish, it was like unscrewing a jar of pickles that had been opened once before. A very easy task. The door opened up, and she engaged her visor's light, dropping through the narrow gap and into the airlock, which rapidly flooded. She let Sturm Adler follow in, the tight space confined and restricted, as she yanked down, sealing it back up almost fully, this time about three times with more force than she had opened it from the inner sealing door.
"Captain, we're inside the lock. Pump the water out when ready." She simply said over her radio, looking to Sturm Adler, as the semi-floatation sort of stopped right there, and they sunk straight down to the floor, as the water simply flowed out the floor, pouring out as the grate below the mesh they stood on opened up, going for the ballast which in itself was in the process of being drained. Breathing hard, she cut the oxygen flow off from the large tank on her back, and opened the other door, leading into the 505th armory on submarine, pushing through the tight gap.

The armory was quite literally a room with armor, and Hans could be seen inside, already looking over his kit, bit at a time. Swordfish and Sturm Adler were dripping wet in cold Atlantic water, the two suits pretty much had survived a trip to the depths.
"Shit, you two had me for a moment. Have a nice swim?" He said, aware he knew he had to simply state the obvious, in response to what he saw come through the airlock.
"Cheeky bastard." Swordfish, or Victoria simply said, chuckling as she moved over towards a far corner of the improvised armory room, taking the suit's helmet off and crawling upwards, the whole thing standing just about on its' two feet as she dusted her hair off of snow, her black tactical suit raising Hans's eyebrows. It really revealed her...features, well, the burgandy haired part Irish, part Bavarian more than raising his attention. She was used to it, however. Men could be like that, and he knew that Hans already probably knew, as he walked over to Sturm Adler, or Rudolph, clicking off his breathing equipment as she smirked at him.
"Might have been my first run, but that was your first time diving." She said, the G43 and Sten still on her person, as she took the two off her back and bolstered them back into their cases, by her suit's rack, as well as any ammunition and gear.

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

(Parachutes aren't regularly pulled by a cord with paratroops- they use Static Line, a method I've done myself- where the canopy is opened up and pulled out of the rig by a cord attached to the aircraft, pulling it out as you fall out of the back of it. German parachutes were also notoriously shit- they used one riser, which is insane even for round parachutes- you can't even steer vaguely, let alone a round parachute being terrible to control anyway (landings are very rough). The German rigs weren't designed to be compatible with weapons, and neither with other gear- so guess the main cause of German paratrooper death in this fight? It wasn't even groundfire, or anything like that. It was breaking their ankles on landing, or getting shot while trying to reach their submachineguns or rifles, which were dropped in seperately. The British Paras fixed this by using a bag containing...well, almost 40kg of weapon and ammo attached to your legs, and Parachute Landing Fall- a method that basically is Paratroops' Parkour to stop your ankles from getting sprained or broke. Anyway nowadays, shit can be carried on your rig because we use lighter and more compacted weaponry than our previous battle rifle and bolt-action counterparts, of which were heavier and generally less suited (which is a whole topic in itself, but TLDR, it's far more developed). A footnote in history that I feel might be needed.)

Scott opened up fire, the Sten's recoil noticeable but nowhere near as sharp as that of a Bren gun as the first wave of Fallshirmjager were effectively cut down. This was a bad landing zone, and no doubt, this wasn't going to work out well for them at all. The noise of cannon fire from Stuka strafes was louder than ever before, and even the rumble of the Bofors back up into the sky, the large 40mm L/60 Bofors being the most common of anti-aircraft weapons in the world and having a good reason for being such a popular weapon. It took out aircraft with a remarkable pace, and already, any low-flying transports were already beginning to feel the effects, with one or two completely off track or unsuitable for paradrops. It was becoming a total mess, and now, it had truly enveloped itself into hell.
"Shit, they're using this as a pretty fucking significant drop zone...it's only a matter of time before any landers pop smoke and let the flyboys know it's unsuitable. Once they know, we're not holding here. I'll fucking make sure that I'll be breathing if our CO even dares run...keep firing, lads." He said, rather cynically, as he pulled the mag out, pulling a new one from his harness, slotting the magazine into the weapon as he cocked it, the open bolt cleared and a round chambered.

The shrill of a Sten was systematic, and it's kick something Scott felt familiar with. These men, somewhat too. It was a hodgepodge, a mixture, a whole clusterfuck, just like the situation he was in. He was petrified. But keeping calm under pressure was what your leader was. And if your men saw that, they'd believe it. Somehow. All Scott wanted to show, was that he wasn't shitting himself. Men were on the ground now, and firing back, the crack of Karabiner 98K and MP40 fire, with even a single MG34 billowing across from afar, as the section focussed fire, aware that they were now keeping the pinch point intact, and stopping any runners. It was becoming a real hell, and no doubt, this wasn't going to stop any time soon. This war stuff was to Scott, what perhaps his father had seen. But nothing like this. It didn't shock Scott, but somehow, it didn't exactly seem normal either. They had serious fucking balls to do this. And Scott knew that it would take the equal same to stop them. Heraklion wasn't far, and somehow, Scott knew that they'd end up there, either with the platoon or without. The fire stopped momentarily, as the sight of paras on their end wasn't visible. They weren't in the thick of it now, they were moving elsewhere, to shoot at someone else. It wasn't good

Scott could tell it wasn't good when almost half a minute went by, with an eerie quiet in their direction, gunshots distant but as if it was echoing. There was a saying, from his company CO, Major Daniel Catterick- "If you're not in the heat of the fight, you're not soldiering hard enough." And it was truth. The noise of bullets whistling past your head, almost making you shiver, was what Scott thought to be getting stuck in. He cared for the people around him, but knew that in the end, they'd be fighting here, and being afraid of death wasn't the way to go. They would need to put up a good show, and in the end, at least know that they wouldn't be like the rumors that their new Lieutenant had now induced. A coward was more living than a dead man. But any dead man in the field had more to his name in heaven than a coward would ever be able to list, and it wasn't about Queen, and Country for a moment. It was about the people around, and somehow, as Scott shot a burst over into a bush, and then sunk back down into cover, it wasn't entirely too bad for a moment. And yet it was, that they weren't getting shot at, and not being in the fight. A terrible paradox. But war was mad, and Scott was at least sane enough to understand that in madness, only following it up would result in anything getting done. This was why the Lufftwaffe had the nerve to drop men onto this island, not send them in landing craft. And today, Scott wanted to make sure that they'd go forward.
"Get some new mags in, get your breath back- Section we're hustling over, since we've still got a few pockets left, but most of them are towards the centre. Let's close the gap in, or else they'll try and regroup. Staice, you keep lead- we'll go from bush to bush, myself and the Bren man will cover." He simply said, looking over, as he nodded, coughing a little as he adjusted his hat, looking over, aware that casualties in his section were none, yet the Fallshirmjager had taken significant hits, at this drop zone at least. Poor fuckers, Scott thought to himself. They had it bad, especially here- but at other places, they were unopposed. They'd have to just close in now, and Scott knew that if Hedger had a problem with that, he could ask the Germans they'd sweep up.

The pace was set, as they moved from the southern battery's sandbags, moving across the lightly grassed area, to a hedgerow, where the sight of Germans barely 50m beyond set the team on weapons blazing. Many of the Germans were running, unarmed, and it was a brutal thing to see, as he raised the Sten, and fired across the field, plucking the life from two and wounding one severely in the spine. It was horrifying to watch, but this was war. And they had Lugers that they would happily fire back if they had the chance. That wasn't something that Scott, and his section he hoped would agree on. Crouching behind a pine tree of sorts in the shrubrow, he kept his head back and aimed, looking for more. Fire whistled on by, as Scott saw it buzz through, tracing the shooter as a MP40 behind another shrubline further along, with which Scott adjusted his stance and opened up. The sights of the Sten were always funny to adjust to, but they were comfortable enough in Scott's eyes, and the German Paratrooper fell, a 9mm shot ringing through his ribcage and bringing him down to the floor in a bloody heap. The Bren opened up to his side, as the other half of the section moved over, with their Lee Enfields, to better cover and to push in. This was the thick of it, and Scott wasn't going to let these bastards take an inch now this was the situation. It was something inside, something perhaps of a hatred from Greece, of just getting into the fray.
"Contacts, pushing on the far side of the shrubs, right by those pines! Toss some grenades up there, make em' run! If you see a weapon cache, let me know, and we'll put them out of German hands!" He yelled, aware that if the Germans could understand Scott's New Zealand accent, let alone English, they'd be pretty scared right now from his tone. Somehow, Scott wasn't surprised when fire came back just the same from their position further into the middle of the southern drop zone and it wasn't in response to Scott, but he laid down suppressive fire from his British-produced SMG, for whatever the rest of the team could now do, and generally bring about some more anarchy onto the far hedgeline. Every thought of mercy and hospitality was flushed from his mind. These were the elite, they were here for a good reason.to do what they did. They would have a better shot, and right now, were scattered, not fighting as a unit like Scott's section was, but were scattered elements that were able to only sometimes retrieve their weapons. A couple formed a threat, and a small fireteam, roughly in Scott's number, was trying to desperately hold their part of the drop zone, but were quickly overrun.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Scott slotted a new magazine in, pulling the spent 9mm mag back into his harness, and a new one in, followed by a simple cock of the weapon, a round going in nicely and cleanly. Good. Another reason why you oiled your gun. Scott knew that many of these men were not professionals, some, like Dimitri, a lad he'd befriended, were mere fishermen. Some, like Alexios, were former fighters, and now basically Reservists. Staice and Maxwell were knew, the latter a fellow man from Down Under, and someone he had more trust in. The former he knew would be a little scared, but he'd know that he would adapt, in time. War did that to people. Scott had seen the Greek campaign, and had bared a lot of the brunt in Corinth. Since then, things had been a literal train wreck in his company, and his promotion to Sergeant had followed. Now they had this to defend a last stand with. It didn't even sound like a Greek tragic play that Scott had seen. It sounded more like a comedy. A superior force, and Scott knew there were Greeks armed with knives and muskets, against a highly advanced paratrooper force armed with cutting edge sub-machine guns and rifles. It was desperate, and somehow valiant, but no matter how Scott played it in his head, a musket against an machinegun was only ever going to work out one way. It was while the heat of the battle was still raging on, the moment to reload, catch his breath, and think that rushed these thoughts through. A strange sensation, as he peeked over, from his cover, across the small clearing around a quarter of the size of a football pitch that had now become an area for dead Fallschirmjagers and busted kit.

They were holding their ground well, and while the fireteam at the opposite hedgeline was dealt with within the next half a minute, Scott didn't want to go any further. This was going to become a mess otherwise, and he knew it well enough, as he looked over to the rest.
"Staice, bring yourself and your other man back here. We'll post up here, might have less cover but we've shocked the shit out of them. They weren't expecting to be counterattacked so quick, paras might be co-ordinated when they're together but they have a shitty way of dropping themselves in, so you pick off the worst. Dumb sods. Just breathe, set up somewhere comfy, and be ready." He said, as the fire calmed down, the other two sections perhaps a little relieved by this slight push, which pincered in the enemy at the two landing zones, Scott aware that it was a risky, but decisively well executed maneuver. He had good, well trained men at his side who'd not exactly follow him to hell, but come close. And perhaps there was no more running. He'd rather die on his feet than live on his knees, just like Scott's father had told him multiple times when he enlisted. Surrender was all good, but to an enemy that killed innocent people, what they did to people that shot at them wasn't to be thought about. And this time, Scott knew there could not be a boat. This was going to be a fight that could end very fast, if they captured the infrastructure, and the British, ANZAC and Greek forces were driven from the airfields, bases and ports. It would be the end of the game of war on Crete, and one more tally for Hitler's list. Crete, a Nazi jewel in the Med. That wasn't something that after Greece, many people wanted to let Hitler have the satisfaction on. And while war was brutal, horrible and terrifying, somehow, that in a twisted way kept Scott fuelled up. That smug fuck wasn't going to let himself have this, surely. None the less, at that time, their planes were coming in number, but here wasn't a place that was going to be filled with a significant volume of paras, like before. They were now dealing with the next waves that would perhaps be deploying across other drop zones in time, and if they could break this with the platoon, they'd be on the road to Heraklion. Yet there was still work to do, and roughly a squad-sized to platoon sized force could still be lingering in the pines, and waiting for the platoon to be less than aware.

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

I want Myles to be shot in the head at a vague point in time by one of our guys, you did the character well then :D

But yeah, I do wish to have the campaign see the Resistance sort of part of it- Dimitri and Alexios could fit this really well, and even the other characters could see themselves adapt to a new line of fighting- a guerrilla war, later coming back to join friendly Allied forces. This somehow reminds me of Arma 3....Survive, Adapt, Win echoes in my mind...

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

(OOC- is it okay if Maxwell , your character due to their ANZAC origins is with Scott's section? Could also have Poly too, if you want your character to tag in. Also, Dimitri is in Alexios's section I believe.)

Sturmgeschutz said Leaving Bailey to bark his orders at his more impressive collection of soldiers, Myles turned to his own. "Sergeant Harris, take a section of men, and man the southern-most point of the line," he said with slurred but loud speech,."

Scott clutched his STEN tightly, looking up to Myles, the British officer somehow still not accepted in Scott's mind. This was a man he had heard a lot about. The fighting on Crete had begun recently, and had heard bad things about him. Scott was of course, afraid to die. Like every man was, he was fearful that his life would be extinguished, and a letter would be sent home to his mother and father, telling them of how brave a soldier he was. But his CO was somehow driving him fucking insane. He looked like the kind of man that would put others to die for him, and never fight himself. He didn't know if he'd entirely survive this ordeal. But if he did, he would make sure that that fucker was

The lorry had been a piece of shit all the way, but that wouldn't stop him. He had a few men under his command, including Private Maxwell, and four others of the section including himself, one Bren, one PIAT and two Lee-Enfield armed soldiers. It would do, and they needed to stop flankers, which was exactly Scott knew they oculd pull off.
"Lads, on me! There's a set of sandbags we can entrench behind, at the bottom end of the Bofors batteries- post up and shoot fucking any German you see!" He yelled at the top of his voice, knowing his four would understand perfectly well what that meant.

The New Zealander was almost accustomed to the Cretan heat, but it was kicking today bad, and even in his rolled up sleeves and Boonie hat, it was still killer when push came to shove and they were moving quickly to the end of the battery. Quickly running behind a sandbag, the sight of paratroopers ahead and above was a sight to see, albeit one that did put some fear into Scott's heart. These men had serious fucking nerve.
"Contacts, straight ahead! Lay down fire!" Scott yelled, aiming down the Sten's sights at a set of paras that were coming down, noticing that they didn't have their weapons. They'd been dropped separately, under differently colored parachutes, and this wave was now right in the open, unarmed. They didn't carry their weapons on their parachute harnesses- they were either attached separately on bags under their legs, where many paratroops would suffer broken ankles if not conducting the correct PLF, or the weapons come separately. Two came down almost immediately on landing, like a sack of potatoes dead with 9mm rounds, as .303 fire, automatic and bolt action fired, went down range towards the falling men, Scott's section opening up all weapons.

--

Being with the old man was not something that pleased Dimitri entirely, but he knew that he perhaps was a little better versed in war. Looking back, he shook his head, but looked to the Fez-wearing Greek, then looking to the gun.
"Can't be that hard, we need a healthy supply of 40mm shells and to man the cranks." Dimitri said, then looking up, the sight of planes and paratroops coming down, as he stepped into the small battery, looking at it.
"Fucking hell." He simply said, looking to Alexios, then back up at the sky, as he put his Bren down at the front.
"Borrow this if you need to, fire on anything that pisses us off sufficiently. Let's fire this thing up." He said, grabbing the cranks, quickly moving them into position, about 60 degrees the sky, towards the landing area's direction.
"Load shell...fire!" He yelled, aware that they had to fire off a lot of these, the flak attuned to go off at about 500m or so- a close by shower that would kick off any low flying transports.

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

I have no idea actually, I don't think so. But could Maxwell and your character Poly attach to Scott's section?

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

Also, I feel like there's an awesome sort of set of characters. I was thinking of making a Canuck as well, because I suffer from Roleplaying multiple character disorder, but eh, I think I'll leave that for someone else.

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

(I don't like Stalin, BTW. Study him and you begin to understand why...)

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

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: Private First Class (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?

(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.