Their Finest Hour (AU World War II / IC-OPEN)

by **Beiarusia** » Sun Feb 04, 2018 11:34 pm

The German blitzkrieg cannot be stopped. Europe has fallen, and by June 1940 the British Isles come under attack. Operation Sea Lion is a success. Within two weeks Great Britain capitulates, its government fleeing west across the Atlantic to Canada, the Commonwealth having lost its heart.

The United States of America, officially, remains neutral as Europe undergoes total subjugation, but soldiers defect en masse to the north, enlisting with the Canadian military, AWOL, yet no efforts are made to halt the volunteers. ANZAC and Raj troopers arrive in Vancouver in preparation for the inevitable counter-offensive. Meanwhile, in the deserts of North Africa, Government-in-Exile forces are losing ground, defeated time and again by the Italians and the feared Afrika Korps, and with the Suez Canal taken the USSR finds its final lifeline severed.
To the Far East the Empire of Japan conquers Asia with little resistance.
An Axis victory seems unavoidable, yet there is hope.

The date is April 30^th, 1941. The war continues. The USSR has lost Moscow and is desperately holding the line in the Ural Mountains; Spain has formally joined the Axis; Japan has claimed most of East Asia.
In Ireland, Commonwealth troops assemble, the beginnings of Operation Cross. The liberation of Great Britain.

As a sign of cooperation, of unity, a multi-national task force is created:
No. 18 (Inter-Allied) Commando "The Exiles".

This will be their finest hour.

- OOC -
- Original Thread -
- The Pub: a P2tM Group -

CHAPTER ONE
HOMECOMING

Lieutenant William Bryant

Casement Aerodrome, Ireland // Tuesday, April 29th, 1941 // 2338 hours

Bryant was making his way to where the DC-3 was undergoing its final pre-flight checks. He carried his rucksack in his left hand and in the other his rifle, a Lee-Enfield Mk.III held about the center. To his right was Staff Sergeant Moss with a Winchester shotgun propped up against his shoulder. Both men were dressed in combat fatigues. Moss clean-cut; Bryant professionally unkempt.

Casement Aerodrome had become the de-factor HQ of the Commonwealth in Europe, and for the past three months had been the home of Lieutenant Bryant and his men, "The Exiles," an Inter-Allied commando unit formed in preparation of the Allied counter-offensive. Bryant had trained them as best he could, taught them cooperation — to varying degrees of success — and with zero-hour fast approaching he couldn't help but to wonder if it had been enough. The man was confident, foolishly so, but, despite himself, there was a small kernel of doubt festering in the furthermost regions of his mind, a nagging worry that he had failed. A bittersweet notion that was quickly pushed aside by the idea of their homecoming; of his wife and daughter awaiting him in London.

Failure was never an option.

"You're doing it again," Moss said, adjusting the shotgun so that it rested more comfortably. His accent was from the south of England, towards Kent, a minor variation that would be near impossible for non-Englishmen to identify as distinct.

"Doing what?" Bryant asked.

"That stupid grin of yours. You look homesick, Lieutenant."

Bryant shrugged. "A tad bit. Eager for some payback is all." The Germans had won in mainland Europe, and again on the British Isles, and going further back Bryant was still bitter about his wounding in the Great War all those years ago. He liked to think he'd meet that sniper one of these days. Wishful thinking. "I think Fritz has overstayed his welcome. So, as proper English gentlemen, we need to politely show him the door, with our boot if necessary."

Moss laughed. "So kill 'em all is what you're saying."

"I was trying to be sophisticated, but, yes, that is the plan."

A young soldier in a rush stumbled into the pair, quickly apologized, but then recognized his commanding officer, and so stopped dead in his tracks to apologize once more in a considerably more proper fashion, cheeks burning red as if he'd somehow gone and insulted the Queen herself. Bryant assured the lad that all was well, and the young soldier, embarrassed, hurried off to their meeting point — bumping into a group of airmen as he went.

Once he was out of earshot, Moss said, "Bit of a queer lass, isn't he? I understand the need for new blood, new boots and all, but that boy is more than a little wet behind the ears, and I don't intend to babysit the fucking new guy. So why bring him?"

"Don't you worry about Ripley. That 'lass' saved my skin back in London. Genius with a wrench," Bryant answered.

With their only means of escape so eloquently shot-to-shit, and with the Germans barking at their heels like dogs mad on the hunt, it was the mechanical knowledge of Private Ripley keeping them — and their truck — afloat on the journey west to the rendezvous point in Reading.

The unit was gathered near the DC-3 that would spirit them to Lancaster. Commando Unit No. 18 of the Special Service Brigade, "The Exiles." An unconventional task force to say the least. Inter-Allied. Commonwealth, mostly, with a few Poles and Frogs thrown into the mix for good measure, and a German, too. Soldiers with no home. Any chatter died away as Bryant approached. They looked to him with expectation in their eyes, perhaps an inkling of fear, and the Lieutenant returned their gaze with a simple truth: this was their moment, the prelude to their finest hour, and were Bryant the sentimental sort he'd maybe feel some pride welling up inside his chest. Instead he found the camaraderie of brothers in arms. Of course, they had yet to prove themselves in the fires of war, but he was optimistic.

A final check of their supplies, and then a brief rundown of their mission ending as the engines of the DC-3 roared to life. More planes were spooling up for departure further down the taxiway. The soldiers were about to board when approached by Lieutenant Colonel Richardson, Canadian Army and honorary SSB attaché directly overseeing Inter-Allied commando assets. They offered a crisp salute and were quickly waved at-ease. "Just wanted to see you off," he said, his voice raised to be heard over the noise of the engines.

"Aye, but shouldn't you be in bed? You have a busy day tomorrow," Bryant said with a small chuckle.

"No sleep until England is free again. I'm sure you of all people understand." He looked to each of them in turn, his dark eyes cutting deep, as if addressing them for hidden faults like an appraiser examining the cut of a gemstone, and finding none he continued. "I'll keep this brief. This war has been nothing but setback after setback. France, Dunkirk, London" — his eyes flitted to Bryant — "but come sunrise we change that. We land at Lancaster, and street by street we retake England, and then Europe, and I want you to lead the way. This is your homecoming. So do us proud." The man saluted, and the soldiers stepped onto the plane without another word. To Bryant he adds, "I know you'll do right," to which the Lieutenant only nods.

Bryant sat near the cockpit with Moss opposite him, and soon thereafter they were moving towards the runway.

Lieutenant William Bryant

DC-3 Lucky Day over Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0056 hours

They were nearing Lancaster. No complications, the DC-3 going on its merry way without so much as a curious glance from those below. Regardless, the pilots did well to steer away from known German checkpoints, wary of jittery AA gunners with nothing better to do with themselves than to waste flak against a seemingly innocuous flyover. An indirect course was plotted and followed with nothing of note occurring between Point A to Point B. The DC-3 may well have been invisible for all the Germans cared.

Bryant is calm, apathetic to the coming storm, and is more interested in examining the gunmetal contours of his sidearm than in contemplating the vicious hell of battle. He inspects the old-yet-reliable Webley revolver like a chef inspecting the sharpness of a filet knife, and, thoroughly satisfied, returns the weapon to its holster before giving his rifle a final once-over. He's checked his gear three times now and is merely going through the motions to pass the time. To keep his hands busy. When not picking through his rucksack Bryant had occupied himself by studying the men under his command. He could match a name to a face and even knew a bit of their histories. Not much, but enough so to give an accurate judgement of their character.

Private Ripley was young and skittish, but dedicated.

The Frogs were complete opposites. Corporal Gaspard was idealistic in his youth whereas Lance Corporal Dutoit (or Perry) was an old firebrand who'd served with distinction in the Great War.

The Poles, well, they had a score to settle.

The German, well, she was odd for several reasons, number one on the list being that she was a woman, and while some (like Moss) were against her inclusion it was a decision decided upon by Lieutenant Colonel Richardson. Formerly a member of the Nazi Party, she was involved in a plot against Hitler and had escaped during her the purge of her allies, bringing with her enough intel to guarantee her participation in the SSB. There were still trust issues but things were smoothing out.

"Good to be heading home," Moss said, looking out the window to the passing countryside. "Been away for too long right we have."

Bryant offers another of his shrugs. "Home's a long way from here."

Moss is about to respond but is interrupted by the pilot — a motormouthed South African by the name of Alan Bradley — calling out from the cockpit. They're almost to the drop point.

Moss rolls his shoulders. "Guess it's time."

Bryant stands and turns to address the soldiers gathered before him with all the charisma of a seasoned politician. "Alright you baggers, listen up. Fritz has come over uninvited and he's made quite the mess he has, a big one, bigger even than that dust-up twenty years back. So, after we land, take a beachhead or two or three, we'll be marching on home to London to tidy up a bit." He raised a finger as if asking for pause. "Soon. Today we kill some artillery so our pals in their boats can sail on over and hoist the Union Hack over Lancaster. That's today. Tomorrow we begin our march to London, and when we're done, and the Queen is rightly back on her throne, then we cross the Channel, and we return the favor to Fritz. They fucked up, so now we remind them what happens when you burn our cities and kill our King!" The soldiers cheer in agreement, feet stamping, the butts of rifles clanging against the metal floor in a riotous clamor. One, Private Ripley, has withdrawn into himself like a turtle, watching with wide eyes and no doubt wondering how he'd gotten mixed up in this mess. Bryant points to this young soldier and asks, "Ripley! You ever jump before?"

The private is startled at his being called upon but shakes his head. "Just that... that one time, sir."

"Well, time to make it two."

The pilot calls out once more. Thirty seconds. The soldiers, lost in their newfound excitement, ready themselves as the doors open, and with a final rallying cry they jump into the cool darkness of the night. Thus begins the longest day.

Lieutenant William Bryant

2.3 kilometers from RZ, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0105 hours

Bryant lands with no problem and quickly cuts himself free of the parachute as the engines of the DC-3 fade away to silence. Taking a moment to orient himself, he begins the short trek to the designated rendezvous-point, a small church in the town of Quernmore, itself a few kilometers east of Lancaster. He scans the sky in search of the others, but the darkness makes spotting them difficult.

Good. They are unlikely to have been seen.

The land here is mostly farmland. Flat with some rolling hills. The church isn't terribly tall, its belfry being stunted at only a few stories high, but it will be easy to locate should the soldiers not have strayed too far off course.

Private Jonathan Ripley

4.7 kilometers from RZ, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0109 hours

Unlike Lieutenant Bryant, Ripley did not enjoy an easy landing, somehow managing to hit a grove of trees despite her best efforts to avoid the twisted forms rising from the darkness, and now she was stuck, her parachute snagged in the branches with her feet dangling ten feet off the ground. "Bloody hell," she muttered to herself, regretting her decision to enlist more-and-more by the second. She was near the edge of the little grove, and so could see the field beyond without difficulty, but the darkness makes little discernible. Odds of being found by a friendly chap are lower than low, so she struggles to free herself, and, failing that, pulls loose the standard-issued knife strapped at her side with intention to cut the straps biting into her chest and waist. The fall isn't something she looks forward to but there's little choice. She begins cutting.

by **Anowa** » Mon Feb 05, 2018 2:27 am

Corporal Monika Hössler

4.72 kilometers from RZ, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0109 hours

Monika knew she was one of the more desensitized members of the squad. She was among the few to sharpen her shovel, one of fewer to pack cigarettes despite being a non-smoker. Smoker's cough as a sharpshooter was far from an optimal trait. She was far from naive, and far from unaware of what combat would entail, the few firefights she had with her Schutzstaffel pursuers across Occupied Europe were a testament to that.

But it was still rather terrifying to jump out of a perfectly good airplane, with no form of safety net other than the prayer that the millimeter of cloth strapped to your back wouldn't tear, or tangle, or fail to deploy. But in all God's grace it did deploy with a rather rough pull on her abdomen. And she started a long and agonizing sail down to Earth, a number of parachutes both above and below her going with. She could barely see them, her keen eyes spotting what others couldn't something indispensable with her role.

As she landed upon the Earth, she had to roll to avoid snapping her ankles, her landing far from perfect, but with no injuries, it's all that mattered. As she cast her gaze around and collected her chute she opened her mouth a bit, and started breathing through it. Within a minute she could hear damn near everything, from her own heartbeat the sounds of distant engines on the midnight prowl. It was a small tidbit her father had taught her, himself a veteran of the Great War. It wasn't the only thing the man had taught his only child, but it was the only relevant skill in the current situation. Monika knew deep down that her father always wanted a son, but as it was, he dealt with the hand he was given. Monika was always a bit tomboyish, though not entirely of her own choice, her father usually involved her in activities not entirely becoming of a lady, fishing, sometimes hunting in Schwarzwald, sometimes camping. It was why she was as athletic as she was, more strenuous activity compared to her peers. More knowledge of life, of surviving.

Despite his own likely death or internment by the regime, and his rather sour mood when in the presence of others, Monika couldn't love her father more than she had now. What he taught, and the skills he gave his only child had saved her life more than a dozen times over the past year alone. And for his memory, Monika fought.

Her gaze caught a parachute coming down nearby, less than a hundred meters away. Monika slowly racked the bolt on her rifle, the telescopic sight gleaming in the moonlight. Before moving on to the Luger she looted from the first SS Officer she had to kill, and then the shovel she had packed over her rump. With all of it in place, she clipped her helmet on and started moving. Her goal was to rendezvous with whoever was attached to the chute, and then make her way to the church. It was a simple measure that everyone shouldn't even need to be told, there was strength and safety in numbers. Yes, perhaps fighting a whole assault squad of grenadiers with only a duo of commandos wasn't easy, but evading such a situation in the first place was easier with two sets of senses.

As she approached she could hear something she didn't want, saw something worse. The sounds of casual German conversation, the sound of someone struggling in a tree. And the sight of a two man German patrol working their way closer to whoever was in the tree.

Monika knew how to stalk animals, humans were no different, in fact, easier. Humans didn't have as accurate senses as wild animals, deers had absurd hearing and smell. While two German enlisted in the midst of conversation about... the local women... weren't nearly as attentive as Black Forest's Cervids.

Monika found it easy to get within uncomfortable distance of the duo. Too embroiled in their conversation and trying to light a smoke with a wet set of matches to notice that they were being pursued like mice. Rats, rather. She pulled the shovel free of it's place as she slung the rifle over her shoulder. One paused as he looked up, a smile spreading upon his face as he slapped his buddy on the shoulder, *"Well, would you look at that Arno!"

"What?" the second looked up, "Well, that is a sight, poor little spy stuck in a tree. Like an unruly cat. heh?" he nudged his buddy. Monika frowned, time was out for her ally in the tree.

She started moving as one pulled a pistol free from it's holster, next to what looked like a knife scabbard and a duo of Granaten, "Well don't worry little kitty, I'll get you down from that tree." as he took aim, Monika pounced, he arm coming down with cold steel and wood, the massive blade of the sharpened shovel coming down on the man's shoulder, keeping on until it hit something solid, probably bone. Monika didn't hesitate, her mind reaching a 'no time to think' mentality.

Her hand went to the first man's belt, grabbing the scabbard she pulled free the massive ten inch blade from the dying man's belt. She brought it over towards the shocked second's expression. jamming it into the man's neck until it started poking out the far side, jamming it around as the man slumped, blood flowing from the now gaping neck wound as he slumped into her. She dropped the corpse as she reached the shovel lodge in the first's back. It took a little work, but it came free with a bit of wiggling.

It was only then she looked up at the one in the tree, who's life she just saved. Unexpectedly it was the youngest of the team. Er tanzte aus der Reihe, That's what Monika thought of the boy. It wasn't a negative connotation either, sometimes going against the grain helped, though in this case it may have nearly gotten the boy killed. He was notably, well, feminine, it took a woman to know it seemed as he was serving in a unit as a bog standard trooper, no other skills than that of a mechanic. But Monika went with it, lest she be seen as a vindictive woman in the eyes of God. She gave the younger girl a thumbs up, "Prost!"

As the younger of the two extracted herself from the tree, Monika started gathering the ammo from the dead hostile's MP40s. Ripley's Sten could feed from the same magazines as the MP40, it was one of the more ingenious parts of the weapons design. Ah, who was she kidding, it was the only good part about the weapon, it was inaccurate, cheap, and likely to fall apart. The only good sides to it were the ease of maintenance and weight.

Ultimately Monika did what she had when she landed, opened her mouth, and took deep breaths, her sense of sound working it's way back to her.

*German to English Translation

by **Independent States of Tula** » Mon Feb 05, 2018 1:12 pm

Corporal Witek H. Niemczyk

2.37 kilometers from RZ, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0105 hours

"Kurwa!" Witek cursed as he hit the ground and rolled before the last bit of wind left his parachute and it crumpled to the ground.

Unhooking the ungodly straps as he lay on his back in this British field Witek managed to finally undo the last few clasps after a few moments before being able to sit up again. He quickly moves to unstrap his regular rucksack from in front of him and move it around to his back where it belonged as he notices another chute falling near to him. Witek figures it must be Feliks considering he'd been right behind him and stops to watch for a moment as the commando lands about a hundred meters or so away from him in the field. Setting his rucksack back to its proper location Witek unstrapped his M1918A2 from its horizontal position just below his small reserve chute and set it aside before unstrapping the reserve chute and throwing it over next to the regular one. With all the non-essential equipment now off of him, Witek grabbed his BAR and set off in the direction of the second chute.

It took him no time at all before he heard the gentle sound of flowing water, and as he approached where he'd seen the chute land he saw a single figure crouched down by the edge of a nearby brook studying something on the ground.

"Feliks?" Witek called out to the figure lowly so his voice didn't travel too far over the open ground.

"Is me Witek. Come on over, I think I know where we are." Came the reply from the crouched down figure wearing British BDU's and Helmet.

"Dobry. We hit the mark?" Witek asked as he came over and crouched down, looking at the map which Feliks had laid out on the ground.

Feliks pointed towards what looked like a thin dark colored line in the map as he started, "This is what the English call...the Row-ton Brook, is the stream we are next to now, it goes from East to West towards a farm I spotted further west through the binoculars. If we follow this brook we can follow it until we cross a road near the village of Quernmore, from there we'll be just north of the church and can move south to meet up with the Lieutenant and the rest. Is good plan?"

"Follow Brook, cross a road, then go south to get to church?" Witek queried to make sure he heard it all correctly.

"Tak. Is the plan." Feliks replied.

"Dobry, I will take lead then." Witek replied, hefting up his BAR as he waited for Feliks to collect his map and rucksack.

The two Poles turned commandos began their trek west, following the brook without incident further west until they came upon half a dozen buildings ranging from a farmhouse to some barns that indicated that the map was indeed correct. The lights were out and so the two Poles stayed upright as they walked around the outskirts off the buildings, content that no one was watching them from the farmstead. They entered a small grove of trees next to the farmstead as they continued following the brook, concealing themselves in the shadows provided by the closely packed grove. They continued following the brook under the stars and the moon shortly after coming clear of the grove and kept at it for a while, Witek leading with his BAR while Feliks followed with the Sten sweeping the flanks.

Finally the two came to the road they had to cross and found no sign of any life, no foot patrols, no trucks, no kubelwagons...nothing. The night was dead.

"Well, this is boring. Not like France or the Fatherland. At least we had plenty of Germans to shoot there. I haven't seen a single one yet." Feliks remarked, earning a small smirk from Witek who crossed the road in a short sprint, kneeling down on the other side as he watched south towards the small village of Quernmore with his BAR.

The sound of feet on pavement and then the softer sound of feet on grass once more told Witek that Feliks was indeed now across and behind him. Without a word the two continued following the brook a few dozen more meters before stopping, the two spotting the church's steeple from across a field that separated the village from the brook they were currently following.

"Hold up Witek. Let me see if I can see anything with the binoculars, is not good if we walk into trap set by Germans." Feliks stated.

With that Witek went prone and extended his bipod as he took aim at the village in case he needed to fire or return it, Feliks mirroring the motion but instead of pulling out a firearm he grabbed binoculars.

"What do you see?" Witek asked.

by **Vrijstaat Limburg** » Tue Feb 06, 2018 5:51 pm

Private Theodorus J.G. van Baemelen

2.37 kilometers from RZ, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0110 hours

Theo was silently humming a folk song from his region of Limburg, hoping for a friend to identify him. He had struggled to clip off his risers, or even cut down the buggars. When he tried to grab his knife strapped to his boot, it fell clean down to the dirted ground due to his clumsiness. He was looking about, scanning his surroundings, direly searching for a comrade or an english farmer or anybody who could help him. He checked his watch. "Schijt", he proclaimed. He nervously tried to drop his parachute, this time putting some force on it. After a solid 3 minutes of clamping around with his risers and parachute equipment, Theo fell to the ground. The landing was painful, but nothing serious. He got up and straighted his back, groaning in pain. He'd look around him, scanning every bush he could find. No buildings, no lights, no people.

He put his Sykes-Fairbairn combat knife in his boot pocket, and unzipped his M1 Garand rifle. He'd check his gear once more, hoping that he didn't lose anything during the drop. All appeared to be good.

Theo'd be sitting next to a bush, trying to stay concealed. "Godverdomme", he couldn't properly identify where he had landed, and seemed to be completely lost. He checked his wrist watch once more: He was far behind schedule and he needed to move out now. Unsure of where to go exactly, he just wondered out over what appeared to be farms, looking for a small cottage where he could link up with locals and get a proper overview of his geographical location. He tried to stay concealed, moving along the hedges of the farms. After what appeared to be ages, he could hear movement coming from the hedges next to him. He'd silently check his pockets for his clicking device. "Schijt, schijt, schijt.." he whispered to himself, not being able to find the damned thing. He tried to imitate the noise with his mouth. "Click, click".

"Click-click". Theodor felt relief. He peeked around the corner to see a man wearing a commando uniform. Standing before the lad was Lance Corporal Rudolph Baldwin, a sturdy Australian looking him dead in the eye. "Where do we go?" the stern face asked the boy. "Not sure, lance-corporal", the Belgian replied with his dutch accent. "Have ye got a map for me?" Theodor opened his breast pocket and handed over the map that he couldn't properly decrypt. "You've been going the wrong way you fuckin' Joker" Theodor swallowed. "On me." the Australian sounded sincere, and Theo did not want to neglect his order. The two would be on their ways to the small protestant church in Quernmore.

As the two moved up northwards, they came across a small detachment of German soldiers driving around in an Opel Blitz. The two commandos dropped to the ground in a ditch next to the road, with Baldwin hiding his face in the mud, and van Baemelen looking up to the soldiers in the Opel truck. He'd make short eye contact with a young German lad. He seemed to be as old as him. As Theodor watched him, he hoped that he wouldn't be spotted. The two simply stared at eachother and the Opel truck moved on. "Jerry's got my feckin uniform all dirty now." Theodor nodded "We'll get them later, but we're a bit late. Let's get up, no?" The lance corporal nodded back, and they decided to be on their ways.

"The fuck are we anyways?" van Baemelen looked up to Baldwin. "Fuck off.", The Australian wasn't a man of words, that was for sure. As the men were roaming around the vast fields of Northern England, neither of the two really knew what they were doing.

As the two moved down the dirt roads of Lancaster's nearby farms, they tried to preserve whatever stealth they had left. After 10 minutes of walking Baldwin stopped, and ordered the Belgian private to stop as well

"What's going o-"

"Shh." The Australian placed his index finger on his mouth, making a "Shut up" gesture.

Theo sat there, motionless, waiting for something to happen, but, contrary to his expectations, the pair just sat in a ditch for about 2 minutes while lance corporal Baldwin stared his eyes out

"Give me the map again"

The private handed him the map, telling him that he could "keep it". Van Baemelen expected some sort of thanks, but that never came. The Lance Corporal simply inspected the map.

The Australian smiled, looking over the map.

"Bingo"

by **Romanussia** » Tue Feb 06, 2018 7:39 pm

Sgt. John Simonds
Commonwealth Infantry Regiment
Commando Unit Number 18 "The Exiles"
Onboard DC-3 Lucky Day over Lancaster

Operation: Cross, New Offensive

John breathed in nervous, quick breaths as he sat on the aircraft. He fidgeted around with the cross on his necklace, praying for the best outcome.

He had seen war. He knew what it had done to people. What it had done to him.

He reassured himself. Everyone here had been scarred by war. Why, this place needed to liven up. He chuckled at the thought. He put his necklace down and got ready, moving around restlessly; cocking his gun and smoothing out his uniform. He had finished exactly at the moment when a soldier spoke up.

It was a good speech. He cheered along in a jovial nature at the end.

Yet, he noticed that the rents of the unit had quite forgotten him. He was fairly quiet. Maybe they had some anxiety dealing with the new weight on their shoulders. Maybe they expected not a lot different than other failed missions.

One thing was for sure, John would make sure he didn't go unnoticed and that Fritz'll rue the day that John Simonds had paraschuted his way down unto Lancaster.

Sgt. John Simonds
Commonwealth Infantry Regiment
Commando Unit Number 18 "The Exiles"
A quaint house in Toronto

The Fall of Britain, World War Two

John opened the door to his family home. Throwing down a duffel bag of some sorts, he slumped over his armchair, running his hands through his hair as he sat and thought. The failure of British troops at the decisive Battle of London had meant the subsequent fall of the Home Isles themselves. John had fought with passion, the one of those of his relatives, to beat Fritz back to Berlin.

But, you could all tell how that plan had worked out for him.

Yet, hope was not to be lost. His rank and grave actions and cohesion at London had landed him an important role. You see, the moment that the British had failed, they already jumped on an idea to pick up the pieces. To succeed regardless, and to prepare a plot to take back Britain.

His eyes glittered at the sight of reading the letter; his head filled with possibility.

After examining the paper, he tore it open and laid it down on his desk. In it were explicit yet underdeveloped plans of a plan to take back Britain at Lancaster at Lancanshire. To strike at the Germans' flank and cripple them. To sweep up back into London and avenge all those dead.

John's chest swelled with British pride and persistence.

He wa s assigned to Ireland and depart as quickly as possible to help assemble the team that would invade. He started packing as soon as he finished the letter.

Sgt. John Simonds
Commonwealth Infantry Regiment
Commando Unit Number 18 "The Exiles"
Hanging onto parachute near Lancaster

Operation: Cross, New Offensive

John felt the wind jet past his body, a bitter cold nipping at all sides of his body as he descended in the air. He took a glance at the plane and prepared his landing, reflexively deploying his paraschute and setting himself to work at finding a spot. He could see a lad, that Ripley fellow, heading straight for a tree grove.

The thought of the impact made him cringe.

Either way, he soon made his way towards a field and swerved himself over to that general direction. Finally sure of his landing, he closed his eyes.

Swish!

His legs touched the ground and his equipment and parachute wnet straight over his head as he tried to roll over and set off for the rendezvous point. As he untangled himself and clipped pff the paraschute, he grasped his rifle firmly, checked his items and uniform, and set off. He hoped to see each of the French, Poles, Germans, Belgians, and Brits there at the church.

And so he ran off in that direction. He would soon meet with the other Commonwealth forces.

by **Beiarusia** » Tue Feb 06, 2018 10:10 pm

Private Jonathan Ripley

2.5 kilometers from RZ, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0142 hours

Ripley had cut through the first strap and was onto the second when she heard movement in the brush nearby, and then a voice speaking in native German. [Well, would you look at that, Arno!] it said with a small chuckle. Ripley turned as best she could to look behind her to see the shadows of two men looking up at where she hanged in the trees. A second voice added, [Well, that is a sight, poor little spy stuck in a tree. Like an unruly cat, heh?] The man removed his sidearm from its holster and took measured aim. Slow and deliberate, enjoying the helpless target presented to him like a gift from God.

[No spy! Training! I was blown off course!] Ripley yelped, the lie pausing the man who hadn't been expecting her German. The British uniform would betray her once clearly in sight, but the panicked fib had procured her another moment at life.

Long enough for Corporal Hössler to strike.

The woman leapt out from the darkness like a viper, striking fast and hard, and before either of the two men could react she had already delivered her fatal blows. Ripley turned away as the soldiers were cut down, their dying moans a tad bit unsettling. Sure, she'd seen her fair share of death during the Battle of London, her unit annihilated, and maybe she had killed a man or two when she returned fire in bitter desperation, but she'd yet to grow accustomed to the horrors of it all. Chancing a glance back she saw Hössler giving a thumbs-up. "Prost," she said as if she hadn't just butchered two men. Ripley returned a timid thumbs-up. "Prost."

Quickly cutting herself free of the remaining straps, Ripley fell, landed, rolled — with all the grace of a sack of potatoes — and scrambled up to her feet. She checked her gear (everything accounted for) while Hössler searched the bodies for anything of use.

The two headed southwest, following a small stream out of the grove until it ended abruptly, and then continued on through the hills, reaching another stream that led them to a service road cutting across the countryside. Headlights could be seen in the far-out distance heading east away from Lancaster. Two vehicles that soon disappeared from sight. The hill of Clougha Pike allowed them an unobstructed view of the surrounding area. In the darkness of night Rowton Brook could faintly be seen flowing to the south of their position; Lancaster to the northwest; the crossroads at Quernmore due west. Another mile and a half to reach their destination.

"Thanks," began Ripley, pausing to clear her throat and to lower the heightened pitch that had unknowingly crept into her voice. She looked to Hössler with awed respect and some jealousy. The woman was free to go about without needing to hide what she was, not because Lord Churchill cared to make an exception, but because the Weimar Republic considered her a useful asset, and despite them belonging to British SSB it was ultimately the choice of the German government-in-exile to allow or to disallow women in the service. Ripley was having a hard enough time with the war as is, but hiding as a man was tiresome after so long. Fearful of exposure. "Thanks for saving me back there. I was, uh... a bit stuck, yeah." Unlike Staff Sergeant Moss who hailed from the south of England, Ripley's accent was proper London with a twang of German due to her parents' and grandparents' speaking both. She looked to the west towards where the church should be. "Think the others 'ave made it?"

Independent States of Tula wrote:Corporal Niemczyk & Private Lawniczak

Lieutenant William Bryant

Rendezvous-Point, Quernmore Church, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0151 hours

The Poles could see the small church well enough despite the overwhelming darkness. All was quiet, and although headlights could be seen in the distance heading out of Lancaster (two vehicles) the church itself looked abandoned, and it was, empty save for the dust which accumulated from disuse. The last patrol had passed by hours ago and hadn't bothered to double-back. The occupying force was comfortably unaware of the imminent invasion, of the fleet creeping in from Ireland, and had grown complacent to the British aircraft flying regularly overhead. It wouldn't be until much later that the alert would be raised, and by then the little church at the crossroads of Quernmore would be the least of their worries.

But then came movement. Three men traveling northwest along the road. Lieutenant Bryant took point, sticking to the safety of the fields, eyes alert, and trailing a few dozen yards back were Corporal Paquin and Lance Corporal Aasen. They paused at the crossroads, allowing several moments to pass before continuing on, arriving at the church with little incident. Niemcyzk and Lawnicyzak had yet to be spotted by their allies.

"No one's home," Bryant said, clearing the foyer with his rifle raised at the ready. The next minute was spent ensuring that they were truly and utterly alone. Once done, he ordered the sniper-spotter pair to head up the belfry to keep lookout.

It was no only a matter of waiting for the others to arrive.

by **Tayner** » Wed Feb 07, 2018 9:17 pm

Private William McBride
Commando Unit No. 18
"The Exiles"

Bryant had done an excellent job in briefing the men, and more so motivating them when they were ready to drop into England. The Scotsman checked his weapon again after the speech, and looked around the plane. Melting pot would best describe the unit, although the distinct lack of Yanks disturbed him. It was no secret they were enlisting with the Canuks en masse, but the fact that at least one American didn't land in their unit was curious. Maybe the Yanks are holding out on us. McBride thought as he looked to the person across from him, who was called out by their CO.

"Ripely! You ever jump before?"

"Just that... that one time, sir."

"Well, time to make it two."

"Dinnae worry lad." McBride spoke up. "It's my first combat jump too. We're together in this." He said before the pilot called back through the cockpit again. The soldiers in their motivated state began to prepare themselves for the jump, and one by one each commando began their controlled plummet to the ground. It wasn't long until McBride was to the door, looking to the earth as they traveled over it.

"For Queen and Country!" His voice boomed over the aircraft's engines, before he simply leapt out of the door.

And with that McBride began his decent, eventually pulling his chute and after some time he found himself making a smooth landing on rightful English soil. He unclipped his harness, and then his leg bag before securing his equipment. His radio, rifle, extra ammo, hand grenades, a silver cigarette box and equally silver zippo, among other things. He stood up and looked around to get his bearings. He found himself in an elevated position, staring all around.

It's as black as the Earl of Hell's waistcoat out here. He thought before finishing what climb he had to do to reach the top of the hill. Unbeknownst to him he landed on Grit Fell, a small hill that happened to be surrounded by bogs. He scanned the stars, got his bearings, and saw the silhouette of the church in the distance, and so he set off, eventually finding himself wading through waist high waters, sometimes even higher. He held his rifle high as he trudged through the mud and dirty water, cursing the bad smell with every step.

After what seemed like hours of wading through literal shit, he found himself in the grasslands, continuing his trek east to the rendezvous point to meet with his platoon. Every few minutes he would stop to listen for others, or observe far off headlights as they passed. With every step he was on guard, listening out, and running the challenge through his head again and again. He looked down to his boots and his soaked uniform, but shrugged and kept pushing. The invasion wouldn't stop because he got some water in his trousers.

by **Anowa** » Thu Feb 08, 2018 12:37 am

Corporal Monika Hössler

0.6 kilometers from RZ, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0228 hours

Beiarusia wrote:"Thanks... thanks for saving me back there. I was, uh... a bit stuck, yeah." Unlike Staff Sergeant Moss who hailed from the south of England, Ripley's accent was proper London with a twang of German due to her parents' and grandparents' speaking both. She looked to the west towards where the church should be. "Think the others 'ave made it?"

Hössler's eye was currently peering through a three times scope mounted on the smoothest action seen by the British Empire, looking for variations of color, shapes that didn't belong, and a number of things that would point out hostile presence. She gave a slight hum of acknowledgement at the thanks. The question of whether or not the others had made it was something she actually spoke to, "It's not like they could fall upwards." a pause, "In all seriousness, I haven't heard gunfire, nor seen gut strewn paste, so I believe most of the platoon are on their way, if not there already."

A pregnant pause as Monika smiled, "I can see the rendezvous. We should follow the brook down to the nearest road. Come on, we're running out of time."

Monika lead the way as the duo followed the stream down towards the coast. Intervals spent waiting as the sounds of vehicles and conversations blocked their path for moments, sometimes minutes. It gave a wee bit of time for Monika to reflect on the current situation and likening it to her own past experiences. Namely that of working her own way across the French countryside less than a year prior. No risks could be taken, a single event could lead to discovery, a mistake meant death. You could trust no one, collaborators and turnccoats around every corner, her only salvation was the small cell of French Partisans who got her across the channel to Ireland, at the very end of her nerve wracking journey across Europe.

A part of her was now blissfully aware of the fact that no mention of contact with British partisans had been made. Perhaps that knowledge was above her pay grade. Certainly Britain wouldn't be so cowardly as to forgo resistance, when even Monika's own people resisted their government? Maybe such a plan couldn't be successful? Maybe the hostiles in Britain were so concentrated and well organized that resistance was all but futile?

Such thoughts were overly pessimistic in nature, and yet Monika knew that they were all too real. All possibilities come to a head within the curious woman's mind. As she and her companion walked alongside the brook, they suddenly stopped. Monika herself stood still for a moment as she listened, ears straining to pick up that single noise she heard a moment ago, looking around for possible routes of coverage, the farmhouses too far, and the overgrowth not dense enough. And both sounded again, just barely above the babble of the brook. Her eyes darted to the bridge a few meters ahead, "Under the bridge, Bewegung!"

Her feet loosed upon stone and sand as she skampered under the bridge like a rat, Ripley close behind. Seconds later the sound of a Kubelwagen's engine and the sight of headlights illuminating the surroundings reached her senses. Twice in repetition. Monika shallowed her breathing, looking at Ripley and motioning a single finger up to her own lips. A very clear indication that any sound would echo out fro under the bridge and spell death. Above them the drivers of both vehicles conversed:

*"Hey Weber, stay on a alert, Camp 14 is reporting that one of their patrols hasn't returned on schedule."

"Idiots probably forgot their map, they're likely lost in the forest."

"Could be resistance fighters, or sabotuers."

"Don't be foolish Hans, the British wouldn't have been able to sneak saboteurs across the Atlantic without us knowing."

With that closing statement, the sound of one vehicle accelerating could be heard, as the other engine went the other way shortly after. Monika knew that one of them had to be heading towards their RZ, risking discovery as it passed by if anyone was there. It would get their before them.

She looked back at Ripley, more than aware that their presence on the local occupation had been felt to a minor degree, Monika's gaze bored into Ripley's with a knowing feel, she spoke tersely, "Let me know if you need anything for your... secret." she turned back to the mouth of the bridge and started walking, pausing at the edge, before jogging, "We need to move, quickly."

by **Vrijstaat Limburg** » Thu Feb 08, 2018 3:33 am

Private Theo van Baemelen
Lancaster, German-Occupied Britain. Wednesday, April 30th, 0247 hours

After walking for what appeared to be hours, both Lance Corporal Baldwin and Van Baemelen felt tired, not understanding why they had not yet found the rendezvous point.

"Where're we going, Corporal?" The Fleming asked.

Silence. Baldwin had gotten enough of the young Belgian's moaning, and simply dragged on and on. Theo nodded his head, and quickly checked his surroundings. He hadn't been in Lancaster yet. The vast plains weren't new to him, because he had been trained in a similar environment back in Wales. As he checked his surroundings, he'd stop, while staring to his left.

"Corporal?"

No reply, Baldwin didn't even move his head. He would, however, look behind him because he didn't hear the Fleming's boots tridding on the fresh, moist soil.

The Belgian would be staring at a small river, maybe a hundred and fifty yards away. As Baldwin looked in the general direction as Theo did, he directly changed his position.

"Good spot, mate. Let's be on our ways then."

Theo nodded and followed the lance corporal in haste.

Arriving at the river, Baldwin was positive about crossing it. Theo looked at the brown, thick water, and said he'd rather find a bridge. Baldwin didn't enjoy that comment, because he took the Fleming by the arm and threw him into the water, catching the back of his uniform so that he wasn't fully covered in mud and shit.

"Your pretty clothes are a'ready dirty, there's no way back now."

Theo sighed. Why had he needed to be in this brigade? Couldn't they have picked some muscled, highly decorated crack shot who could shoot out a German's eye from a thousand yards? He'd feel that he wasn't an integral part of the team, which bothered him a bit. Weren't the others not respecting him due to his age, His german ancestry? Or was he just paranoid? Theo couldn't properly grasp it. He decided not to think about it too much and walk through the muddy river.

When the two had both crossed the muddy river, they'd ponder on a small church not far from the river. Theo let out a tired cheer, and followed the corporal to the church. As the two arrived, they'd open the large wooden doors and spot the rest of the team sitting in the church.

The two'd smile in relief, for they finally found the rest of the force.

by **Romanussia** » Thu Feb 08, 2018 5:59 am

Sgt. John Simonds
Commonwealth Infantry Regiment
Commando Unit Number 18 "The Exiles"
En route to Quernmore Church

Operation: Cross, New Offensive

"O Canada,"

John sang the tune of the Canadian anthem proudly in his head, rushing down the hills and peaks in the range where he dropped. Leaves brushed his hair as they gingerly fell from their trees. He had finally reached a trail lower down on the range, but decided it better to eep straight. Maybe he'd chosen wrong. Rocks tripped him and branches had slapped him. He kept along rockslides and forests.

"Our home and native land!"

He said picking up from the past verses as he trailed off through the prairies and fields in front of him. He'd stumble upon some awkwardly and old fences occasionally and rested here and there as he looked upon the zenith and the forests. As breaks became more commonplace, John slowly warmed out. Yet, he was determined to now make it past this last stretch of land. He'd grown sick of the same wretched rural view, the same anxious feeling, and the same grim outlook of war. But, he knew that the rendezvous point could not be far away.

"True patriot love in all thy sons command,"

He started the tune up again and this time hurriedly made it through many verses. Yet, the song faded in his head at his restlessness once more, and ceased when he listened about. His ear had caught something. As the seconds flew by, the sound of something - maybe running water - grew more evident. When he was sure he had reached the river, he went sideways and came before a brilliant stream of running water eroding the dirt and banks to its sides. He looked for stepping stones - none. That didn't make much of a difference, though. He waded through the water, up to his waist in and dirt, before he arrived on the opposite banks of the river.

"O Canada,"

He started back up again, trekking along the stones and banks of the sides of the river. Finally, he deviated from the store t the sight of - well, something - not too far away. He made his way out of the trees and bushes and emerged into more grasslands. There it was evident that he had reached the church. Looking around for any Germans as he had before, he ran to the building. When he reached the doorstep, he slowly pulled out his rifle and walked up the hill to the church.

"We stand on guard for thee!" he finished.

He kicked the door open cautiously and pointed his gun around the entrance. As he peeked in, he could make out soldiers inside. It was the NCO, the Poles, and the Belgians he had recognized before that he had made out first sitting inside the church. He quickly closed the door and entered.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, he went and greeted the soldiers; "Well, seems as if I'm not the only one here."

by **Beiarusia** » Fri Feb 09, 2018 7:28 pm

Private Jonathan Ripley

0.6 kilometers from RZ, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0234 hours

The pair were nearing the church when they slipped down into cover underneath a small bridge spanning the brook, and soon thereafter two vehicles appeared on the road, slowing to a stop directly overhead with engines humming at a lazy idle. Ripley held tightly to her Sten as the seconds ticked by in agonizing slowness. Eventually the patrol continued on, and the young woman released a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding. Only when the noise of the engines had faded away to nothing did Hössler move, pausing just long enough to say, "Let me know if you need anything for your... secret."

Ripley nodded, dumbly, in a slight tizzy from her second near-death experience in the hour, but then the meaning of the words sunk in like teeth in flesh. "What secret? Don't know what you're talking about," she lied, her cheeks flushed a small bit. A nervous laugh, and then her facade crumbled away entirely. "Is it that obvious?"

Hössler had seen through her deception. Who else had? No one, she told herself, else I wouldn't be here in bloody Lancaster. A true enough statement. Unlike the German lass, Ripley had no characteristics that would save her neck from the chopping block should she be found out. At best she would be discharged and the whole affair swept under the proverbial rug; at worse she'd be imprisoned for whatever crimes the tribunal deemed fit. Execution was a bit extreme but Ripley couldn't help but to consider such a morbid end.

In a fit of bravado she rounded on Hössler, grabbing her shoulder so as to halt her professional gait and forcing the German to look her dead in the eyes. "Don't tell anyone... please. I'll do anything."

by **Tayner** » Fri Feb 09, 2018 7:38 pm

Private William McBride
Commando Unit No. 18
"The Exiles"

He had finally found a road that was supposed to lead him to the hamlet where the church was supposed to be, given he'd remembered his geography right. He was now crouch-sprinting with his lightest steep before reaching the town. He passed the post office, reaching an intersection before stopping and looking each direction as he sat there in the open. He recalled that he needed to take the road east, and took one step before a sharp metallic noise broke the silence of the night.

Click-click

"King"

A voice challenged instead of a bullet, McBride not wasting time on a sigh of relief as he responded with the correct password. "Country." His voice answered. He turned around to see three figures approach from a dark corner of the nearby post office. "You can stop pointing that at me anytime, lad." He spoke to one of the figures who still had their weapon raised.

"Sorry mate." The voice of Vargas responded, and the barrel of the rifle finding something else to aim at, likely the dirt beneath the commandos. "Can't tell a Kraut from a kangaroo out here." He said.

"Cut the chatter." The voice who had challenged him ordered. "Rally point's that way." He said, nodding down the road and taking the lead of the group.

"Right." A voice belonging to Burgess responded as the corresponding figure followed the noncommissioned officer, tailed by McBride and Vargas as they set off side by side. It wasn't much further to the Church now, and they probably weren't the first.

by **Beiarusia** » Fri Feb 09, 2018 8:50 pm

Lieutenant William Bryant

Rendezvous-Point, Quernmore Church, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0235 hours

Bryant was alone in the foyer of the small church. His rifle was set aside on a pew (within reach) and he was making an attempt to read his map in the utter blackness that shadowed every surface. He possessed a lighter but dared not use it. Perhaps when inside the vestry, but not where the windows could betray his location to any would-be onlookers. He'd have to make do without.

Three solid knocks sounded from above, the sign from Corporal Paquin to alert Bryant to someone on approach. The Lieutenant grabbed for his rifle, held it at the ready, and then relaxed as a fourth knock confirmed the coming individual as friendly.

Lance Corporal Baldwin and Private van Baemelen were the first to arrive, followed closely by Sergeant Simonds. A few minutes after came Staff Sergeant Moss leading Sergeant Burgess, Private McBride, and Private Vargas. Ten soldiers with eight more having yet to show. The men settled to await the others, some finding themselves a comfortable seat whereas a few manned the windows to keep watch. Bryant and Moss conversed, some banter to lighten the mood before delving into crisp professionalism as they discussed the goings of the mission thus far. No complications.

Suddenly there came a slight flurry of knocks from the belfry. Corporal Paquin had sighted a German patrol.

"Everyone down," Bryant told his men, voice raised just enough to be heard without having to shout. The soldiers ducked low into cover, away from the windows, slinking further into the shadows as headlights cut across the darkened landscape of Quernmore. Then came the slow rumble of an engine as the Kubelwagen slowed at the intersection. A long pause, and with it the faint sound of German soldiers arguing between themselves (the topic being whether to keep straight or to turn into Lancaster). Bryant kept his back pressed against the wall, the window near his head lightening as the Kubelwagen accelerated slowly like a tiger on the prowl, too close for comfort. The patrol passed without stopping to investigate the church but were likely to return.

The soldiers couldn't wait for much longer.

A slow knock to signal the all-clear sounded. Bryant motioned for the soldiers to huddle close: "Not saying that the church is compromised but I don't think we should overstay our welcome. We give it a bit longer and then we move out. Until then, we plan our next move." He pulled out the map, just as unreadable as it had been earlier in the darkness. It one looked closely, however, they could make out the points-of-interest marked in red ink, artillery positions scouted by recon flights days before. A two mile hike from Quernmore with German checkpoints and patrols in-between. "Our first order of business is to confirm these locations, and after we know exactly what we're dealing with we neutralize the threat. Getting into Lancaster shouldn't be a problem, but once there we have a choice. We wait until dawn when our boys are storming the beach, or we get it done tonight. Germans won't be expecting us, but we'll be alone should things go tits-up, so I figured I'd ask my loyal soldiers what brand of insanity they preferred. Floor's open if there be any takers."

Three knocks from Corporal Paquin above.

Bryant looked to his men. "Anyone getting the door or should I?"

by **Anowa** » Sat Feb 10, 2018 12:03 am

Corporal Monika Hössler

Rendezvous-Point, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0236 hours

Beiarusia wrote:
Private Jonathan Ripley

Ripley nodded, dumbly, in a slight tizzy from her second near-death experience in the hour, but then the meaning of the words sunk in like teeth in flesh. "What secret? Don't know what you're talking about," she lied, her cheeks flushed a small bit. A nervous laugh, and then her facade crumbled away entirely. "Is it that obvious?"

In a fit of bravado she rounded on Hössler, grabbing her shoulder so as to halt her professional gait and forcing the German to look her dead in the eyes. "Don't tell anyone... please. I'll do anything."

Monika raised a brow in question, "I wasn't intending to." she reached up with her off hand and gently padded the younger girl's hand. "And don't worry, it's only obvious if you know what you're looking for." With that she gave the young man a solid nod, "We have to get going, Ripley. Sun's going to be coming up within the hour and we need time to plan. The invasion won't wait." with that she set back off at her solid pace. "And I was serious about my offer."

It wasn't far to the RV, and as they arrived the pitch dark sky had started taking on a lighter tone, barely noticeable to those who hadn't been staring at it for more than a few minutes. Monika took point, as she had for the past few hours.

As she kept her ears open, she spotted movement coming out of a corner near the church, she stopped and raised her rifle, worried of immediate contact, but her eyes focused on the blood red handprint over the man's lower face and yellow and black lines on the sides of his head. Not to mention the ludicrously clean head of his. It was the native, Howard. The tall man mirrored Monika's own movements for a moment, before recognizing the blonde woman and Ripley behind her.

The trio would then belt it to the door of the Church, before quickly infiltrating. Out of the corner of her eye, Monika spotted more movement, recognizing it as McBride. She took position just inside the door, watching for anyone not welcome to their get together, as McBride, Burgess and Paquin made their way over.

by **Insaeldor** » Mon Feb 12, 2018 10:14 am

Cpl. Émelian Gaspard
DC-3, over the Irish Sea

I didn't cheer with my adoptive comrades. Not because I didn't sympathize with their eagerness to take their homes back from the clutches of the Boches, but it didn't seem my place. After all I would expect them to do the same for liberating France. I sat in the cold cabin of the aircraft as we charged towards the British coast. I was nervous, I fiddled around with my rifle, a British rifle clearly pulled from auxilery and looking as if they hadn't cleaned since the plucked it out of the mud pits of Passchendaele. I took the bolt out a fiddled with it as well, examining it in the low light of the cabin to see how it worked. The rifle was stout and felt more like a marksman rifle then an infantry rifle. The way the gun cocked was also finicky, on the old MAS-36 I would just open and close and it be a simple affair, with the Enfield I found myself sometimes not pushing hard enough with pushing the bolt forward and this not closing or cocking the damned thing. It was t bad if kept it in mind, but in the fires of war I wasn't sure if I could do so. I was also issued a No.4 Mk. II* bayonet. It was short a stubby, it also looked as if they just welded a nail to the end of the contraption. Far inferior to the MAS. It wasn't a bad rifle, just not the perfect infantry weapon and one I'd rarely used and never fired outside the range. Even when I had to cover the rear of the the South Wales Borderers that my unit was attached to evacuated through Swansea I didn't even see a single Boches. The last time I fired a shot was during the retreat from Arras to Dunkerque when I shot at the faint silhouette of an enemy soldier. That spoke to most of my time in battle, shooting at unspecified things in the distance, I couldn't even tell you if I'd even hit anyone. I probably killed more people as a medic then as a soldier.

I then heard the pilot, said we were near the drop point, lovely. I struggled for a moment to finece the bolt back into the rifle, and then decock it as learned in the whirlwind of basic we had. It was almost easier to learn English then to try and understand what the hell those Québécois were trying to say. I got it in and stood up as the rest of the group of men did. Lieutenant Bryant's was rousing, but too British in tone for me to get behind. I cared not for the king, we had no king, I wanted to see my home under the care of a Democracy of the French just as it was all my life, this was but one step in that goal. I was all to happy to help the chèvres so long as they help the French in their dreams of liberation as well. However the idea was simple, we would jump, land, and make our way to the church. In case I got lost I had a slip of paper with the rough outline of the church scribbled onto it that I copied from the pictures provided. I kept that with my map and compass. I had heard stories of lost paratroopers running up on enemy squads thinking they were the men they fell to earth with only to get shot or taken prisoner. My hope was to stay low and not engage anyone or anything until I reached the church.

I stood up with the other men as we prepared to jump, I had kept my mind off of the prospect of jumping from a moving aircraft. My mind was flooded with the possible outcomes of the jump, would I get stuck in the tree? Would I break a leg, would I land to far away from the Rendezvous and get lost? Those were the thoughts I had going through my head as I inched closer down the row. Once it came my turn I stood for a moment looking out the door to see the cloudy black void of night over Lancaster, I took to quick steps and started to freefall for a moment, my stomach and guts floating up into my chest and every muscle in my body tensed, as if they were holding on for dear life. It was all over in but a few seconds as the parachute caught wind. I looked down to see the dark ground beneath me come closer and closer as a fell from the sky. I felt both relief and dread as I overcame one obstical only to fall feet first into a new one, I could barely read a map, how the hell was I suppose to find this church? I just had the simple sketch of it and I didn't a fucking landmark TO off of in the landing zone. It was going to be a long night.

I was stuck, stuck crawling through the muk of the British landscape. The soft loamy soul stained everything as I tried my dambedest to not get fought by the Bosch. The more I move throughout the landscape the more I hated this morceau de merde rifle. The extra pound and extra length really made this thing a pouffiasse. But lucky was I to come across a shallow creek in the darkness of night, while creeks were harder to tell, I was sure it was flowing down towers the sea given our relative closeness to the ocean. To double check I pulled out my compass, yep I was right. It was flowing west and all I knew was that out RZ was a few Kilometers to the west. I stayed low and crept behind the tall grass, raising my head over every so often to try and see if anyone or anything was near me.

After what seemed like hours of treking I started to find myself disoriented by the night and worried I had past the RZ. I stoped for a moment and thought about how I could reorient myself as the natural light of the moon helped to keep things from a total pitch black when it wasn't behind cloud cover. I moved away from the creek and into a small field where I had better sight of the things that surrounded me. I mostly saw just a road and a building, I pulled out my map and fumbled with it until I took out the sketch of the church. The profiles matched somewhat, it wasn't a direct match to the angle of the church i'd seen but it held the same features none the less. One step was taken before the rumbling of engines came into the picture, it was a deep almost husky chugging. I knew we had no vehicles with us so it could only mean one thing, the Bosch.

I leaped back down into the reeds by the creek hoping they were tall enough to conceal me. My heart beat increased while the sounds and noses around me started to dial in, my body started to feel wet and cold. I had felt this feeling before, it's the same reaction I had in combat, but it seemed amplified, in combat I could run, maneuver, shoot back. This time I'm cowering in a algae infest reek hoping to god they don't notice a disturbance in the reeds. The sound of the engine and the other patroling units came and went as as the noises went down the street my body started to become flush with blood once again. I popped my head back up to see the church, close enough to see a door open as well. I tried my best to get their as fast as I could without grading any attention to myself. I crouched down and hastily made my way across the field to the church.

"King, king." I said to whomever it was holding the door, it turned out to be the Allemande, Monika. I stood up hands up in the air with my rifle in my right. I walked up slowly and steadily to her.

"Gaspard, Medic." I said as I walked closer to her in the darkness of night in a hushed tone.

by **Tayner** » Wed Feb 14, 2018 8:56 pm

Private William McBride
Commando Unit No. 18
"The Exiles"

As Moss and McBride and friends made for the door of the church, multiple other figures became apparent in the street. The Native from America, the German, and Ripley were all in the street. The two groups immediately recognized each other at such a close range, but even so some rifles were raised from the resting position out of uncertainty. "King." McBride spoke, nearly a whisper. Someone else on the other side responded with the answer, McBride not recognizing who the voice belonged to.

The seven commandos didn't waste another second to vacate the street and enter the Methodist church. It wasn't long before they hit the deck, an enemy patrol passing by. The CO decided not to sit around for much longer, and presented a map. After a quick briefing Briant asked for tactical opinions.

"Floor's open if there be any takers."

"I dinnae want to allow those batteries to target our men during the landing sir, I recommend that we strike tonight while we have the element of surprise. We wait too long and they'll be alerted by the landings, and have the chance to shell our boys before they get off the beach. We should send a scouting team ahead to confirm these batteries, and split up the squads in order to conduct a synchronized assault." He recommended, formulating the plan after a few seconds of thinking. "I volunteer myself to scout ahead, seeing as how I've got the radio and the lot."

by **Romanussia** » Sat Feb 17, 2018 11:21 am

Sgt. John Simonds
Commonwealth Infantry Regiment
Commando Unit Number 18 "The Exiles"
Plannning in Quernmore Church

Operation: Cross, New Offensive

John stood by, concentrating, as a flurry of raps came upon the door. More of the soldiers entered, being let through the door.

When everyone was believed to have arrived, the British fellow, Briant, spoke up; he laid down a map on the floor before the squad, smoothing down its wrinkles, and pointed to highlighted points. They were artillery and mortar sites, positioned over the hills and grasslands and well within the metropolitan area.

"Floor's open if there be any takers."

John found his way to and pinpointed the Methodist Church and spotted three main paths and roads spreading out from their location. As the other soldiers spoke up, he calculated his response.

"Sounds fun to me," he began "We send McBride and any others willing to scout out the German patrols and sites in Lancaster, I suggest a two to three man party, and a task force would soon assemble. We can either head down Bay Horse Road from here, then head north once we reach Chipping Road. We either neutralize or bypass that checkpoint before heading north throughout Lancaster mostly undetected. Or we can go to the north side of Lancaster by heading west on Wyresdale. It's a bit more fortified along the way, though, and pushing south might be complicated, eh?"

He said explaining the situation as fast as he could, using his native Canuck slang, talking nervously at the thought of Germans nearby. Butterflies filled his stomach at the thought of heading back into action. So, before anyone can say anything, he continued once more.

"Yet, I'm assuming we're making a simultaneous assault, here, no? We can take a more heavily-manned squad north to deal with the sites there while I can volunteer to be part of the squad that heads south and jeopardizes the German flank in Lancaster from there. It'll be a long walk, though, three or four klicks of walking. Does that sound like a good plan?"

by **Beiarusia** » Mon Feb 19, 2018 2:55 pm

Lieutenant William Bryant

Rendezvous-Point, Quernmore Church, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0240 hours

The last few stragglers had arrived, and with that the commandos planned in earnest their next move. They were mostly in agreement that the artillery sites should be neutralized before the landings, and Bryant agreed, but it was refreshing to know that his men were of the same opinion. It made the dangerous nature of the mission all the more palatable when everyone was in agreement. A few soldiers had suggestions to add, and slowly a plan of attack took shape.

"I appreciate the enthusiasm but squads stay together," he said in regards to dividing the unit. Scouts were valuable, and pathfinding would be key to avoiding unnecessary engagements, but maintaining a cohesive squad would allow for better odds should worse come to pass. At the very least scouts should stick reasonably close to their allies. "The sergeant has some good points, but we should stay off the roads as much as possible. My squad will hit the northern objective. Moss, you take your men to the south. Once we get to shooting we won't have much time before the Germans come crawling out from under the woodwork. Destroy the artillery and be gone before reinforcements come to fuck up our night.

"Saw a lake on my way down. Some buildings, too. Farms if I had to make a guess." He pointed to the location on the map, a patch of water southeast of the two artillery sites at the corner of Blea Tarn Road and Little Fell Lane. In very small print its name read Langthwaite Reservoir. "Good place to meet up as any." Allowing the others a moment to digest the plan, Bryant returned the map to his rucksack, and then he looked over to his radio operator. "Tell Davis it happens tonight. He won't complain."

Commando Unit No. 13, "The Outcasts," had dropped into Lancaster alongside "The Exiles" and were operating in the north with similar objectives and Captain Finley Davis of New Zealand taking charge.

Private Vargas quickly went to work relaying the update to the mission. Davis had no complaints. They departed soon thereafter.

Lieutenant William Bryant

Artillery Site B, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0327 hours

Squad A had gone northwest, briefly along Wyresdale Road before dipping into the countryside to give wide berth to a German checkpoint and the infrequent motorized patrols, the soldiers hiding in the tall grass of the fields as headlights cut across the darkened landscape with an ominous glow — Squad B had gone south along Bay Horse Road before turning northwest and would pass the reservoir. Bryant and his men (and Corporal Hössler) maintained a quick pace, but were careful to avoid detection. No chances. About forty minutes in the engines of a passing DC-3 could be heard rumbling in the distance. Airborne troops were beginning their own operations, and like before the German AA remained blissfully silent.

They were a bit southeast of their objective and surveying the site. The land was mostly flat with a few homes, and ahead was a park that had been cleared of trees so as to provide an open space. The soft flickering of an open fire could be seen like a beacon in the darkness and around it stood a trio of soldiers. Two others could be discerned walking the park. Others were no doubt asleep, possibly in the homes or else in a nearby camp. Three artillery pieces stood equidistant from one another, barrels trained high and to the west, and nearby sat a lightweight Panzer I with hatch open.

"They have a damn tank," said Corporal Paquin in Norwegian-accented English.

"It's a baby tank," Bryant countered in a hushed tone. The Panzer was small, but its dual machine guns would turn them all to a fine red paste should they allow it the chance. Bryant considered the problem for a long moment. "We improvise. A few grenades in the hatch should do the trick. Johnson, think you could do the favor? Take Ripley with you."

Ripley paled, more so than usual.

The lad carried a Sten Submachine Gun, useless at range, thus his being volunteered to assist Lance Corporal Johnson. The others would move into position and would strike the very moment the Panzer was disabled. Quick and efficient. Once the park was clear of infantry they'd worry about destroying the artillery, as well as clearing the houses should any Germans be nesting inside. The buildings presented an unknown but there was nothing to be done. If all went as planned they'd be done and gone before any reinforcements could make sense of what had happened.

"Tell Moss we're ready to go," Bryant told his radio operator. Then to the others, "Move out."

Staff Sergeant James Moss

Artillery Site A, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0330 hours

Squad B had no Panzer to contend with, but the area was more crowded, suburban, and the open field at its center offered no suitable protection from German sharpshooters should they be caught out in the open. Moss and his men were east of the field, having circumvented much of the residential area before following a set of railway tracks north to their current position. The eastern edge of the field was flanked by foliage. Homes were situated on the northern, southern, and western sides. No telling how many Germans were lurking there but Moss figured they'd be gone before finding out.

The two field guns were deployed on opposite sides of the field. Five soldiers were awake, too preoccupied in their conversation to patrol the area. Unaware. Two tents could also be seen, housing munitions or more guards.

The call had just come in from Lieutenant Bryant. It was now or never.

"We don't have much to work with but we'll make do," Moss said, checking his shotgun one final time. "Stay low, and get in close, and make sure every shot counts. Clear the bastards before they have a chance to shoot back. Burgess, take a few men to the south gun. I got the north. If anyone has any thoughts to share you better do so now."

by **Ubaria** » Tue Feb 20, 2018 8:55 pm

Corporal Micheal 'Mickey' Bancroft
Aboard a DC-3 - Somewhere over Lancaster - Apr 30th 1941
Homecoming

The calm before the storm. The Douglas cut through the gloom of midnight unchallenged, the pall of darkness was their shield against the prying eyes of the Germans far down below and aside from the continual drone from the twin Pratt & Whitney Twin Wasp engines - which was out of earshot from the ground anyhow - was nigh on undetectable by anybody but the men and women packed inside. A dull glow given from the cabin light was the only source of illumination, apart from the waxing moon which wasn't much of a help either, would occasionally accentuate a random face from within the crowd of soldiers sat on the opposite row before they dipped into murkiness once more.

The soldiers, hailing from all parts of the Commonwealth and Allied nations - aside from the Kraut - had said not a word for the entire trip over, aside from the odd request for smokes or idle commentary, even the Aussies had been uncharacteristically silent. Perhaps it was the weight of responsibility weighing upon their shoulders tonight, the fact that everything was riding on this offensive that they were the spearhead for, nobody wanted a repeat of Dunkirk, because this time, there was no miracle rescue. Make or break, this mission was all or nothing for England and indeed the Allies for if they failed here, Germany would have ample time to consolidate their position and make a recapture of the British Isles a dubious to impossible task, even for the Yanks who for the moment seemed to have little interest in being pulled into a punching match with Adolf, which was probably why they were absent from this mission.

Bancroft didn't really care. More glory for the Brits he supposed, that and the French, Belgian and whatnot once they had finally retaken Europe, which at the moment seemed a lifetime away. He was in this because it was his home they had taken, his people they were subjugating and almost a direct affront to everything he believed in, not to mention his family were hopefully still alive somewhere down there. The fact that Lancashire was the primary point for the counter-invasion meant that Bancroft would be liberating his hometown of Bradford soon after, which filled him with equal feelings of anxiety and determination, teh sooner he could free his family and countrymen from the oppressive yolk of the Nazi regime the better.

As if on cue, a figure arose from near the front of the plane and turned to face the others.

"Alright you baggers, listen up. Fritz has come over uninvited and he's made quite the mess he has, a big one, bigger even than that dust-up twenty years back. So, after we land, take a beachhead or two or three, we'll be marching on home to London to tidy up a bit." He raised a finger as if asking for pause. "Soon. Today we kill some artillery so our pals in their boats can sail on over and hoist the Union Hack over Lancaster. That's today. Tomorrow we begin our march to London, and when we're done, and the Queen is rightly back on her throne, then we cross the Channel, and we return the favor to Fritz. They fucked up, so now we remind them what happens when you burn our cities and kill our King!"

Hearty cheers and the thudding of rifles filled the hold, it was nearly time. Bancroft made one last dive into his pack to ensure everything was as it should be, then his Sten which was attached via a sling to his chest and then once he was satisfied everything was perfect, he slid a pair of aviation goggles on and prepared to make the jump.

Bancroft was no paratrooper, so the prospect of jumping from an aircraft did tickle a few nerves, though not that he cared to show or admit that, yet showed no hesitation once it was his turn to leap and the only cry was a bellowing "For queen and country!" before plunging into the cold night.

1.5 kilometers from RZ - Lancaster - United Kingdom

Unfavorable winds had pushed Bancroft slightly south of the agreed rendezvous which was the church, though in his descent he had managed to spot the steeple before he landed in a nearby field. After retrieving his Bergen pack from a nearby bush, the commando quickly set about moving towards the meeting point whilst doing his utmost best to remain undetected in the dark. Mickey had seen no friendlies land nearby and had lost their chutes in the dark, not that he was particularly worried, no para-drop ever went off without some sort of hitch.

Moving quietly along a small farmyard lane, Bancroft made quick time to the Quernmore church and was among the last to arrive where Bryant was already beginning to give an update on the situation. Bancroft took a knee near the door and kept lookout whilst simultaneously tuning in to what the Lieutenant had to say.

Some time later

Alongside Moss, Bancroft had accompanied B squadron south along almost the same path he had taken to reach the church in the first place, before hooking up north-west towards the artillery site. Once they had arrived near the encampment, Bancroft relieved himself of his Bergen pack and propped it against a nearby tree, secluded in the undergrowth, and turned to assess the situation. Two guns and five sentries with possibly more lurking in tents or buildings surrounding the area, the assault seemed easy at first but once they caused a racket, they wouldn't have much time before the entire garrison collapsed in on them.

"Stay low, and get in close, and make sure every shot counts. Clear the bastards before they have a chance to shoot back. Burgess, take a few men to the south gun. I got the north. If anyone has any thoughts to share you better do so now."

Bancroft shook his head.

"Just eager to give these Jerries a bloody good hiding."

by **Independent States of Tula** » Tue Feb 27, 2018 9:27 am

Private Feliks S.Lawniczak

Artillery Site A, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941 // 0330 hours

"We don't have much to work with but we'll make do," Staff Sergeant Moss said, checking his shotgun one final time. "Stay low, and get in close, and make sure every shot counts. Clear the bastards before they have a chance to shoot back. Burgess, take a few men to the south gun. I got the north. If anyone has any thoughts to share you better do so now."

Feliks looked over to Witek who's stoic face now held a small but cruel smile as he beheld the small group of Wehrmacht soldiers, they'd soon be dead if Feliks's friend had his way. When no one moved to make a question or share their thoughts Feliks signaled for Witek to follow him as they kept up with Staff Sergeant Moss and moved for the north gun. The two Poles soon got down on their bellies and began crawling under the night sky towards the five Germans, their thoughts alike as they slowly but surely inched closer and closer to their prey. However, as if of one mind both Feliks and Witek stopped just shy of about twenty meters from the group of germans who were so caught up in their conversation that they hadn't noticed the slight movements in the grass or the two spots where it was currently bent down by the Polish forms. After all why would they? Britain was supposed to be secure, supposed to be conquered, it was supposed to be new German land...it wasn't any of those things.

A quick glance between the two poles and a nod of their heads was all the signal Witek and Feliks needed to come up from the grass simultaneously, with Witek greeting the confused German soldiers, "Hallo schweine!"

The five men didn't even have time to reach for their nearby rifles or unstrap them from their shoulders before suddenly the deafening roar of two automatic firearms filled the air. Feliks aimed his Sten at the first German on the right and moved left as he controlled the light recoil of the 9mm submachinegun as best he could. Witek did the same with his BAR except moved from left to right, his .30-06 rounds causing a much louder report and causing a recoil which kicked into his shoulder like a mule, Feliks knew from experience though that Witek didn't mind it...in fact there was nothing better for his friend's mood than feeling that recoil and seeing the results of his handiwork. That handiwork of course was grim and brutal to behold as the two weapons ran out of ammunition, Witeks just a little bit before Feliks with his larger magazine. Then, as if automatically, the two Poles quietly removed their now empty magazines and replaced them with fresh ones, Witek's bulky box of .30-06 rounds and Feliks's long stick of 9x19mm rounds, the only sounds heard in those few moments after the deafening gunfire being the working of the magazine releases, the clicking of new ones being slotted in, and the sound of two bolts being pulled back to chamber new rounds ready to streak down the barrel of their weapons at any moment.

The two Poles moved quickly over to the Germans they'd just gunned down, the five bodies were riddled with bullets with multiple rounds in each chest, arms, and pelvic regions. Feliks looked over and saw Witek's grin, it unnerved him but he pushed that aside as Witek looked back and ordered, "Feliks, you watch the North tent, I'll watch the South, we'll cover them and if any more Krauts come out we'll light those tents up. The rest of the squad should be able to deal with the guns while we cover."

"Got it." Was all Feliks had to say as he moved over to get a good view of the northern tent and crouched, keeping his sten in the high-ready position as he watched for movement by the target of his scrutiny, with luck it would be empty and any German reinforcements to investigate the gunfire would be too late as the rest of the Squad dealt with the two 150mm cannons.

by **Vrijstaat Limburg** » Tue Feb 27, 2018 10:12 am

Van Baemelen silently looked to his sides. Due to the general Blackout in the occupied UK, Baemelen couldn't spot anything. There were no lights, nothing. Van Baemelen would start to distrust his surroundings, becoming very paranoid of a German threat. His Adrian helmet glistered in the moonlight. Theo wondered whether he'd survive this war, heck, he wondered whether he'd survive this operation.

"Down."

Burgess's quick yet muffled command worked rapidly, with the fireteam proning next to the charismatic sergeant. He'd peak through his binoculars, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He quickly found what he was looking for. 5 German artillerymen guarding the 15cm howitzer. As they lied in the meadow, Burgess tried to think of a well-working solution.

While he thought of something, the fireteam was astonishingly quiet, with soldiers not moving and waiting for orders. Theo noticed that his uniform began to become quite soggy, he tried to neglect it and wait for the sergeant's commands. As he ignored the wet fields dirting his uniform, he spotted a sound. Quiet talking, perhaps 2, maybe 3 men. Van Baemelen turned his head over to his squadmates, not sure of what to do. He tightened his grip on his rifle, but his weapons weren't suppressed or silent. On the contrary, Lee-Enfields tended to be quite loud. He had a look of horror on his face, and hoped that his mates could notice it.

In his head, he started repeating the prayer to Michael the Archangel, hoping for god to help him in this fight against evil.

"Defende nos Proélio" he muttered, with his mouth barely moving.

by **Romanussia** » Sat Mar 03, 2018 10:27 am

Sgt. John Simonds
Commonwealth Infantry Regiment
Commando Unit Number 18 "The Exiles"
Near Artillery Site B in Lancaster

Operation: Cross, New Offensive

Simonds glanced around the squad; each man wide-eyed and vigilant. Simonds spread out a bit, crawling around and ducking his head, observing a small park and open area near the more urban areas. There were a couple of trees around along with some barriers and a park or clearing used as space for a checkpoint. Homes were scattered along the area. That was all John could make out in the early day darkness over Lancaster.

Simonds made his way back to the bulk of the group crowded around.

"They have a damn tank." Simonds' eyes widened as he stared up at the Luxembourger, standing up subtly to observe. He ducked back down and panicked with the rest of the soldiers. Bryant calmed them down. However, no matter the size, the soldiers shouldn't get cocky. John ran a plan through his head, putting his hands on his head and rubbing his temples to soothe his stress. Yet, he was soon able to come up with something.

Bryant told some soldiers to neutralize the tank and then focused back on the rest of them. Holding his radio close to his chest, he gave the signal to Moss on the other side of Lancaster. John sighed and looked around before cocking his gun and making a small prayer. He opened his mouth to speak.

"If we take out the tank, they'll know we're here. We need to be able to take out those Jerries in the park before they aim towards Ripley and Johnson and us over here. I'll take care of that. I'll sneak around and get to them from the back, maybe lure them away from each other and divide and conquer. Either way, I need to take out those soldiers before anyone else wakes up as quickly as possible. Staying here and firing at them might cost us some lives."

John crawled back to his "advanced position" before adding to his statement.

"I'd be happy to take any objections and anyone who wants to join me," he started, "Right then, I'll be carrying on." John crawled his way past his cover and past the barriers. If it weren't for the dark, he'd be toast. Yet, he tried his best to duck into tall grasses and bushes, carefully squirming his way around. He finally found a more solid piece of cover, a tall bush, and checked his gun.

John wouldn't just stroll around the area for long.

He stood up a little, still arching his back and ducking his head, and found his feet. He planted himself well on the ground and set out, rounding the field and finding a small home to survey the area. He'd made his way around the field and was now a little more than halfway there. The park was only just up ahead. Yet, John snapped out of his trance to take a glance at the distance. He could make out only a faint image of Ripley and Johnson making their way towards the tank. One of the figures reached for a grenade as they approached the Panzer I.

John needed to hurry up. Or the tank would be lit up before they could get their hands on the soldiers, suck there firing, at the mercy of German soldiers.

He quickly rushed down from the home and silently made his way to the third soldier, wandering around some distance from the two in the park. He made his move, getting closer by the minute, watching for any opportunity. His gun loaded, his bayonet sharpened, and his heart racing, he watched for a moment as the German strayed a bit too far away from the park, drifting towards the home John was just at. When he saw the German about to turn back, he struck.

John leaped out of the bushes and made his way to the German. Before the German could notice, John caught him.

Simonds put his hand tightly on the German's mouth and found his knife in his pocket.

Raising the knife up to the man's neck, he slashed it hard across the man's neck before he could yell out a squeal and dragged him away, setting him down gently out of sight. John approached the rear of the park and aimed his gun at one of the soldiers as he prepared himself, making sure he didn't get seen by the patrols. By the time he found the group again in the distance and held out a thumbs up, the sound of an explosion had rung out.

by **Beiarusia** » Tue Mar 06, 2018 8:47 pm

Private Jonathan Ripley

Artillery Site B, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941

This is a bloody terrible plan. An agonizingly bitter thought as Ripley followed after Lance Corporal Howard Johnson, a gargantuan Canadian grenadier who moved more swiftly and quietly than one would think entirely possible for a man of such size. They circled around so as to come upon the tank without needing to cross the paths of the patrolling Germans. Somehow they managed to avoid detection and soon enough were traversing the last few meters of open grass between them and the Panzer I, crouching low, Ripley too anxious to risk a breath. The engine was cold, but voices could be heard emanating from inside through the open hatch, the metal causing a slight echo, and with it came the acrid scent of tobacco smoke.

Johnson wasted no time. Grenades in hand, he pulled the pins and, with careful aim, he lobbed the pair of explosives up and into the open hatch. There was a clang from inside the tank, and then a panicked shout, and then a deafening blast that shattered the stillness of the night. Ripley had barely the time to duck down before the gunfire began.

In a matter of seconds it was over. Bryant and the others had neutralized the remaining Germans with brutal efficiency.

"Move! No time to fucking dawdle!" called out the Lieutenant as he directed the soldiers out of cover and to the three artillery guns. He remained on-alert, heedful of any Germans who may have been missed. "Get to scrapping those guns. Don't care how, just make 'em useless." He paused and looked over towards the Panzer, eyeing the machine for a solid moment before peering at the pair responsible for its being silent. "Good job. Think it still works?"

The tank was probably in working order, but looking inside was enough for Ripley to vacate her stomach — the men inside had been shredded by the explosion, its intensity amplified by the tight confines, and the interior was painted a pleasant shade of gore.

In less than sixty seconds the three artillery guns positioned at Site B were destroyed — or else made inoperable — and as quickly as they had come the soldiers disappeared back into the night to make haste for the rendezvous point at Scotforth Farm. The local garrison was awakening now, a step below full-alert, but the Germans would find no trace of those responsible.

Staff Sergeant James Moss

Artillery Site A, Lancaster, United Kingdom // Wednesday, April 30th, 1941

The Germans were dead before knowing what had happened. Although brief, the noise of the gunfire was impossibly loud, and there was no telling who — or how many — would be coming to investigate. They had to move fast.

"Oi, Belgian! Ya got sixty seconds to demo these guns. Get to it!" ordered Moss.

Once the two artillery guns at Site A were knocked out the soldiers would backtrack to the rendezvous point, and from there would plan their next move a they awaited dawn and the coming invasion force. With German patrols intensifying to a considerable degree in response to the nighttime raid the soldiers were likely to stay put and out of sight. No need to risk themselves until after their allies were storming the beaches of Lancaster. It wouldn't be long now.

by **Vrijstaat Limburg** » Wed Mar 07, 2018 9:23 am

Private Theodorus van Baemelen
Farmlands around Lancaster
30th of April, 1941.

Theo flinched when he saw the Germans get gunned down. He wasn't expecting the shots to be so quick and accurate. The Germans just lied there, peacefully, not moving a muscle.

He was awoken by the Sergeant's rough, unrefined words:
"Oi, Belgian! Ya got sixty seconds to demo these guns. Get to it!"

Van Baemelen quickly nodded his head, and rose from the ditch. He'd start running to the artillery, forgetting to check his surroundings due to his lack of time. Once he arrives at the sight, he moves through the German corpses trying not to look at them. As he arrives near the field guns, he raises his head to inspect the barrels. He'd try to stuff the stick of dynamite as far up the barrel as he could. He took a short glimpse over to his squad before igniting the first field gun. He ducked down and covered his ears before-

The barrel exploded. If the gunshots hadn't awoken every single German in the area, the blast certainly did. Theodorus understood that the squad lacked time and so he moved over to the second field gun as quickly as he could. He reached for his second stick, stuffed it up the barrel and ignited it. As he re-did the routine, he spotted a luger pistol on a dead German. He reached out to it, uncovering his ears. The dynamite went off, and Theo grabbed his ears before he could even touch the German pistol. He tried to pull himself together, took the pistol and ran towards Moss as fast as he could. He'd occasionally check his hearing, being paranoid that he lost some of it. After the guns had been neutralised, he followed the squad to the rendezvous point, filled with excitement about what was going to happen now. The blasts had given him an adrenaline rush, so he become proactive and very much motivated.

by **The Knockout Gun Gals** » Wed Mar 07, 2018 11:53 pm

Corporal Pierre Durand, Recon
The Exiles

For most of the part, Pierre kept his mouth shut and did the orders fairly well. Not because he didn't want to talk or afraid that his accent would be ridiculed, but mostly because of his limited field experience. He remembered that despite his excellence recon, his father intervened and not gave him any field tasks and instead transferred him to the administrative work. He realized his father did it because he cared about him, but it didn't do much for him since he'd like the field work. The fact that he's half-Dutch didn't help matter.

Eventually though, he got a promotion and received an invitation to Netherlands for officer training. Sadly, not long after he arrived and started the training, Germany invaded the nations around her. Poland fell, Czech too, even Belgium and Netherlands. He'd avoid the capture successfully, but he was transferred to "The Exiles" a commando unit. Definitely not his place. Perhaps because he was an officer he was under the assumption of having a good background. Yes, he has, but his field experience is fairly limited.

Not one to said no, he followed the order and now here he is. In the war, in the furthest front-line they could be at.

Their Finest Hour (AU World War II / IC-OPEN)

Their Finest Hour (AU World War II / IC-OPEN)

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