Unforeseen Circumstances

June 21st, 1944

Normandy, France

Lane joggled his knee as the jeep took them deeper into the newly acquired Allied territory. Part of him was comforted being back in the midst of the action, but Lane understood that a fundamental alteration had taken place. Jones explained to him, to all of them, that they would have to relinquish command of their respective outfits now that they headed the new task force. It came as an especially hard blow to Lane, seeing as many of the men in the 1st division had been trained personally by himself and Carter. That kind of trust was hard to top and the last thing he wanted to do was walk out on them. They'd already lost one good commander, and now they were about to lose him too.

In the midst of his guilt, he reminded himself that he now served a higher cause. America and a hoard of other top commanders were relying on him to make Louis Jones' experiment a successful one and he'd be damned if he messed it up now. What is more, Lane wasn't sure how Dufault and Gillan felt about being led by someone as new to the block as he. Dufault, for as little as Lane knew about him, seemed like an agreeable fellow. Gillan, on the other hand, was a hard son-of-a-bitch to read. He could run both sweet and sour if the occasion suited him, and he'd been around longer than all of them - if anyone should have been taking the lead, it was him.

Lane took a breath, raking him fingers through his hair. There was no need to invent issues where none existed; both Gillan and Dufault had been perfectly charitable insofar. It was the nerves making him over-analyze, he decided. Any reasonable person would do the same.

"Captain, we're here." Lane acknowledge the driver briefly before unloading, eyes already scanning the lines for his future second-in-command. The plan was to gather everyone up and meet back up with the Allies at noon for the first briefing, something which Lane dreaded deeply. Streicher was as skeptical as any scientist; his first reaction might very well be to shoot first and ask questions later when the countries revealed what this was all really about.

"Alright, Strike. Where are you?" Lane said to himself.

A minute later he spotted Major Hughes, the company's interim commander, coming over the rise with Streicher in tow. Lane waved to catch their attention.

"Captain Lane, good to see you. How was London?" Hughes addressed him respectfully, although Lane did not fail to catch the spiteful undertone. He thought Lane was running out on them.

"Just fine, sir. Had a meeting, met some of the higher ups. You received Jones' telegram?"

"I did. I can't fathom why you'd want to leave such a fine company, but I'll do my best to take them from here." Lane nodded a tad awkwardly before offering a parting salute. Behind Hughes, Streicher cracked a smarmy grin.

"I appreciate it. Thank you, sir."

"And, Corporal?" Hughes turned to Streicher now, "I expect you will not embarrass us on the world stage. I would hate to find out my decision not to have you court marshalled was for nothing. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir." Streicher looked him straight in the eyes, about as earnest as he had ever been, though Lane knew it to be an act. Hughes scrutinized him a moment longer, nodded once at the captain, and departed, "Shithead," Streicher asserted when he was out of earshot.

"You know, your life would be a lot easier if you just followed orders."

"Come on, Jim, where's the fun in that?" Lane rolled his eyes at Streicher's stubborn omission of his proper title. He'd long since given up trying to make the man respect the chain of command, and they were such good friends anyway it seemed to Lane almost more improper to make Streicher call him 'sir.' He supposed that as long as Strike didn't disrespect him publicly he would let him get away with it, but that didn't mean he wouldn't hold him to a higher standard now.

"As I remember, you were practically an angel for Carter."

"That was different."

"I'm sure," said he, "But you're gonna have to change you tune for this one Strike. This is bigger than anything we've ever dealt with."

"You going all high-class on me now? What, does Jones need two of us to take his memos?" Lane stopped abruptly, startling his jovial cohort.

"Strike, I'm not playing around. Stop running your mouth or I'll find someone else to help me." Streicher recoiled with the force of Lane's censure, suddenly humbled and serious.

"Alright, I get it. I'm sorry," He shifted his pack and rifle to the other shoulder, "But what are we doing? This seems awful hush-hush."

"That's because it is," Lane hopped into the back of the jeep, Streicher close behind, "I'll explain it all when we get to where we're going."

"And where's that?"

"It's classified." Lane mimicked Streicher's most shit-eating smile. Streicher was not amused.

"I resent that remark."

"Do you even know what that means?"

"Yeah, it means you're an asshole." Streicher sat back with his arms crossed, the picture of self-satisfaction. Lane rolled his eyes.

"Just don't do anything unusually stupid. You'll see when we get there."


"Lane! You're back early," Jones smiled and waved as Lane and Streicher exited the vehicle. As of yet, the front was not well-enough established enough to necessitate a long trip. One could travel between the beachhead and the furthest inland reaches of Allied territory in less than an hour.

"Sir," He saluted. Streicher did the same, "Have the others returned yet?"

"No," Just then, another vehicle rolled in to the encampment, "Well speak of the devil. The Redcoats are coming."

Indeed, Kirkland, Gillan, and a man Lane did not know, pulled up beside the American jeep. Streicher scrutinized them carefully, remembering the last time they'd dealt with Lieutenant Gillan; clearly Lane did as well, for he raised an eyebrow in warning. Streicher begrudgingly held his tongue.

"General. Captain Lane," Kirkland greeted them with a salute, "And Corporal Streicher. I am glad you decided to join us." Streicher offered a tense 'yes sir' by way of agreement.

"Who'd you bring?" Jones addressed the new man, younger than Gillan by far but not so young as to be a complete greenie. He was short, perhaps five-foot six, with catty brown eyes, and slender, patrician features. Lane had a feeling his elfin appearance belied a sharp temperament.

"Corporal Astor sir, 3rd Division, 8th Brigade. Suffolk Regiment."

"Sword Beach, then?"

"That's right, sir." Sensing an inaudible cue from his superior, Astor stepped back and allowed Kirkland once again to preside over the meeting. The English officer smiled genially at the swiftly approaching Canadian outfit before leading the way to the white command tent where the official briefing would be held. Lane fell in step with his English and Canadian cohorts, sensing for the first time a spirit of unified direction among their ranks. Streicher, on the other hand, surveyed them with slight distrust, the weight of words unsaid pressing down on him. Usually he was the first to call out bullshit when he saw it, and right now he was seeing quite a bit of it; it was his loyalty to Lane that kept him from uttering a blistering remark. He trusted the higher-ups about as much as he trusted any bureaucrat – they were hiding something, he knew it, and so did everybody else. It was time to lay the cards on the table.


It was around noon when Alan Streicher finally lost his cool. The Dream Team (a moniker bestowed upon them by someone low in the ranks but high in nerve) was receiving the first of many briefings, including, but not limited to, the distribution of cyanide capsules, an outline of the main objective, and the revelation of the commanders' true identities. The last of which they saved for the very end, after everyone was thoroughly dazed and confused by the level of secrecy with which they were all expected to conduct themselves after this moment.

Jones, as usual, headed the introductions in his chipper, enthusiastic way, earning confused if not downright skeptical looks from every new man present. Astor and Matonis kept their uncertainty in check out of respect for their superiors, dutiful and deferent as they were. Corporal Streicher was a different story.

"So let me get this straight: You're telling me that you all are some kind of immortal, holier-than-thou, deities with control over everyone's lives?" He actually laughed aloud before candidly stating: "That sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me." Lane lowered his forehead slowly into his palm. Gillan's eyes were on him disapprovingly, as if to say 'I told you so.'

"Shut up, Strike." He hissed under his breath, but the damage had been done. America's eyes were wide with shock, while England glared poisonously. Canada simply refrained from commentating, as was his nature.

"Come on, Captain. You don't actually believe this do you?" Streicher said in his brash Southern voice, never looking away from General Jones.

"Streicher, I said shut up."

"You're all damn crazy! A bunch of nutjobs!" That was the last straw for some of the more reserved men, namely Lieutenant Gillan.

"You impertinent swine!" He spat in his cultured, English voice, "Have you no shame?"

"Lieutenant!" England barked, green eyes flashing dangerously, "Contain yourself!"

"Lane, General, with all due respect, this is ridiculous," Streicher said matter-of-factly, "Now I'm going back to the front where I belong. You can have your little party without me."

"Streicher!" America, who'd relinquished control of the situation for as long as he could stand, finally put his foot down. The force and intensity behind his voice shocked Lane; America was almost never this serious. Streicher had the good sense to stop what he was doing, "This is not a game. We're telling the truth."

"Prove it, then." Streicher's challenge matched America's, step for step. He had his eyes narrowed and hard, a fierce snarl on his lips that could have doubled as a sadistic grin.

The other men were content to simply sit back and watch the show, afraid to get between the two of them. Good move, thought Lane. The last time he'd seen Jones so riled up was after Carter had been captured, and that was a terrific enough experience. Lane could hardly imagine what it would be like to be on the ass-end of General Jones' shit list; Streicher had more balls than anyone he'd ever known.

America ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

"I really didn't wanna have to do this again." Streicher reeled back when he drew his field knife, holding it poised over his palm. Lane knew what came next.

"Woah, woah, what the hell are you doing?" In full view of everyone present, America plunged the knife downward into his own hand. The blade stuck all the way through to the other side, the end red with blood.

"Goddamn it." Just as quickly as it went in, Jones had it out, glistening in the afternoon light. He flexed his fingers, once, twice, and held it up for all to witness. In a matter of seconds, the gaping, inch-wide hole closed, leaving only fresh, pink skin. Lane shuddered. He would never get used to seeing that.

Streicher's reaction was not so subtle.

He looked once at America, once at his wriggling hand, and fell backwards. Fainted.

"Well, shit." Said America, rather candidly. Lane, forgetting his rank, replied.

"You think?"

"Captain, were we not specific enough when we said find trustworthy seconds?" England, ever dignified, came to stand next to America, his arms crossed.

"I'm sorry, sir. He's just… opinionated."

"So I can see," He shook his head in brusque exasperation, "Well, leave him there I suppose. We still have things to do."


"You're a real asshole, you know that Strike?" The man in question managed a non-committal grunt in return, "If it weren't for Jones, you'd be with the MPs right now."

"Do the MPs put knives through their hands too?" Lane rolled his eyes.

"You know he wouldn't've had to do that if you hadn't been acting like dumbass." Streicher stared straight ahead, smoking like a maniac.

"Yeah well, if you're so smart, why don't you go take a long walk off a short pier?" He suggested, at last becoming more like the Alan Streicher Lane knew.

"So does that mean you're in?" The man took a deep breath, and, almost reverently, flicked his cigarette butt into the dirt.

"Yeah, I'm in," He grinned his foxy, Streicher grin, "You're gonna need at least one sane som'bitch out there." Lane snorted.

"You just shoot straight and leave the talking to me. You're in enough hot water as it is."

"With who?"

"With whom, Corporal. And that would be me." A cultured voice interrupted Streicher's vehement declaration. Gillan approached slowly, with Astor close behind.

"The hell do you want?"

"Put your claws away, lad," Gillan patronized, turning then to Lane, "I came to tell you that we are moving out tomorrow. Straight to the front lines."

"Duly noted, thank you."

"Oh, and Corporal?" Gillan had a mischievous look about him, "Did it hurt when you hit the ground? I can't imagine the rocks being very comfortable."

"You son of a-

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Lane, the un-appointed mediator, leapt between them before Streicher had a chance to draw his pistol; however, it didn't stop him from trying.

"You're digging your own grave old man!" Lane caught him as he lunged forward, clawing and biting, towards Gillan, while the Englishman danced backward out of his reach.

It was going to be a long war.


(Hope you like it, there's plenty more where this came from, but not until springtime. I'm joining the army myself and I won't be done with training for a while.)