FourtyTwo

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

"Maybe. But we've got oxygen and we're meant to be there, rather than fearing drowning, my friend. It is a sport for some." She said, chuckling as she put her throwing knives, holstered up in a neat leather case, onto the side of her suit, heading out as she looked back to Rudolph, with a certain fire in her eyes. Her hair wasn't even soaked- it was still as neatly kept as usual, the burgundy red powerful against her infiltration suit, Victoria's blue eyes sharp as the steel on her knives. She headed through the sub, aware that the Captain wouldn't exactly know of this armory. He didn't know what Hans, Felix, Rudolph and Jakob could pull off, and to him, they were just occupants of the submarine at the moment. It was Felix that was probably the most unknowing. Of all the candidates for Tyrant, he seemed unlikely. But had a wile to him that he always kept.

He sat inside his bunk, with a book in hand. Clauswitz. One of his more obscure books, and he sat quietly, the officer looking like he was just a usual man. He felt like he had a split personality- right now, and he had always been a good leader of men, an exceptional one at that. He was a General's son, a Sturmbahnfuhrer in the Waffen-SS now and no less, had the sharpness and wit to get through life. He remembered Crete. What that was. He always thought of something ostentatious, and was naturally confident, when it was needed. Not unnecessarily. On Crete, his unit dropped with specialized parachutes, the same design as he remember they had used in Russia. They had been the main force to disable any Commonwealth resistance at Maleme Airfield, and put effectively the airfield into friendly forces' control with a night raid, of which the Commonwealth forces couldn't respond to. It was a memorable operation, because Rommel himself was clever enough to understand that while Felix was an SS man, he was a good friend, and had the right motives for life. He even visited Crete momentarily to simply say hello, five days after at the same airfield. They shared the same shrewd approach to war, and were well versed in how to conduct warfare. Rommel pointed on a map, Felix shot people himself. That was the only difference. And as Tyrant...well, he did both, and a lot more of the latter. It was the thing that Felix always understood- he was Tyrant, but Tyrant was not him. Otherwise, Felix knew that would be the end of his sanity. The blood, the simple machinery and the soullessness of such a soldier, that was not Felix.

He knew the winning horse, and stood behind when need be. He didn't need to say a lot. Tyrant, on the other hand, was a man of strength, a powerhouse that could take all but the tanks on and win. And it felt good. To be unstoppable, to be almost indestructible. But that couldn't be the SS officer who had an intelect, a man who understood the bigger picture, than most around him. If Felix wished, he could stop this. Go home, say to Rommel he'd like a position in his staff. And he'd be promoted almost immediately. Up the ranks he would climb, to become a Lieutenant Colonel, or even a Colonel in due course. With hundreds and hundreds of men under his command, he'd be responsible for operations and planning, and never would fire a bullet again. And he was only 34. Men such as him didn't do that in such a short space of time. Yet here he was, a Major, or a Sturbahnfuhrer. He was high ranked, and held a lot of sway. Yet he didn't speak near as much as he could sometimes. He let the others do that, and only put himself in when he needed to make himself heard for the good of people. Perhaps it was one thing that he enjoyed, about this service. They were brothers, and on the edge. And what better way to know that he'd never be remembered, but the thing he piloted would be? Just like Sturm Adler, or Vampire. They were the reason this change happened in the world, right now. And Felix somehow felt that it was an important duty, one that he ought to undertake. Sure, promotion was an easy thing. But he was never one to stop fighting, and he enjoyed it. Getting his teeth into it, acting as a leader of men, and overall, being with his comrades on the ground. That mattered more to Felix. And of course, being able to wield power. That was fun too.

Sitting up, he grabbed his Luger, pulling the magazine out as he then began to tinker about with it, on a small bedside table, disassembling the firearm and looking for any notches or anything that had formed, somehow unsurprised that there weren't any.
"My father was a General in the German Reich, under Kaiser Wilhelm. He was a good man, Jakob. But immediately after the war, a group of Communists and people threatened my family, and we were forced to move from the Ruhr, to Bavaria. Not for the war...but because they had some "Moral" right to take away anyone they deemed an enemy. We lived in fear for at least half a decade. I was the son of a man who ordered German forces to fight on the Western Front to their meat grinding death. So the left had a field day with him. He inspired men like Field Marshall Rommel, and he always told me that I'd perhaps live up to his legacy, do something greater if I chose a path in the military. He died a day before we declared war on Poland. I never understood every part of him, even though he was my dad...but perhaps I wonder what he thinks now, from his position. There is one thing he said to me that sticks with me to this day, Jakob. "Political power is for the meek, only loyal men, bullets and guns matter, if you wish to change the world. Don't become a politician, my boy." He said that to me. He backed the Nazis from the start, and I joined the SS in 1928, you see. I was young, but understanding of what it was. It was redemption for myself. I've understood you well enough, Jakob. You want a free homeland, you hate the invaders, the occupiers, and you work with them in the hope of that. So that you can go home and not worry about your family, friends or countrymen being harassed by German soldiers. I agree. But this is a world forged by fire and iron. Like your Viking ancestors, we see and we take, to form Empires. Eventually, you'll have what you wish. A Norwegian identity, in a greater European, German led Reich, just as my father envisioned. Myself, I don't know. This is what I do best, Jakob. The world needs a Tyrant. It doesn't need to know about the person inside, but it sure needs to have one. And maybe it is just as my dad said. The power of a battalion in one man. It feels like an awful lot of responsibility, but I am glad to have it. As you can fly, throw yourself into the heavens. We're unopposed in that respect." Felix said, as he put the pistol back together, firing pin back in followed by the magazine, then cocking the weapon, checking it was good. He put it back into his drawer, as he clambered out, to the sight of Victoria.
"Good operation?" Felix smiled, as Victoria looked to her CO with a certain smile.
"Grimsey doesn't have a long range radar installation. Allied forces are in the dark. We're ready." She said, as Felix chuckled.
"Well, excellent."

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

Exactly. I mean, the reason that Scott is advancing right now is because there are very scattered paras, but there are a lot more dropping in, and no doubt, will come to this drop zone to reinforce it and basically overwhelm it. Which is basically when they do leg it.

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

Dimitri looked up, to Myles, and then to Alexios.
"I'll have my Bren back, if that's okay with you Sergeant." He simply said, nodding his head to the weapon, as he looked to the weapon, which had kept fairly fixed, not being skilled at using it but being able to at least load 40mm clips and fire them at a rough angle at the sky, which had irritated the enemy. If they were moving, Dimitri was with Alexios, and he wanted to at least have his weapon back- even though it was in a better nick than Alexios's dated Steyr-Mannlicher. Once he got his gun back, he moved up, heading to a Pine, as he then got down by it's side, and flipped down the bipod on the Sten, a heavy mechanism that went and plonked itself onto the floor. Picking it up, and chambering a new magazine, Dimitri aimed and fired down range, aiming for supression rather than accurate fire, aware that this was a SAW- not a LMG. It was a Squad Automatic Weapon- a weapon that fired rapidly and quickly down range. A pair of Paratroops were in his sights- and before they got to fire back with their Lugers, before making a dash, they were sliced apart, Dimitri aware that he could only keep up a particular level of firepower. They were doing very well for the moment- but this was a disorganized and off-guard team of Fallschirmjager. Together, that was when they were lethal. The fire from the Bren stopped with the end of the magazine, with which Dimitri pulled the weapon in and brought up, pulling the magazine out. A new one found it's way in, with bullets riddling his posiition, just somehow hoping that they didn't find target on his new cover, and that the rest of the section would open up.

---

Scott looked over, to his team in particular, nestled in the hedgerow and any other cover that could be scraped from it.
"Fuck, Myles better follow suit. If he sticks back with his section, then he ain't going. We're in the thrust of it now, it's his turn. Or those Greeks." He said, as he looked over to his section, watching the area ahead for any more paras, aware that he had semi-spoken to himself. He had a habit of doing this- but he knew that it wasn't anything big, if someone was at least listening. A couple moved up as the noise of MG34 made Scott duck, as bullets whistled at the tree overhead, the Sten's aim quick in his hands as he sprayed into the area, before breathing, and exhaling again, getting his nerve. Gunner was right of them, 100m. Easy shot, right in the shrubs. The Sten rattled, and the man took some steel to the head, dead in his prone position.
"Bugger, if the platoon's got a M1919, we could do with it here." He simply said, watching the area ahead as he knew that now, they were taking their fair share of fire, and all was well again. They had the initiative...but he felt something was up with Myles. He should have come with Scott, led from the front. Sure, he let Scott do what he knew best...but still, a CO didn't drink, nor did he sit back. He was as fighty as his men. If not more. Worryingly, Scott knew that Myles, while drunk, wasn't exactly the most competent. Perhaps it was a good idea that Scott had things under a vague command. And besides, Bailey wasn't his CO, the man he reported to. He wouldn't get bollocked by him. He kept a good conduct as an NCO, and even if Myles were to pass down a bollocking from Bailey, his equivalent, he'd still be fairly in the clear.

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

Short one going up.

It'd be nice to get some urban combat in Heraklion, if possible at some point.

Juggernauts (BigPapaBelial and kingkonrad) IC

"Likely to be, right on the wingtip. I heard a bunch of Royal Marines pulled it off, so we can. Hook your karabiner into whatever hardpoint there is, and make sure it's above, or else you'll get fired at some fucking terrorist. " Ross spoke with a slight chrotle, as he saw the Apache take a little fire, then respond in kind with M320 and CRV7 rocket fire. Wait. That was a Canadian warhead, and in particular, that was only mounted onto British Apaches, or the AH1. This was going to be an interesting flight, no doubt.
"This is Whiskey Six, Knight, we're getting your arses out of here. Coming in hot- get yourselves mounted on the sides on the double and we'll get you to where we need to be." The pilot said, as Ross noticed in particular, it was a Northern Irish accent. Another slice of Britannia out here. Taking a few shots as Ross moved across, firing his Mk48 at a rooftop that was quickly torn apart by his and then 30mm fire, he lobbed another smoke forward, to cover the helicopter's decent.

Moving through the courtyard, the Apache came in low, as the pilot held it steady, letting Ross and Carl mount up. This was a bit crazy, and he knew that the rocket and gun run had made everyone duck, that is, apart from the two heavily armored troops that had basically cleared most of the village. Using what energy he could muster, he threw himself onto the left wing tip, grabbing the back of his hip and clipping the karabiner into what seemed like a steel pylon, though not a weapon system as it was above and not below the wingtip.
"Ross is clear, when Carl's good, take us out of here." He said as calmly as he could over the comms, aware that this was going to be quite different. Raising his Mk48, as the pilot waited for Carl to give the go, he saw a couple of AQ soldiers move out from the direction they had come in, to be then lighted up by Ross's LMG, the pilot now aware that they were going.
"We're going." He said simply, as the Apache quickly gained lift, the brick of an attack helicopter swooping out of the area as elegantly as possible, the gun firing away as they flew fast and low out of the area, leaving the village behind fast and going back into the darkness of the valleys again, Ross aware of the insanity of the situation. His legs hung over the side of a fucking helicopter gunship, and he was sitting in a position that really shouldn't have been where he should have sat.
"This is mental..." Ross said to himself, as he put his visor up, taking in some of the air as he checked his comms, the thundering noise of rotor blades above him not even muted by his helmet.
"Merlin, this is Knight. What's our lead?" He said, as Merlin was quick to reply, as they flew lower down, out of the mountains, down towards the river valley.
"Situation reads that we've got three SEALS alive, confirmed by our drones. They're holding them hostage at a town called Jamal Abad, in Gilgit–Baltistan Province, Northern Kashmir. It's disputed territory by the Indian and Pakistani governments, and is one of the most unstable and hostile areas in the world. Our influence should never be here...but we need to extract those SEALS one way or another, and a drone strike would be off limits, and the fact that they're being held in a Mosque facility...somewhere which if we hit, will result in enormous political fallout in addition to what we already have, so you get why you're getting sent in. We're going to drop you in a remote location within the province, and you'll meet one of our CIA assets, who will brief you on the situation. You're going to conduct a raid and get our guys out, and bring them back to Afghanistan one way or another. Whiskey Six will drop you then return to Afghani airspace- we'll send another air unit to properly get you out of there. I understand we've had to get a lot of choppers out for you- but we're stretched thin, and are basically handing you whatever we can muster in this area. You have priority on this op- so keep that in mind, over." Merlin said, as Ross looked out to the pilot, aware of his mission parameters.
"How stealthed out is this thing then?" He asked over local comms, the pilot chuckling.
"It isn't, but trust me, I'm as good as they get, if you just saw back there. You might not shit yourselves often, but I can try and make it happen- we're going to fly below radar for most of this run to avoid Pakistani jets flying out and intercepting us." He said, Ross just not wanting to think of what that meant. As he checked his GPS, he realized quickly why. They were two miles out, and the helicopter dropped like a stone, the empty and cold environment of the highlands below them truly wonderful with NVGs, but not to the naked eye. There was almost no moonlight now, and as they flew at almost 20m off the deck, Ross had to praise the pilot on this run. They were going to do some serious business against these bastards, and even if they thought they had the SEALs safe and were immune to getting bombed, they were getting a different kind of munition. One that was the emergency services for Navy Seals, no less.

The pilot was still flying like a total boss across the border, miles and miles in, deep within the valleys and on the wider areas, using anything as masking cover, staying so low that Ross could make out individual house doors, though it was mainly a blur in the speed of the chopper, as they headed into the more unpopulated area of Kashmir, flying for almost half an hour without breaking radar or going above any elevation that a normal pilot would never dare to fall below.
"Never knew that we'd be doing this sort of work, over the border. It's going to be lightly snowed over, but the town's fairly large, so be ready for some urban combat when we get there. But if we're being dropped into the middle of nowhere, I haven't a clue on how this is going down." He said, putting his visor down to keep the cold out, putting his NVG set down too, the quad-NVG securely over the visor, made of kevlar and heavily resistant materials to keep bullets from disintergrating the NVG set, that was effectively as armored as his visor. Even the lenses were made of reinforced polymer that could withstand a 7.62 bullet, and merely have a skin-deep crack within it, being seriously uparmored. None the less, Ross knew that they weren't like those giants, able to lay down heavy fire and take it back, no matter what- they had to be careful, and needed to not go head on into the worst of the mess, being able to instead deal with the lighter side of things and take a good angle. They could take a beating, but they had upped the ante, and while on breaches, charging in was an option, sometimes going right into a compound was not the way to go.

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

We need a Canuck, I feel. We haven't got one :(

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.