Black Sun Rising

A/N: This chapter is mainly of the interactions of the Allied commandos and resistance fighters sent against Rjuverikan. Made up mostly of stuff cut out from the other chapters from which this chapter was expanded upon.


Chapter 1: Men at War

Aboard the HMS Sterling, the mod was somber yet alert. The British sailors were attending to their duties, carrying Bravo Team aboard. They were slightly displeased that they were pulled out of patrol to act as a ferry service for Yank commandos, as they described the Rangers. They were shorn of their torpedoes much to their chagrin in order to accommodate their wards and equipment. Yet all was good as the relationship between the two groups of Allied servicemen was all in good cheer, trading yarns towards each other.

"'Potato donuts?'" asked a Junior Ordnance Mechanic taking a drag off his cigarette. He laughed. "Piss off, Yank."

"No, potato donuts are real," explained the Ranger corporal. "My mom made them back in the Depression..." While the Ranger corporal and ordnance mechanic debate about potato donuts, a few others had started finishing their poker game. Probably the last in a long time for them from then on.

The men of Bravo Team were unusually sedate, mainly performing briefing about the mission again, speculating more about its nature, checking equipment, reviewing procedure, playing cards, talking or staying silent and thinking about any number of things such as home, family, girlfriends, or their possible fate and why they volunteered for this.

Eduardo Jimenez of Tampa Bay, Florida remembered something in the past he can relate to their current state of affairs. "Jesus Maria, Jose, this is like rumrunning back in Miami," he muttered.

Lou Harker, a farm boy from Maynardvill, Tennessee, turned to him. "Rumrunning?"

"Yeah, my father used to be a dockhand in Miami. He was secretly in on the bootleg business back in the Prohibition."

"No shit," Lou mused. "My old man used to run moonshine from Maynardville to Memphis."

"Really? Must be an accomplishment."

"Yup, he drove all night to bring the booze for those bozos from the city," continued Harker. "Business was boomin' with all those bigtime hustlers at the city demanding premium for his stuff."

"You must be rich, huh?"

"Nah, but we did okay," Lou said. "We would've rotted over there in our neck of the woods if it wasn't for moonshine business."

"Ever been stopped by cops?" The question was asked by Kyrillos Eliopoulos, called Krill as many people found his name too "formal."

"A few times, though they just want a little of Dad's quality juice." He smiled in the darkness. "The Great War was over then, everybody to be happy then came the goddamned Prohibition by those dry-crusadin' holy rollers telling us it's not just Sunday anymore, everyday's a Sunday."

"Uptight bunch," commented Krill, who as the third generation son of Greek immigrants from the province of Epirus, drinking was a part of life. Even the Bible stories told by his grandmother said so. "They'd probably drink if you told them the hooch you're handling out came from Christ from water."

"Ha!" scoffed Lou. "That's if they believe you. Well, they believe people oughta stop drinking so they can get closer to God, or whatever. Not everyone likes that."

"But we Greeks have that don't problem," he pointed out. "We mostly keep to ourselves back in New York. Our restaurant is full of fellows like my folks and from the places like Yugoslavia and Romania." The Prohibition did not bother him or his family and neighbors, even thought they can't import the better drinks from the old countries. His grandfather brought with him from Greece the tradition of making moonshine and an old still. He made the precious elixir only for his family, their friends, and restaurant regulars. This kept the authorities off their backs with the silence of their regulars.

"Thought you Greeks drink wine," commented Clemente Beneventi, another New Yorker and also a son of immigrants. "We're practically in the neighborhood over there."

"Wine, now that's a hot item," answered the Greek from New York. "You'd be lucky to get a good one during the Prohibition, with the hefty tax and all. Then there's the shitty stuff from California." California's reputation as America's vineyard suffered greatly during the Prohibition. It produced two classes of the red elixir: mass wine and low-quality reds which hobos drunk to their heart's sufferings.

"Which is why you get a better deal with rumrunning," mused Jimenez. "At least my dad did, offloading good rum smooth sailing in from Havanna."

"Except the run between Cuba and Miami was a milkrun in calm seas," replied Lou Harker, "somebody would have to be crazy to smuggle anything on this weather."

The comment brought them back to the war. "There's no shortage of crazy the brass in London and Washington would come up with," Krill commented. "With the Krauts taking first place in the whole damned war there's nothing wrong with trying out all whatever crazy ideas."

"And sticking to whatever works," concluded Beneventi. "Hope we-"

"Which is a good reason to make damn sure fine soldiers such as yourselves don't sit on your asses back barracks," added Corporal Albert Rossi, the highest-ranking soldier aboard the boat, which meant he's in charge of everyone else. "I've been listening to your lively conversation but now it's time for you yappers to stow it and get back in the war. We can start talking again when get dry feet."

"Yes, Al," they all replied.

"Rossi, why is this defector is so important?" He voiced the shared opinion of the others concerning the extraction.

"Churchill and Eisenhower want him so badly that they get us and some Brit commandos to snatch him from Jerry," replied Rossi at length. "Ours is not to reason why. The less we know, the better off we are."

"I find it a waste of our talent, Sarge," voiced Krill. "We'd rather blow up a railway or some factory than to pick up and babysit a runaway."

"There'll be plenty of stuff to blow up when the opportunity presents itself," explained Rossi. "However, our primary mission stays, everything else can take a backseat."

Beneventi had graver matter in mind. "Rossi, what happens if we fail and get captured? The Krauts have orders to shoot commandos whether they surrender or not."

Rossi looked at him. "Clementi. As one Italian to another, I have some advice for you: you'll get shot first."

Chuckles burst out around the raft. Clementi managed a grin but Rossi was serious.

He continued, "After the Fascist Party gave up the fight, Italians of any stripe are fair game for Heinie. So my advise to you is shoot straight and do not get caught." He looked around the men, his dark eyes like a hawk's, underlining the content of his statement. "And the same goes for the rest of you. Talk another pip and you'll be swimming to the island. Is that understood!?" It was a harsh yet audible whisper.

"Yes, Al," they all exclaimed promptly. The corporal from New Jersey, on and off "old Army" since 1936, had been known to let people ease up around him before he turned serious, like some school teacher who catches her students off-guard before reprimanding them for their mischief. Yet it told them they were in good hands. He let them have their fun. It's time to get back in the job.


In the wardroom which they shared with the sub-officers of Thunderfish, who were on duty stations at the moment, BJ was looking reading his mission orders. They were finally getting Kozlov out for good. Back in Isenstadt, he was instrumental in bringing down the Germans' research into the Black Sun dimension. What he did not expect was his boss, Dr Leonid Alexandrov, would be working with the Nazis to acquire learn of the Black Sun and the Thule. After Operation Nachtsonne, he thought the kid to be dead. He owed for his help back there.

A knock on the door. "Enter," BJ called out.

The door opened and Major Howard stepped on. "Still studying our orders?"

"Well, once you're in the OSA, reviewing everything is a requirement."

"It's been a while since I last saw your face, BJ." He took a sit on a bottom bunk.

"Don't call me that," BJ chided lightheartedly. "You and I have been together since we first got to England with the 34th." More than half of the first Rangers were organized from men of the 34th Infantry Division, one of the first American units deployed to the United Kingdom, landing in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

"And since we splashed down at Deippe with the Brits and Canadians." The two officers served together since Deippe as a select group of Rangers to accompany the ill-fated raid against the French coastal town, intended to test the Allies' readiness for opening a second front on Western Europe.

"And Torch," BJ added. Torch, the invasion of French North Africa, marked the entry of US Army in the war in Europe. It was were the Rangers received their baptism of fire, storming the Vichy-held port of Oran and securing an opening for the first elements of the American invasion force.

"You missed Husky and Salerno. We're have you been, busy with your secret agent job?"

"Yeah, a bit," he replied in his husky voice. "Can't talk about it, safe to say pays good, hours long, been on out-country for days at the time, and jobs are messy."

"What? Regretting the posh and dangerous assignments?" Howard raised his eyes in mock surprise.

"Nah, it sometimes gets lonely over there," he admitted. "Can't hear the good ol' voice of stateside English. Hard to tell friend from foe. And of course, Nazis out to kill you day and night."

"Being spy ain't cakewalk, isn't it? Missed being with the footsloggers?"

"Well, I find missions are done faster while on my lonesome but yeah, I missed being with the guys." There were three instances in which Blazkowicz had fought alone: Deippe, when they were attached to Lord Lovat's No. 4 Commando, BJ outflanked and destroyed a pillbox by himself; Arzew in Torch, he made a one-man reconnaissance where he swept away Vichy sentries and spotted a battery of guns firing on the troops landing on the town, doubling back to lead a five men to take the guns; Sened, Tunisia, where his platoon providing flank security to the rest of the 1st Ranger battalion as they made a a quick march at night which led them to an Bersaglieri camp. While Darby's Rangers captured the Italians his patrol ambushed and destroyed a column of reinforcements, consisting of 3 light tanks, half a dozen truckloads of infantry, and five more towing light artillery of two 47mm and and three 65mm. He and his men delayed the column, using captured mortars and machine guns for bombardment while BJ and a dozen men to destroy the tanks. The column was driven off in a pell-mell flight, over a fifty Italians captured, two of his own wounded. He received the Silver Star that day and a notice from the Office of Secret Actions.

And yes, he missed being with the footsloggers! Guys who had your back when the bullets fly. Guys who shared foxhole with talking of home, girlfriends, or griping about their situation whether it was the heat, mud or another snafu by the army. Officers and NCOs having their informal bull sessions on the ground, discussing the latest disposition of the enemy with rocks and figures in the sand. Simpler times.

"Oh yeah, it's about time I let you in something," BJ added.

"What..." Then Howard knew. "Oh yeah. Our ticket inside the Kraut fortress."

BJ briefed him for several minutes about the OSA's inside man.


Turbulence disturbed Brock from his musings of home and his choice of joining the SAS. Then turbulence struck again, this time a sucker punch that almost startled him to his feet and churn up his stomach. Damn, why the hell are we flying without engines?

"'Ey, Brock, shakin' in yer boots?" asked The Scot, Lance Corporal Donnach Gow*, bemused.

"Sod off, Gow," Brock blurted as he checked his ammo. "You've been in the Regiment since Africa." Gow had been bit of a ponce towards Brock since the training. The big Scot liked to pick on him from time to time. It was common practice for him to pick on the new guys, his way of measuring them up.

"Cool it, Brocky," the Scot placated. "Yah, aced selection and retraining." A grin lit up his face. "But can yah handle the heat?"

Gow's challenge was not met with any response. Brock would not let the Scot have a go at his irritation. He had pulled his weight time and again in North Africa. He lived through much fruitless first half of his service in Western Desert which saw seesaw battles between the Eights Army and the Afrika Korps, which made him wonder if army's high command had their heads high up their arses. He fought in a difficult salient against the thundering attacks of the German panzers during the First Battle of Alamein, missing Tobruk due to head wound, something he wryly thank the Jerries for. Then he recovered to serve again in the 7th Armored Division, where he was with its spearheads, taking a key village which offered passage through the minefields, defending it from a furious counterattack by Afrika Korps tanks and infantry. He followed the tanks in breaching Axis defenses the following morning, from which they pursued the Germans and Italians out of Libya. He fought in the bloody Mareth Line to dislodge the Germans from Matmata Ridge, where he was mentioned in dispatches*.

No. He was no greenhorn. He was baptized in blood and sweat, smoke and fire, in the fiery heat and choking dusts of the desert. He had nothing to prove to this bloody yahoo north of the Marches*.

"Gow, go easy on him, please," said Private Austen Curtis. "He's no kid. Was with the 7th back there."

"Just havin' a wee bit of fun with 'im, that's all." Gow went on with his habit of needling newcomers. "To be fair he got Lt. Galloway to speak up a bit, I say we chalk up as a success to his first op." Everyone cheered even Brock. Gow can be facetious and spiteful but in truth the Scot can be a fast friend when you proven yourself.

Galloway smiled thinly. The SOE had thrown him in for this op without getting well-acquainted with the team he was in. They had practiced for this mission for weeks and he only showed on the last week of preparation. His quiet manner and war record gave him an aura of mystery among the men. They thought I'm some sort of secret agent. If they only knew...

"Jerry is different in his backyard," Norman said. "I know. We used to blow his planes on the ground and they don't find it cricket one bit. Like Curtis said, you've been through Africa like most of us. Stick with us and we can make it back in no time."

"We can take on Jerry just fine," George Bennett, formerly of the Royal Sussex Regiment before joining the SAS after the failure of Operation Supercharge in 1941. "We gave him a good rubbing, didn't we? Though once he's got any of us, I'm sure he'll be happy to string us a tree."

"I can't see why we need the Yanks on this," muttered Jeremy Perlman, the SAS team's second muscleman after Gow. Born in the town of Dartford to Belgian Jewish refugee parents during the Great War, his accent is a curious mix of Kentish and Yiddish, mixed further with Flemish from going with his uncle's trips to Antwerp. He hefted a Boys Anti-Tank rifle, customized and rendered from the original .55 Boys to .50 due to his prewar occupation as factory machinist at the town's Vickers factory.

"It's part of their commitment to the overall war effort," Bennett voiced himself in imitation of the briefing officer, "and to study the viability of American participation of covert raids deep into enemy territory." He scoffed. "Bloody yanks, coming to the war at the last minute, brass bands and loud talk. We can thank 'em for Lend-Lease, their flyboys over Germany, Africa and Italy but we've been in the commando business longer than they did. Why the hell do we need their help?"

"More like they need us," replied Perlman. "This is their first operation deep within enemy lines, far from any sort of support. They want to prove they can hold their own in the commando business. I say we give them the chance."

"Perlman's right," said Sergant Ingram, the man who lost to Galloway's surprise. "If they get this right we can use a little more help in slapping Jerry about in his own backyard. Probably convince their brass get into clandestine ops."

"Competition's gonna get tight with them all over Europe," mused Bennett. "I feel sorry for the Jerry bastards." The laughter that ensued eased up on the tension inside the glider as they descended. While Brock still had his butterflies, he was happy to be with these men who thought it another day in the office.


Aksel watched impassively into the darkness as he huddled in the German greatcoat he wore. Previously, it belonged to a soldier who had the misfortune of meeting him in the dark. He ended his life quickly and easily with one stab of his Fairbairn-Sykes knife. But he did not want him to die that time. It was a chance encounter that he and his team would have better done without. Missing sentries rouse a hornet's nest. The punctual, efficient Germans saw to that. He hope, prayed actually, that the Germans remain oblivious for just enough to time till the Allied commandos land and performed their work on this windswept green rock. He checked his watch. In the faint moonlight, the short hand was pointed nine while the long hand was drawing close to it, the seconds hand ticking was cutting it close. He looked to his right and called with a hiss. One figure in the darkness turned and he gestured him over. The man crouched silently over.

"Anything around?" he asked him.

"No, nothing, Aksel. Still quiet," was his answer. He let out a misty breath.

"How about the strip?" The "strip" in question was a large flat piece of grassy ground. It used to be pasture for sheep and cattle until the Nazis took the island over. Relatively smooth and wide with no rocks jutting out of the ground, it was the only piece of real estate suitable for the coming British commandos aboard their glider. An abrupt rise with a thick grove of trees shielded the pasture from the castle's and village's line of sight.

"Haakonsen and Asleland are watching it, no activity yet."

"Good, how about the man in the inside?" During the briefing they were told that an Allied agent embedded secretly in the garrison would meet them to confirm if the operation was still viable or not. He did not particularly asked why. He knew better than that ask details of any operation. Many of the early groups that mushroomed after the invasion were quickly snuffed out by the Gestapo. They squeeze the information from the heads of their prisoners and follow the trail to the next, piecing them together along the way. They were lucky not to be wiped off the board.

He shook his head. "No sign of him yet. I should know. I never miss a thing, even in the dark."

Aksel nodded. "Good. Take care of yourself, Knut."

Knut smiled. "Watch your backside, Aksel." He goodnaturedly patted his friend's back and went back to his watch position covering the karsts that separated them from the Nazi fortress. Knut was a friend of his from high school and one of the best shooters in his hometown. Back in their days, he hunted deer in the forests during the winter, tracking huge majestic bucks on days on end and then bringing them down with single, well-placed shot, hauling trophies and marvelous game meat down the mountains. Now he was hunting Nazis.

Aksel looked around and tried to see the rest of his team in the darkness. He could not, not knowing if he could tell them apart from the darker silhouettes in the night. Well away from the overgrown pasture was the small village that once held the island's inhabitants, now converted by the Germans as a port to supply the island. He had seen large boxes and heavy equipment on the town and he knew the Germans were proceeding with further construction on the island. At the moment, there was very little activity but the village troops were on high alert. This wasn't their usual curfew, they've learned from snippets of conversations by some of the Germans of top secret activity going on and the strictest measures were applied to such effect. The Germans have put much of the island on double guard, to say nothing of the measures within the fortress itself and subsidiary facilities like the radar station. At the moment, he can hear the barking of the guard dogs the Germans used sniff out trails. So far this curfew has put them on notice but it did not stop patrols from being sent out.

Naess crept up to the grass and began walking upright, posing as just another sentry out on patrol who was fervently wishing he was back indoors enjoying a night of cards, cigars, and schnapps with his bunkmates. He had to be busy as possible for any Bosche looking out for their missing comrade. If he was accosted by one, his German was reasonably adequate but he hoped they wouldn't resort to a challenge and countersign, it would blow the lead on the whole op! The cold wind assailed him, giving him shivers and the night visibility was poor. He hoped that he did not run into any guards at this moment. He was pacing himself, remembering the topography they painstakingly memorized from hand-drawn maps, photos and improvised sand tables. At the foot of another outcropping he ducked behind and crept forward, he crouched low over a clump of tall grass. He dug into his pocket and dug out a clicker toy. He dug it out and made a click, followed by another. He was greeted with double clicks.

"What is heroism made of?" asked the clicker audibly.

"It is made of hanging on minute longer," Aksel replied, satisfied. "And balls." Code, based on a Norwegian proverb they learned at elementary school, told him he was alive and well and not talking with a Mauser muzzle pointed behind his head. A slight variation to the answer would have told anyone otherwise, alerting them to trouble.

The clicker got up, a darker shape in the night scene. He approached Aksel, gun cautiously drawn on his side. He approached the figure and briefly startled to see his friend in German uniform, then flashed a grin of relief as they got down to business.

"That rag looks ugly on you, Aksel," commented the clicker, strands of his wavy blond hair poking out of his toque cap. "The bloody steel chamber pot on your head doesn't suit you."

"Didn't have the time, Haugland." Aksel smiled wryly. "Didn't have time for a proper wardrobe, needed to put down the fellow who wouldn't let me lend it."

Haugland scoffed, "Germans."

"So how's the Eureka?" the resistance leader asked.

"Signal's strong; since the plane's Rebecca should pick it up by now, so should the glider," replied Haugland. The Eureka was a ground-based beacon, part of the Rebecca/Eureka transponder radar apparatus. A short-range radio navigation system used as an aid for dropping troops and supplies under dismal conditions such as nighttime. It consisted Rebecca, an airborne transceiver and antenna set while Eureka was the ground-based beacon, a super-regenerative receiver with a separate transmitter valve and powered by a battery operated vibrator. The variant they possessed was a Eureka III. "Reidar is attending to it right now."

"Good, keep at it, will update as the situation develops," Aksel said. Back in England, the gang was among the few teams chosen to operate the Eureka beacon. Thus, among the features of their training was to handling and security of the device, they cannot let it fall to enemy hands lest the Germans gain its valuable capabilities. Reidar, their radio operator, had the responsibility of tending to it, using the coding unit, which periodically causes the width of the beacon response pulses to vary at Morse Code intervals for identification purposes. This function may also be manually controlled for transmission of simple messages. And right now, all he had to do was to watch but when changes to the situation arise, he had to give any of the prearranged codes he was briefed with to inform the SAS strike team of any new developments, the worst being telling them to abort mission.

Reidar and his Eureka were set above the cliffs in a landmark called by the former residents as the Communion Hands as the site, a grassy depression surrounded by rocking outcroppings and facing the sea, resemble a pair of hands cupped to receive the Holy Communion. It was selected as the rocks would reflect the beacon pulses to the sea, amplifying the signal and protecting it from sigint devices the Germans installed around the island. The problem was that Reidar was exposed to the winds buffeting the landmark. Only his sweater and heavy coat and some strong American coffee in his thermos kept him going though he wished for a cigarette. But the scent of burnt tobacco might be carried in wind and the Germans' dogs might track them. But a smoke was better than the American coffee he drank.

This was their first major operation in a year since they came back to their home in 1942. Between that and today, they were mainly focused on smaller tasks, passed a message here, gathered intelligence there, sabotaged equipment and installations, and even carried out a few hits on Germans and their local collaborators. This was also their riskiest yet but he and his small band of resistance fighters have been running risks since 1940. What did one more count? Aksel founded his cell shortly after the Nazis invaded Norway, based on his hometown of Møre og Romsdal. It began with two friends and had grown into a band of six. All of them were on the island right now, acting as the welcoming committee for the little invasion that was to come. Time had passed rather quickly. It took three weeks to prepare for this mission. It took three years to get where they were now, four if you count the tension-filled year of 1939.

This was the latest battle he was fighting at the moment. He checked his watch again. 9 A.M. He crept down to the flat pasture and knelt at the side. He removed the signal lamp from his bag and began blinking intermittently so the glider, if approaching on schedule, can see at all. He decided to make one last check before coming back to Reidar.

Naess made a run while crouching on a rise that overlooked the entrance to the fortress itself. The challenge and countersign song number was repeated and he approached the resistance fighter looking over the entrance.

"Anything new?" he asked him.

"No, Naess, besides the black out measures, nothing," was the reply. Previously, the watchtowers beamed searchlights scanning the vicinity for intruders while guards with dogs on the leash patrolled the electric-wire fenced perimeter. Now almost no light except from a few stationary lamps bolted to the walls with shields covering them from prying eyes airborne. Almost nothing changed from the placid routine of the guards.

"Good, keep me posted, watch for the Allied agent when he comes, Asleson." Naess went down to check on the group watching out for the Americans on the cove.

"Won't let you down, Aksel," replied Rikard Asleson, former coal miner.

"I know you won't, Asleson."


"Achoo!" sneezed Aksel, snifflign and wiping his nose with sleeve of his coat.

"Feeling the chill?" asked Darrick.

"Nah, that's nothing," he replied. "I thought somebody called my name." He marched on, leading the Valgrade footmen. For some reason a strange melancholy tinge his mind. How long was it? Some twenty years since he was cast into this place... He shook his head and continued trudging.


A/N: I'll try to pay attention to my depiction of the characters, both in-game and OC. In this case, I'll have to try something more than combat, considering the Greatest Generation were products of their times, notably how the both the war and times shaped them.

*Donnach Gow are real names in Scottish Gaelic.

*Potato donuts had emerged during the Depression era together with concept of doughnut shops. I took inspiration from a Youtube vid - Tasting History with Katie Rudolph: Potato Doughnuts - on a potato doughnut recipe from 1933.

*Despatches - A member of the armed forces mentioned in dispatches (or despatches, MiD) is one whose name appears in an official report written by a superior officer and sent to the high command, in which his or her gallant or meritorious action in the face of the enemy is described. This is usually practiced by the militaries of Britain and Commonwealth countries. The American version is Citations for Bravery.

*Marches - The term used for the Anglo-Scottish border during the late medieval and early modern eras, characterised by violence and cross-border raids. The Scottish Marches era came to an end during the first decade of the 17th century following the union of the crowns of England and Scotland. The name comes from march or mark, which broadly describes any borderland in medieval Europe, as opposed to a notional "heartland". More specifically, a march was a border between realms, and/or a neutral/buffer zone under joint control of two states, in which different laws might apply. In both of these senses, marches served a political purpose, such as providing warning of military incursions, or regulating cross-border trade, or both.