AN: Alrighty, so...first off: Happy New Year's! Woo! The world did not end! Yay us!
Secondly, I'd like to thank Ray, a US Army veteran, and I-Am-Silence, a Canadian veteran, who were a huge help in writing this chapter, and I hope agree to continue our working relationship in helping me develop future chapters.
Thirdly, this chapter is Harry-light, focusing more on the actual war. He'll be back in the next chapter, though!
Cheers,
MB
VANGUARD Army Main Operating Base "Olympus", Brussels, Belgium, February 2, 2017 (D-Day +2)...
The line had held.
As the combined forces of the European Treaty Organization mobilized for war, there had been a great sense of uncertainty amongst Northern High Command about how dependable their allies would be in this war. Even with the best of intentions, there was no guarantee that they would be able to push hard against the French, much less keep them at bay.
All of those sceptics were now thoroughly glad to be wrong.
As Operation VANGUARD went underway, the Dutch and Belgian armies had marshalled their forces along the Franco-Belgian border, lamentably restricted from helping their Luxembourgian allies for now as a substantial French contingent marched on the Benelux to push them out of the war early on.
Not that the Northern Sun had forgotten its brave Luxembourgian allies; immediately upon receiving the news of the impending French invasion, Northern High Command, under the direction of General Neville Longbottom, quickly called on the Austrians to honor the Treaty by coming to the aid of Luxembourg. The result was numerous paratrooper contingents dropping over the tiny country and assisting in operations against the technologically-deprived French armies.
But of all the initial actions, the most effective one was without a doubt the result of Operation VANGUARD.
Ten thousand men, vehicles, and supplies mass-transported over the Channel into the Netherlands in a matter of two hours.
Using two hundred massive point-to-point Floo platforms set up on either end of the VANGUARD system, the Northern Sun deployed its forward elements with a speed unmatched in human history, its troops quickly relieving the besieged Dutch and Belgian forces and taking the French attackers completely by surprise.
Unfortunately for the French, the surprise didn't end there.
Soon after the French push towards Mons and Brugges had stalled, their what few communication devices they had left was full of chatter as Airborne divisions from the Northern Sun began landing practically unopposed along the Normandy region. Already, Caen had been partially occupied by the Northern paratroopers, as the French garrison forces, deprived of anything that used electricity, were forced to rely on primitive communications to try and coordinate a defence — with little luck. Only the timely arrival of reinforcements had prevented Caen from being lost wholly.
With the initial blows of the war delivered, however, it was finally time for the Northern Sun to unveil the rest of its plans. Set up in a camp in the process of being built on the outskirts of the city, Neville and the rest of the ETO brass in charge of the initial invasion convened to discuss strategy, amidst the ongoing raucous of engineers installing screens and setting up the appropriate wirework.
"Here."
Neville pressed his gloved finger onto the digital map where the Principality of Andorra lay, causing the location to emit a small blip and a white marker to appear. "General Ruiz-Perez has already informed me that a small portion of his Spanish forces are beginning their assault on Andorra," he shifted his finger to the west. Another dot appeared. "On Bayonne." Again, he shifted his finger, this time west, and an appropriate dot appeared again. "And Perpignan. The assault on the latter two is to be supported by our Navy while the Second Army launches an amphibious assault on La Rochelle once Stage Two is a go."
Nods greeted his strategy, as the combined highest ranking officers of the Dutch, Belgian, Austrian, and Luxembourgian armies conferred with him. He'd been surprised at how amenable they'd been towards his taking command of the campaign; all of them were visibly older than he was, and had the look of trained and experienced soldiers, after all.
"With respect, General, what about Luxembourg?" his Luxembourgian colleague asked, quite worried. "Even with the help of our Austrian friends," he nodded gratefully to the Austrian general, who answered in kind. "We will still be overwhelmed by the French shortly. We simply do not have the manpower to hold them at bay!"
"The key to that offensive is Thionville, General," General Dubois pointed out to Neville, zooming out the regional image and focusing the map on the Luxembourgian border region, before setting his finger on the map at the appropriate location. "If you can somehow threaten that city, I think we can assume the French will withdraw from their attack on Luxembourg."
"That risks spreading the VANGUARD force thin," General Fikse noted worriedly. "Could Austria not donate more troops?" he asked his Austrian colleague.
General Friedrich Haas shook his head. "As much as we would like to help further, the French war with Deutschland depleted much of our standing forces."
Neville frowned as he leaned over the digital map, looking at the different icons that indicated military positions, forces, and targets. As much as he wished to keep the VANGUARD force relatively together, he also knew that having Luxembourg knocked out this early on would serve as a major morale and credibility blow to the Northern Sun. "There is no choice, then. We'll dispatch a contingent of VANGUARD troops to raid Thionville. With luck, the threat of being cut off will make them retreat back behind their own borders."
"The rest of our forces will proceed west as planned," he then put his hand vertically on the map and slid it west to punctuate his words. A large, red arrow materialized on the map and swept along the path of his hand. "We must take Calais, Dunkirk, and Lille in order to allow our reinforcements to arrive close to the battlefields. It is too inefficient to unload them in Knokke-Heist or Antwerp, and would allow the enemy to regroup and provide stiffer resistance along the Belgian border."
Again, nods greeted his words. Glad to see his colleagues would not dispute the unspoken chain of command, where the Northern Sun dictated every move, he ploughed on. "General Dubois, your forces will skirt Dunkirk and make for Calais. This will cause the defenders at Dunkirk to believe that Calais must be reinforced and will hopefully weaken the local garrison while we launch a subsequent attack on Dunkirk. General Fikse, that's yours."
The Dutch general saluted at the order. "Understood."
Neville then glanced at Achen, his Luxembourgian counterpart. "General, once the French assault subsides, I want your forces raiding south to link up with the overland Austrian reinforcements and then make a combined push towards Strasbourg."
"What about the French garrisons in Germany?" piped up Haas, frowning. "That's quite a bit of manpower gnarling at our backs like a pack of wolves."
"The idea is to lock out the French border, General," Neville reminded him. "If we can do that, elements within the occupied German territories have already promised to rise against the French garrisons. Meanwhile, their technological blackout will severely delay their mobilization."
"And Rheims, General?" asked Dubois. "Shouldn't we attempt to capture it, at least?"
Neville sorely wished they could, but knew why such a thing wasn't feasible at the moment. While formerly a jewel of the French nation, Rheims' value at this point was not so much strategic as it was symbolic, which meant it wasn't a priority target for the invasion. Right now, it was far more important to secure the Normandy region for the arrival of the main invasion force.
"Rheims will fall in due time, General," Neville answered briefly. "Right now, Normandy is the prize. With all that needs doing, I dare say we'll already have quite a bit of trouble getting it done on time."
He then glanced at the map and checked the time stamp for the date and time. "Stage Two is planned to begin in a week, at latest. We have till then to secure, or at least neutralize our targets," he informed his colleagues. "It is imperative, Generals, that the targets be seized. Last time Normandy got invaded, there needed to be a three-week build up before Operation Cobra got the Allied forces out of the beachhead. We don't want that happening this time around."
"With respect, General," Fikse spoke up then, looking like an old school teacher who'd just heard his favourite student say something incredibly naive. "The best laid plans usually don't last."
Neville nodded curtly as he leaned onto the table and gazed down at the map of France. Even on paper, the sheer magnitude of the enterprise they were embarking on seemed beyond comprehension. Sure, it'd been done before, but not many of those who'd been around for and participated in that particular event remained alive.
So here he was, set at the forefront of the perhaps the third greatest amphibious assault in military history, after Operation Downfall and Operation Overlord, and he could scarcely believe what he had to achieve in so little time before the rest of the Northern Sun followed his lead into France.
If he failed...then not only would more Northerners die on the beachheads than were necessary, but the success of the invasions would be put at risk, as a failure to land the main invasion force in Normandy would allow French forces to coordinate a better resistance against the minor invasions at La Rochelle, Strasbourg, Bayonne, Andorra, and Perpignan.
This was not something he could allow.
"I understand that, General, but failure is not an option in this case," Neville stated firmly. "To that end, I am authorizing the deployment of Military Mages with each assault force to facilitate the capture or neutralization of each target. While I expect you all to exercise restraint, the Northern Sun is authorizing their battlefield deployment at your discretion."
That was no small statement. The Northern Sun's Military Mages were infamous throughout the world for their service in the Anglo-Spanish War, the Civil War, and the Death Eater War. More frightening was the fact that ever since the first Military Mage became King, their quality and abilities on the field had jumped considerably as new regulations and training regimens were put into place to avoid the mass destruction they had caused during the latter half of the Spanish conflict. Even now, despite being ETO members, the Spanish usually approached the idea of forming Military Mages with reticence, as most of the population there still remembered with utter terror the havoc the British mages had caused.
Nonetheless, part of the ETO's formation treaty demanded that each member state undo the numerous pieces of legislation that had actively oppressed the mages, should any have been enacted. However, rather than just give the mages free reign, the ETO also took from the Northern Sun its approach to the issue by implementing ETO-wide registration schemes, such that each member nation would have access to the records of any mage citizen to ensure that no Dark Mages or the like would ever slip past the radar.
That meant that while not every member nation had their own versions of the Military Mages — Austria, in fact, being the only ones who'd recently started such a program, under direct Northern supervision — all of them knew exactly what the Northern Sun had to offer in that respect.
Either way, they all knew that for the Northern Sun to grant usage of their prized mages in battle under the orders of their allies was a huge event, such that they now understood that the North wasn't so much asking them to take their targets as they were telling them to do it.
"France must come to heel quickly," Neville reiterated firmly as he held eye contact with each general in turn. "And the key to that is Normandy once more. Get to it, gentlemen, and good luck."
Operation Cobra, Over Caen, France, February 4, 2017 (D-Day +4)...
"Reaching drop zone in ten minutes!"
Oliver nodded to the Jump Master, who'd been in constant communication with the pilots up front. Looking back at his handpicked section, he made a mental headcount before nodding at them and tapping his earpiece to open comms.
"Alright, lads, ten minutes to DZ so PUCKER UP!" he ordered them, pleased to see his handpicked section had managed to deal with their nerves somewhat constructively. A few had brought out rosaries and other religious items, lighters or other knickknacks (no doubt of some sentimental importance)...but none had collapsed under the pressure, for which he was glad, considering that they were about to drop into an active combat zone.
Caen may have been halfway taken, but halfway just meant someone had fucked up (and that someone was now facing a summary discharge for incompetence, if Oliver had anything to say about it!), and the Northern Army would need the entire city under their firm control to be assured of the mobility of their forces throughout Normandy. A ground push was out of the goddamn question, considering their opponents had hunkered down along the opposite side of the river, forcing the Northern paratroopers to either brave the few narrow bridges or find another way across.
Oliver had wisely opted for the latter option.
Knowing that in the initial drop they'd managed to secure the nearby Carpiquet Airport, he'd called in for aircraft to let his men perform another drop over the river while the Air Force and groundside paratroopers kept the French defenders busy. It'd be risky as hell, considering how close the airfield was to the arguably antiquated non-electronic Anti-Air guns the French had somehow managed to dig up from goodness knows where, but it beat a ground push against an entrenched enemy position.
"Five minutes!" he heard the Jump Master tell him over the comm. As soon as he did, Oliver felt the plane start its backwards turn as it headed back towards the southern side of Caen. As close as the airfield had been to the battlezone, it would have been nearly suicidal to attempt a drop by just flying right for the drop zone as soon as the planes got airborne.
Turning to his men, Oliver rose his left hand and held out all five fingers. "FIVE MINUTES! STAND UP!"
As in sync as possible, the men quickly withdrew their trinkets and rose to their feet, assembling near the rear of the cargo hold, while the Jump Master checked the consoles for any problems in the plane's cargo hold systems. Oliver marched past his assembled section — in truth made up of two — and then stood at the forefront of the column, looking back at them. Raising his own parachute hook, he called out, "HOOK UP!" before actually doing so himself, promptly followed by his men.
Then, patting his chest, he called out, "EQUIPMENT CHECK!"
As they patted themselves down and made sure their weapons were in functional order, Oliver preoccupied himself with the details of the upcoming operation. Taking a page from VANGUARD, Oliver had opted for a three prong attack in order to keep the French as strung out as possible, especially given the sub-par equipment they were using — and arguably using to great effect, considering they'd managed to stop the Northern paratroopers from capturing the southern half of the city.
One prong would be the groundside assault, to be supported by armoured personnel carriers and whatever light tanks the Air Force had the time to land at the airfield in between the air raids the preliminary stage to the main invasion demanded of them. To facilitate their crossing, Oliver had requisitioned ten military mages in order to have them transfigure bridges for the soldiers to outflank the enemy positions.
The second prong was an air assault. Three dozen Westland Apache assault helicopters effectively launching a constant barrage of Hellfire missile and chaingun fire at the river bank and AA gun positions — which, considering they lacked any of the technical niceties that modern helicopters had protected themselves from meant they were now deadlier than hell — in anticipation of the Airborne drop and as support for the first prong, in the hopes that perhaps they wouldn't get shredded crossing the damned river. While this happened, and if they were very lucky, the Lynx troop transports would then move in and attempt to secure forward positions in anticipation of the ground assault.
And the third, naturally, was his prong, the rear-flank High-Altitude Low-Opening (HALO) jump. While still a General of the Northern Army, and thus supposedly disqualified from ever setting foot on a battlefield ever again, or until he got sufficiently demoted, Wood had taken inspiration from the actions of his more (in)famous colleagues, Neville Longbottom, William Swift, and Alexander Humboldt by taking to the field as well — though he was arguably ignoring the fact that none of the three men had actually been on the field of battle by their own design, having been victims of an ambush.
It had rattled a few cages, sure, but after the enormous cock-up that resulted in half the city still being in enemy hands, there was no way in hell he was delegating this op anymore.
In any case, the very fact that he was in the air right now probably meant that the first stage of the attack, the groundside and air assault, was already well underway. Switching channels to the main battle feed, he was almost immediately blasted with incessant chatter as units coordinated with each other according to plan. He grimaced as he heard the dying words of a chopper crew just before it was brought down by an AA gun.
AA guns which, while regrettably targeting his boys groundside, were no longer trained on his paratroopers.
"ONE MINUTE TO DZ!" the Jump Master shouted over before running his hands over the controls to the rear hatch, even as the buzzer sounded and the cargo light began blinking green. Quickly, he put on his breather mask as the section and Oliver donned their tactical helmets, which were thankfully linked up to an oxygen tank. "OPENING HATCH!"
Oliver nodded before looking over to his men and grasping at the steel bar overhead. "HOLD STEADY!" he ordered over the roaring noise of the motors, now plainly audible as the hatch slid open, also allowing in the horrible sound of rushing wind to pierce his ears. Fortunately, every man of his was either a veteran of the British paras, or was trained enough to know how to hold their ground in the face of such decompression, however gradual.
A hand signal from the Jump Master told him they were at 30 seconds. "THIRTY SECONDS!" he shouted out to his men. "SOUND OFF READY!"
"SIXTEEN READY!"
"FIFTEEN READY!"
"FOURTEEN READY!"
And so on it went as the two sections sounded off, patting the man in front of them on the shoulder to indicate readiness. As the final sound off was called at "TWO READY!", Oliver nodded and shouted out his own, "ONE READY! ALL READY!"
"DZ Reached!" the Jump Master shouted, just as the buzzer sounded again, this time the light going full green. "GO, GO, GO!"
Oliver gave his men a nod before turning towards the hatch. "Feet first into hell, lads! URA!" he shouted before jumping off the plane, soon followed by the war cries of his men and their physical selves soon after as the sixteen men jumped to the awaiting abyss beneath them.
To Oliver, it was like being back in school, playing for the House Team, except this time around he had no broom and was quite literally falling to his death if not for the parachute in latched onto his back. Oh, sure, he could've just jumped out with a broom, but what kind of leader would he have been if he was the only one who could actually fly down in a controlled descent while his men depended on a thin sheet of cloth to brace their fall?
And there was, of course, the small detail that this wouldn't be his first jump. Between preparing for the actual campaign and the initial jump into Caen, Oliver was now getting used to the feel of freefall, and however disconcerting it still felt to him, he found himself growing accustomed to ignoring that feeling.
Still, nothing quite prepared him for the sight of seeing the battlefield of Caen awaiting him once he and his men broke through the cloud cover. It was as though the southern half of the city was lit entirely on fire.
"Chutes out!" he called into his comlink, knowing there was no way his men would hear him if he actually had to shout it out to them. Then, feeling the automatic activation device spring into action, his chute exploded into being, jerking him in his harness as he and his men made for a field near a town south of Caen, from where his forces would then coordinate the upward push towards the unsuspecting rear flank of the French defenders.
"Paras, sound off!" he ordered via his comm. As he awaited responses, he kept his eyes fixed on the ground below, where he could still see much of Caen in flames or emitting billowing columns of black smoke.
"Second Platoon all green!"
"Third Platoon, all green!"
"Fourth Platoon, all green!"
Oliver sighed in relief. Apparently their frontal assault had successfully kept the AA guns clear off their trail. Still, he shuddered to think how many lives would be lost costing them that distraction. "First Platoon, all green!" his Platoon Sergeant confirmed over the comm, prompting Oliver to speak up again. "All Platoons are green! Mind your objectives, and keep to the plan, lads! See you groundside!"
"Jesus Christ...look at the place!"
Apparently he hadn't been the only one to notice the devastation wreaked on Caen. Even with just the light armoured vehicles and artillery pieces they'd dropped in with, the staunch resistance of the French had caused the city a great deal of damage, particularly once they retreated across the river and broken out the antiquated, yet still very effective military equipment.
"Maintain comm discipline," he heard the designated section sergeant chide the man. "Don't want to inadvertently give ourselves away, lads."
To whom, Oliver wondered? After all, Operation SUCKERPUNCH had quite nicely sent France back to the stone age, figuratively speaking. Who would be listening in on their comms, if they ever even managed to break its incredibly complex encryption, courtesy of Athena?
"Reaching drop zone," he spoke into his comm as he eyed the nearing ground. "Remember to head for the supermarket. We'll regroup there and push north." Fifteen beeps answered his transmission, informing him that all fifteen members of his contingent had acknowledged his order. Merlin, how he wished he could just Apparate to where he needed to be with his men.
And then, of course, he just as quickly realized why he couldn't. While the application of Portkey transport for troops had been successful during the rescue operation at Purity, After-Action Reports had all agreed that the system was just so utterly haphazard that it took more than acceptable time to coordinate the transported troops into a coherent fighting force. Portkeying/Apparating in troops, it was decided, would be reserved to situations where the arrival zones were already under control and optical supervision or for rapid MEDEVAC and extraction. The last thing anyone wanted was an entire section getting slaughtered because they'd been teleported into an active warzone.
Maybe in the future, though...
Either way, the ground was coming up real fast at him, and this was hardly the moment to be daydreaming. Shaking off the tangential thoughts, he steeled his resolve as got ready to land. As always, it felt like trying to set off on a run after having jumped from a rather high ledge, but the training had held true, so he was quickly firm on his feet, the stiffness in his legs almost gone, and his parachute was quickly bundled up and Disillusioned it from sight. He'd have to remember to come back later and get it, or the quartermaster would undoubtedly have his ass.
Looking up, he was glad to see that the rest of his section was arriving in good order, quickly rallying them to him and repeating the Disillusionment charm in good order such that they were now good to go.
As they knelt in the field, mindful that they were still very much in the open, Oliver brought up a detached scope and surveyed the area around them. So far, no one had fired on them, but that hardly meant there was no one around. The worst ambushes were typically preceded by utter silence.
"There's the power plant," he muttered as he oriented himself. "Mall's on the other side. Sergeant!" he ordered softly, looking at the man's polarized visor, "comm check!"
One by one, the members of his platoon checked in, until Oliver was satisfied everything was in order. "Alright, make for the east side of the power plant. Mind the buildings," he ordered. "No telling how many frogs are going to in this area."
Once he received nods from the section, Oliver nodded back and got back to his feet and began leading the troops in a sustained run as they made for the relative cover of the power plant's building complex. If they stayed where they'd been much longer, Oliver knew the fight would be over in seconds...and not in their favour.
"This is Second Platoon; we're boots on the ground and Oscar Mike towards rally point Bravo."
"Third Platoon is Oscar Mike towards rally point Charlie. No contacts so far."
"Fourth Platoon, rally point Delta in sight. Looks clear."
While glad to see his men were safe so far, he never stopped his run towards their own objective, leaving the sergeant to respond to the status reports as he kept his eyes fixed on the area around him. The last thing he wanted was to get pinged by some sniper jackass while in the midst of answering calls.
Heavens, how far was this place?! Arbitrarily, he knew it was no more than a few hundred yards away, but it felt like miles as they ran through the open field, sitting ducks for any competent machine gun crew. Such were his nerves that when he felt his boots finally hit asphalt, he actually let out a sigh of relief — thankfully not picked up by his comm.
"Cars in the parking lot!" he heard over the comm, marked on his visor as O'Hara.
"Eyes up on those windows!" the sergeant ordered instinctively. "Michaels, Boer, up front! Scout out the parking lot!"
With little more than a grunt of acknowledgement, Oliver watched as two of his section peeled off from the group and turned the corner of the building where they'd stacked up to comply with their orders. Peering around the corner, Oliver watched as the two paratroopers moved in concert, one man silently providing overwatch while the other moved from cover to cover.
"Civvie cars. Looks clear, boss."
Oliver nodded before turning to the sergeant. "I want one section in the east building, one in the west, sergeant." he ordered. "I'll take the west building, you take the east. Clear the buildings before getting ready to move out to the supermarket."
The sergeant nodded, his face obscured by the polarized visor of his tactical helmet. "Understood, sir," he replied over the comm. "Second section, on me!" the man ordered before skirting around Oliver and leading his men towards their objective. Oliver, for his part, decided to wait until the last man of the sergeant's section had passed him before motioning for his section to follow him.
"On your feet, move out!" he ordered before shooting to his feet and engaging in a sprint towards the western building, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the sergeant had already reached his building and was kicking in the door, flanked by two men who rushed in before him. He had to admit, clad in their special, all black tactical (and very experimental) magically reinforced body armor — which theoretically had magically hardened plates covering all main vital areas — they made for an intimidating sight, though that just meant that Oliver was glad to have them on his side.
Coming up on his own door, he stood back as two of his men went to either side while the other walked up and tried the door handle. Locked. Knowing that any power station worth its salt would have secure front doors, the trooper brought out a breaching charge and set it up before making for the side of the door, followed by the rest of the section. Three, two, one...
A small blast later, Oliver and his men were in the building, Oliver leading the charge and directing his men to clear each room as they made their way along the hallway. Every time he sent a man into a room, he had to restrain a sigh of relief as they called out "Clear!" and rejoined the line.
Fortunately, it was a single-level building, so beyond a few untidied offices, there was nothing of note within the building. In fact, from what Oliver could glean from a few papers left in what appeared to be the general manager's office, the whole complex had been due for shutdown, before SUCKERPUNCH had done it for them.
"General Wood here," he called up the sergeant. "Sergeant, what's your status?"
"Building complex secure, sir. Not a soul in sight."
Looking around at the deserted office space, Oliver nodded to himself. "Yeah, same here. Looks like the civvies here ran a while ago."
"Why didn't they take their cars, then, sir?" the sergeant asked sceptically.
Oliver could've punched himself. The answer to that was so goddamn obvious! "Blackout, sergeant," he reminded the man. "No electricity, no car. Not with nowadays' models, anyway."
There was a pause in which Oliver was sure the sergeant had been silently cursing at himself for forgetting that. "Understood, sir. Rallying up for exfil."
Oliver nodded to himself again before keying up his unit. "Section, on me!" he barked out. "Ready for exfil!"
In good order, the two sections met up again outside the power plant complex. Unwilling to take the open road, Oliver had his men jump the hedges and cut through the gardens of the few civilian houses in the area, with two men typically charging into the house proper to secure the place. Fortunately, like the power plant, these seemed to have been deserted in a hurry, so the number of complications remained small.
"Second Platoon here; awaiting orders at Rally Point Bravo."
"Third Platoon at Rally Point Charlie."
"Fourth Platoon at Rally Point Delta."
"Hold position," Oliver ordered tersely as his platoon made their way through the parking lot of the E. Leclerc supermarket that served as their own rally point. "This op is buggered if we don't move in as one."
A slew of confirmations filtered back, but Oliver paid little heed to it as his men carefully navigated the rather full parking lot.
"Guess they didn't expect they'd get invaded, huh?" he heard one of the troopers remark bemusedly. Oliver had to agree; with the amount of cars around, you'd think it was freakin' Black Friday!
"Shows what they knew," agreed another soldier as they walked through the parking lot, thankful that supermarkets tended to have a curious disdain for windows. "Man, this place is a ghost town..."
"Keep it quiet, you two," the sergeant rebuked them. "Eyes on the perimeter; never know when one of the frogs'll jump out at you."
Oliver somewhat wished that wasn't true, given that his troops were already tense enough that he imagined any professional masseuse they went to would have to be put on suicide watch, but it was. Urban combat was a nightmare for any soldier — plenty of cover for the enemy, and so many goddamn high rises as to be any sniper's wet dream. Though, arguably, all combat was a soldier's nightmare.
Still, fear was poison in combat, and contagious. "You know," he spoke up, "this reminds me...I think I forgot to pack a razor. Think this place has any?" he asked over the comlink, prompting silence, then a few chuckles from some of the men.
"Good a place as any, sir," the sergeant mentioned, and Oliver swore he could hear the man smile. "Gotta watch out for those Frenchie razors, though. Finicky buggers."
More chuckles from the team as they moved towards the entrance, eyes still peeled on their surroundings. Once inside, though, the troopers relaxed a bit after clearing the building of any enemy contacts. At the very least, it didn't seem like the French forces had been expecting a rear-flank attack, or else the supermarket would've probably been looted right off the bat to deny attackers any supplies.
Even so, the smell of rancid milk and other dairy products permeated the store, causing more than one soldier to wretch. Even with Oliver's magic around to vanish the spoiled goods, the smell was practically unbearable.
"I'm never going to be able to look at cheese the same way again, man!" one soldier complained after visiting the bathroom for a quick and violent evacuation.
"Guess we found one negative side effect of the blackout," Oliver mused bemusedly to his sergeant as the men took a breather.
The now-helmet-less sergeant, a severe looking man with a shaved head, squared jaw, and unshaven stubble, nodded, his own nose turned up at the horrible smell. Still, having to breathe the stale, recycled air from their helmets had been taxing on their patience. "What's the plan, sir?" he asked flatly, not one to indulge in too much horseplay.
Oliver took out his tactical tablet and brought up the map, zooming in on the last known locations of the frontal assault forces. "The rest of the division in Caen is launching a full scale attack along the river," he briefed the sergeant before pointing out the five bridges that spanned the natural barrier.
"Even so, these five bridges are extremely well defended by the Frenchies, who've scrounged up old artillery and anti-air pieces, or, if intelligence is right, jury-rigged the newer pieces to work manually. Any frontal assault along the bridges is suicide, so the Air Force is providing some cover with heli assaults and a few bombing runs, when they can spare the time."
He then zoomed out and refocused the map on the rear of Caen, where they were supposed to go. "Our contingent is going to take out the artillery pieces they've set up to stall the assault. Recon says they should be here, here, here, and here," he pointed each alleged emplacement out. "We haven't been able to get confirmation on them, however, because the Frenchies got them well hidden, so be ready to have to hunt them down."
The sergeant nodded. "Right. What's the word on the bridges, though, sir?" he asked. "What if the frogs blow them up?"
"Intel says they're as keen to keep Caen intact as we are," Oliver informed the sergeant. "So we're golden on that end; they'll need the bridges to retake the northern half, if they ever get the chance, and even though we need the place now, all they need to do is hold their ground until reinforcements arrive."
The sergeant grunted. "Sounds about right, sir," he agreed.
"We've got this battery here," Oliver pointed out the emplacement closest to them. "One platoon per objective. We're not meant to do direct engagements, so avoid any confrontation with the enemy where possible."
Again, the sergeant nodded. "Understood, sir."
"Get the men together, then, sergeant. We're already on the clock with this op, and a lot of good men are going to keep dying until we knock out those guns," Oliver reminded him as he stuffed away the map again. Keying up his comm to the other platoons while the sergeant went for his men, Oliver called up the other platoon leaders.
"This is General Wood to all units; sound off for pre-op," he ordered.
"Second Platoon ready."
"Third Platoon ready."
"Fourth Platoon ready."
Oliver nodded, pleased. "Unit leaders, details regarding your part of the op are being transmitted to you...now," he said as he did so via his tablet. "Avoid direct confrontations, neutralize your objectives, and then try to link up with the main assault. Is that understood?"
A chorus of agreements answered him over the comm. Nodding again to himself, Oliver felt glad to know that his men had their eyes on the ball. "Good. Good luck, gentlemen. General Wood, out."
"Sir, the men are ready to move out," his platoon sergeant informed him then, trotting up to him. Glancing around him, Oliver could see his platoon already by the doors, standing at either side of the glass doorways — wise, in case the French tried to trap them inside or were planning to spring a trap the moment they got out.
Putting his tactical helmet back on, Oliver waited until its primitive head's-up display booted up, showing only his team's status, before standing up and nodding to his sergeant. "Well then, Sergeant Ford, let's go."
The helmeted man nodded. "Yes, sir!"
If Murphy had been a real guy, Oliver swore he'd get his hands on a time turner and go back to kill the son of a bitch, time paradoxes be damned!
The plan, as it turned out...did not go as planned.
Numerous things had gone wrong, right off the bat. First of all, Military Intelligence had gotten the emplacements wrong (big surprise there). Secondly, there were twice as many.
And how did he know this particular fact? Why, it happened the moment four different batteries — he assumed — opened up on his detachment, managing to stunt the paratroopers' advance rather effectively, despite their obsolete nature.
"KEEP MOVING!" he roared at his men, even as his radio was filled with the constant shouting of the other platoons trying to survive the unexpected artillery. He jumped a hedgerow just as the street behind him exploded in a deafening roar, his tactical armor managing to blunt the shrapnel blast. "THEY'VE GOT US FUCKING ZEROED!"
"WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY FIRING FROM?!" he heard one of his troopers shout as they took cover behind one house's brick fence.
A good question, in Oliver's opinion, and one he was currently unable to answer, much to his growing rage.
"Bloody frogs waited 'till we were in their own fucking city before they fired!" another one cursed, bewildered.
Sergeant Ford, always the grim soldier, merely turned his covered head over to Oliver, the slight shifts in posture the only indication Oliver ever got of any underlying emotion. "Sir, we are sitting ducks out here. We need to regroup with the other Paras and formulate another plan!"
Oliver dearly wished he could grant the man what he wanted. Frankly, it would've made tons of sense to retreat and try again in a different way now that they knew their intel was faulty — for which, he vowed, someone would hang. The problem was, he couldn't, and he knew it.
"No!" he told the sergeant firmly over the sound of the area around them exploding. "The targets may have increased in numbers, but the mission stands!"
"Sir, we do not have the capabilities for this kind of operation!" Sergeant Ford protested just as forcefully, especially given that they were sorely lacking critical air and artillery support at the moment. "We can try again at a later date!"
"And by then, the whole goddamn French army is going to be in Caen, sergeant, not just these asshats!" Oliver reminded him before pointing in the general direction — he thought — of the river. "Our lads are waiting for us to take those guns down! If we retreat now, every man who fell in the assault will have died in vain!"
Ford was silent as he presumably mulled over Oliver's words, allowing the General to focus on the frantic radio chatter over his comm. "This is General Wood to all units; mission is still a go!" he ordered. "There's too much riding on this, lads! Show the Frogs the Paras fear no one!"
The answering acknowledgements were far less enthusiastic than they'd been in the past few hours, but there was nothing for it. He knew he could very well be sending the men to their deaths, and he dearly hoped that wasn't the case. Not for the first time, he wished he'd pressed on the need for more military mages on his front — but Command had been adamant; the Military Mages were more pressingly needed on the VANGUARD front.
His own magic was nowhere near sufficient for the task ahead. A latecomer to the program, he'd learned valuable lessons in combat magic, but had hardly the time to practice it. He wasn't anywhere near the level of competence his far more infamous colleagues held, which made him an oddity amongst the high ranking mages of the armed forces — his rank came through leadership and achievement, not magical prowess.
Magical prowess...
An idea — an insane idea — popped into Oliver's head at that moment.
"Sergeant, take command of the unit and find some underground cover, I'm going to scout out the unknown emplacements!" he ordered as he pushed his weapon into the man's chest, surprising the veteran NCO.
"Sir?" Ford asked, not a little incredulity filtering into his voice. After all, the idea of a General going on his own, unarmed, to scout out unknown enemy territory was batcrap crazy — nevermind the idea of a modern day general taking to the field in a rear-flank assault.
Without answering the undeveloped question, Oliver brought out his issued emergency portkey — a small, unassuming token that hung alongside each soldier's dog tags. Chuckling to himself as he held it out for his NCO and confused troopers to see, he quickly took off his helmet, his gloves, and held the item between his fingers. For a moment, he swore the men thought he was abandoning them to their fates, and felt a little hurt by the lack of trust.
"One thing I learned at Military Mage school, gents," he informed them as the token glowed in his hands — something the troopers were definitely not told would happen upon its use. "Is how to make a Portkey; or, having one, how to change it."
Looking straight up, Oliver made a quick few calculations in his mind before grinning at the sergeant. "Kinda wish I'd kept my chute for this, to be honest," he admitted as he put his helmet and gloves back on. Finally, it seemed, the sergeant was understanding what his CO was about to do.
"Wait, sir—!"
Too late. With a soft pop, Oliver was gone.
...and summarily reappeared in mid-air, about 1,300 feet up in the air. He didn't even have a second to realize what he'd really just done before he was already in freefall. Fortunately, he was easily adaptable, and so his mind returned to the task at hand, even as he fell to his doom.
Looking around the area, he tried to eyeball any locations where the artillery emplacements pounding them might be. They couldn't be too close to the river, because then they'd be in immediate danger from the Northern ground assault. At the same time, they couldn't be too far south of the river, because then they'd have run well within the guns' effective ranges by now.
Twisting and turning in the air, he watched for any plumes of smoke or fire, deeply aware that his time was nearly up. Still holding fast to the portkey, he closed his eyes and, with another pop, disappeared again, just before he became an ugly stain next to his unit...
...and once again reappeared in mid-air, this time quicker on the uptake and continuing his scan of the surroundings. Nothing was standing out to him! No smoke, no fire...where were the bastards?!
It was by pure accident that he caught it.
A glint, in the distance — which, considering his situation, might as well have been the water shining in the sunshine.
But no, this one was different. Even though he couldn't damn well hear anything, he could see, every few seconds, something yellow appear near the glint, before disappearing. Metal and fire.
Got it.
Which brought another pressing issue to the forefront of his mind — now that he had the damn place, how was he getting out of this predicament? The idea of reworking the portkey again did pass through his mind, but was just as quickly discarded as he realized that the sum of his entire momentum thus far would be translated the moment he reappeared anywhere. In short, a quick trip to pancake factory.
Which left him no other choice but to compound his monumentally stupid plan with another insane hat trick.
"Sergeant, get ready; I'm coming in for a landing!" He called out before closing his eyes and pressing his hands on his armor, only managing to mumble, "Oh, this is going to suck!" before putting his plan into motion.
"ARRESTO MOMENTUM!" he incanted, the magic taking instant effect and slowing him down considerably...though not quickly enough for him to avoid landing flat on his face on the ground next to Ford with some force.
"JESUS!" one of the troopers yelled out in surprise as their CO's body suddenly fell next to their unit. More than one man stumbled back at the sight of their CO suddenly lying face down in the grass.
"SIR!" Ford was instantly on his feet and by Oliver's side, increasingly concerned once he noted the general didn't seem to be moving. Looking back at the stunned troopers, who were even ignoring the constant barrage around them, Ford snapped at them. "O'Hara! King! Get over here and help me with the CO!"
Snapping out of their stupor, the soldiers quickly got to their NCO's side and helped him turn over Oliver's body, their concern reaching panic levels as they noticed he wasn't moving. Quickly, the sergeant took off Oliver's helmet, revealing that the inside of it was badly mangled by the impact — in fact, it seemed like the reinforced visor was pretty much beyond functionality now.
Oliver had numerous purple splotches on his face, too, none of which served to ease his troopers' concerns about his welfare. Whatever their objections had been to the man's op, no paratrooper ever wished death by freefall on anyone.
Just as Ford began to reach out to check his pulse, however, Oliver suddenly gasped and breathed in deep, subsequently coughing and rolling on his side to spit out some excess saliva. "Gah! Merlin's left nut that hurt!" he wheezed.
A collective sigh of relief passed through the unit as they realized their daredevil CO had somehow managed to pull off the ridiculous stunt in relatively one piece.
"Sir..." Ford started, unable to mask the awe in his voice. "That was..."
Oliver stopped him by raising a hand, however. "Tell me later, sergeant. I got the fuckers," he said with a pained grin, feeling his body sore all over, but thankfully not feeling so hurt he couldn't move. "Stadium. About a klick northwest of our position. If I had to guess...mortars. Lots of 'em."
Though he couldn't see their expressions, Oliver knew the fact that his stunt worked truly surprised them. All they'd showed at this point was nothing but awe at his ability to survive such a stunt. But to know that it worked? That was a whole other ball game!
Groaning, Oliver pushed himself into a seating position, then smiled to himself as Ford extended a helping hand, allowing his CO to finally get back on his feet, despite the aches all over his body. "Alright, then, let's move out while we can," he ordered. "Those mortars seem to have found something else to shoot at for now, so let's not waste time. Ura?"
"URA!"
"LET'S GO, PARAS! MOVE IT UP! MOVE IT UP!"
Oliver grimaced as he held up the shield that allowed his men to advance without fear of getting shot in the face. They'd found the sports center, alright, but what his little daredevil trick hadn't revealed to his eyes back then was that the French hadn't been idiots and left the place unguarded. Numerous machine gun nests covered the rear approach, and all of them had overlapping fields of fire.
Which meant he had to get creative.
While remaining in cover on the other side of the field, Oliver had been forced to recall all those Transfiguration lessons he'd skimped over throughout the years and quickly got to work. To the French defenders' surprise, the field before them suddenly sprouted numerous slabs of hardened earth which — while not impenetrable or invulnerable — did allow Oliver to move his troopers up outside the effective view of the machine gunners.
Once in a while, however, he was forced to put up strong defensive shields once the emplacements realized what was going on and began redirecting both machine gun and mortar fire on them.
Already, however, his innovative tactics had gotten them across two soccer fields, which just left the track — where the machine gun emplacements were — and the road to the main buildings, behind which were the mortars.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
So far, however, they'd gotten lucky, and not a single one of Oliver's troops had been killed — which was absolutely remarkable, all things considered. Thankfully, the small amount of troops meant that the mortar teams had a more difficult time placing each individual soldier, and as they grew nearer, their effectiveness dropped, particularly as they didn't want the mortars killing their own men.
"Sir, we're being funneled into a mortar kill box," Ford informed him after the team crouched behind another earthen wall that was slowly being chipped away at by the French defenders. "We need a breakthrough!"
Oliver nodded, catching his breath a little as the continuous expenditure of magic took its toll on him. "Air strike?" he asked.
Ford grimaced. "Still nothing, sir. Ground assault still needs them more than we do."
"How the fuck is that true?!" one of the troopers asked as he took potshots at the machine gunners, who simply redirected their fire at him, narrowly missing his head. "SHIT!"
"It just is, King!" Ford snapped before turning back to Oliver. "Sir, we need a plan!"
Oliver closed his eyes, his breath still ragged and tired. He thought of every possible thing he could do for his men — none seemed enough. Well, almost none.
"I'll be right back," he told them, a falling feeling forming in his gut as he psyched himself up for what he knew he had to do. Without letting them get a word in edgewise, he suddenly disappeared with a pop.
...and reappeared right behind the first machine gun team, his hands already up forming a shield, just as the loader brought up a gun in surprise and fired a shot at him. The shield held, but by now the gunner realized what was going on and had drawn his own sidearm, shouting at him in French as his shield held strong under the joint fire of both men.
"Sorry about this, chaps," he mumbled, keeping one hand up — weakening the shield a bit — and slamming his free hand on the ground, causing numerous spikes to shoot out of the ground — a favourite technique of Neville's, he heard — and impaled the two soldiers.
"Sir?!" he heard Ford all but shout at him over the comm. "What the hell are you doing?!"
"One gun down," Oliver replied simply, breathing hard as he grabbed the heavy weapon by its bail and turned it on the machine gun emplacement to his north, squeezing the trigger as the heavy weapon buckled in his grip. Still, the point here wasn't so much to kill off the team as to give his men the opportunity to get into a better position. "Sergeant, get the men to the southern emplacement!" he shouted over the comm.
"Yes, sir!" he heard as he continued to pour fire on the confused French defenders to his north, who had no idea that the central emplacement had fallen. "Paras, move out! Let's go, go, go!"
That's when he felt something wiz by his exposed head, coming from behind him. Apparently the southern emplacement had realized that something was very wrong and had seen him giving the north emplacement hell. Turning around, he poured some fire on them, hoping his platoon would reach the place quickly as he continued to shift between firing on the north and south teams — fully aware that he was in the absolute worst spot to be right now.
He hadn't even realized he was yelling profanity at the French by now, the sound of his own voice not even managing to breach the cacophony of the machine gun as he continued his one-man rampage. Had he even hit anyone? He doubted it. With the way the gun was buckling, he'd have had more luck hitting someone with a goddamn musket.
Bullets kept wizzing by him, one of them making him wince as it slammed into the left shoulder guard, making him feel like a freight train hit him there. Fortunately, there was no penetration, or else he might've had a much different reaction.
"Sir, we've got the southern emplacement in sight! Beginning assault!" he heard over the comm, just as bursts of gunfire sounded from behind him. He didn't pause his assault as his men began their attack, but merely began walking towards the northern emplacement, fully aware that the ammunition belt was running low. Once it did, he had maybe a second to put up a shield before one of those French soldiers managed to put a round in his head. He doubted he'd make it. He was just so exhausted...
What he wouldn't give for a fucking Pepper-up potion right now!
He was within a handful of yards of the emplacement now, and as he expected, his ammunition belt was down its last few shots. Worst of all, he hadn't seen either of the French soldiers manning the spot get killed. Were they both alive behind their sandbags? Neither?
He didn't know; he just kept marching.
Finally, the gun puttered out, much to his irritation. Throwing the gun down, he brought up his hands to put up a shield, and watched as both French soldiers rose from behind cover, their assault rifles in hand and already aiming at him. There was no way he'd make it time.
One bullet missed him by a hair's breadth, but the next one wasn't quite so errant, slamming into his left side, just before pink mist exploded into being behind both of the offending soldiers.
"Got them!" shouted one of his troopers — King, if he wasn't wrong. Well, not that it mattered much, however, as he fell to his knees, grimacing and holding his new wound, which had managed to penetrate the tactical armor. Armor-piercing rounds...he should've known...
"SHIT, they've got the CO!" he heard Ford yell, even as Oliver fell to the ground and rolled over, his gloved hands already becoming quickly stained with blood.
He heard, more than saw, someone slide down next to him, even as gunfire resumed — no doubt the mortar crews had decided to present some form of resistance in the form of reinforcements for the gun crews — a little too late, however.
Nonetheless, it kept his men occupied as Ford loomed over, cursing under his breath as he saw Oliver bleed from his wound. "Damn it, sir, this is why generals don't fight in the field!" he swore as he brought out his regulation emergency medkit and quickly stabbed a syrette into a vein. As Oliver's breathing relaxed a little, he brought out his portkey and put it in Oliver's hands. "Here, get back to the CP, sir, and get patched up. We've got this."
"No, staying here," Oliver insisted. "Help me...put my hand on the wound." he ordered.
"Sir..."
"Fucking do it, sergeant!" Oliver snapped, angry more at himself for getting shot than at the man's reticence.
Silently, the sergeant complied, and Oliver muttered, frowning, "Vulnera Sanentur."
Slowly, his blood stopped pouring out of his wound, until the gaping wound was all that was left. "Vulnera Sanentur," he whispered again, his breathing not getting any better. This time, the wound began to knit, and Oliver grimaced as the process felt like a hot iron was being pressed on his wound. "Vulnera Sanentur!" he gasped out for the last time, and finally the wound disappeared.
Kneeling over him, Ford watched in stunned amazement as the critical injury vanished from sight, leaving only unblemished skin visible where another trooper, without critical emergency medical treatment would've died in minutes. "Sir..." he spoke, once again in awe of the man before him.
Oliver lifted his head slightly to see that his hands were, in fact, no longer being wetted with blood before letting it drop on the grass, sighing in relief. "Later, sergeant. Just get those damn mortars out of my fucking sight!" he ordered sternly.
Ford nodded firmly, his mouth a thin, severe line once more. "Yes, sir!" he acknowledged before putting his helmet back on and bringing his weapon back up. "Let's go, lads!" he ordered. "For the CO!"
"URA!" the troopers roared as they charged forward, pouring fire on the defending mortar crews.
Oliver sighed as he watched them go, only he knowing how close he'd come to really needing to be MEDEVAC'ed. He'd been feeling his extremities go numb after the first spell, forcing him to focus entirely on the spell lest he go into shock. Fortunately, the gambit had worked, and so now his men wouldn't have his state on their minds as they assaulted the position.
Still, he knew he'd need to get some rest before doing much of anything again. But, for now, he'd stick around and give his men the inspiration they needed.
Merlin...what a day.
Caen, France, February 5, 2017 (D-Day +5)...
Operation Cobra, in the end, was a success.
The fall of Caen was accomplished when the First Platoon not only managed to take out the mortar position in western Caen, but also, in the process, managed to recover a map with the positions of the other emplacements. Rather convenient, but it appeared to be that the officer in charge of them had been killed in the initial engagement with Wood's troops after he'd been wounded, and since no one else was supposed to know about them, the maps fell into the platoon's hands once they conducted a search of the fallen's bodies.
With the information in hand, Second, Third, and Fourth Platoons were able to rally and push towards their objectives, finally silencing the French guns — older models dating from practically World War II or the Indochina War — about twelve hours into the fight for southern Caen.
With the artillery falling silent, the ground assault was able to push forward more easily, with the Military Mages still alive from the initial engagement setting up earthen and concrete barricades much in the same way Oliver had once the details of Oliver's actions had filtered back to the command post.
After a few more hours, the last defenders of Caen surrendered after being surrounded by the surviving Paras to their south and the main thrust of the assault to their north. The surrender was bought at a cost that made Oliver quite uncomfortable, however.
Over four hundred Paratroopers and fifty Airmen had died in the assault, with thousands more injured. While on its nose this was actually rather remarkable for an urban operation, especially in a civilized and modernized country with an effective and first-rate fighting force, the loss of technology had apparently weakened their enemies far less than the Northern Sun had hoped.
The French forces, people liked to forget, had never been made up of cowards or bunglers. Even during World War II, it hadn't been the French troops who'd messed up the defence plans that led to their surrender — it'd been their leaders. But with a whole cadre of officers made veterans by the Franco-German conflict, their leaders were not unused to thinking on their feet.
Which led to several unpleasant discoveries.
For one, that even old tech was just as deadly as new tech. Older artillery, mortar, and anti-aircraft guns, at least thirty and above years old still worked quite effectively against modern troops. No matter what kind of body armor you wore, a shell detonating at point blank range was almost certainly going to ruin your day.
Secondly, that you didn't need electricity to fight effectively. While it helped, the French had gotten around their lack of electronic targeting aids by jury-rigging their artillery pieces and tanks to fire without the need of a computer, and their tank guns were quickly dismantled and taken to a fixed defensive location, or were made into fixed positions of their own. Comm problems? Apparently, runners worked just as well, especially when you were fighting an entrenched enemy and couldn't push past their barricades. Yes, it was much slower than electronic communications, but once your perimeter was pretty manageable and your had relay runners about, those issues just seemed to be much less pressing.
In short, the Northern forces got off rather easy, all things considered, but they'd still paid a cost far higher than they'd expected.
Oliver, for his part, however, became an instant hit with the Paratroopers once his platoon sang his praises in every locale where there was a willing ear. Ballsy Ollie his men were calling him, whenever they thought it was safe to speak outside of his hearing range. His valour in battle and his constant attempts at securing his men's safety made him popular with the troops, and more than a few Paratroopers walked up to him, saluted, and asked to shake his hand in thanks for what he'd done.
Oliver usually agreed, but felt somewhat disheartened as he remembered how his own contingent had fared. His platoon had lost four men, and Sergeant Ford had been injured in the battle to neutralize their designated artillery piece. Second, Third, and Fourth Platoons had, cumulatively, lost thirty men to injury or death, as the initial bombing of their troops had caught them entirely in the open, and the subsequent engagements had taken their toll.
"I hear you took out an HMG emplacement on your own."
Oliver looked up from his desk — Merlin, how he hated the damn thing — to see Neville entering the room, looking somewhat bemused. Oliver's eyebrows shot up — he hadn't heard that Neville was coming over for a visit.
"I wasn't alone," Oliver stated neutrally, disliking the memory of what he'd done, considering that if he hadn't led his men into a mortar ambush, maybe more of them would still be alive. "And I hadn't heard you'd be visiting."
"Surprise inspection," Neville informed him flatly as he inspected the office, before shrugging. "Not as ostentatious as Fikse or Dubois', but it's nice."
Oliver ignored the comment. "I assume your presence here is due to something other than checking out my office?"
Neville was silent as he contemplated the sole painting in Oliver's office — a portrayal of a paratrooper regiment jumping into a war-torn region — Normandy, by what he read from the inscription. "Calais and Dunkirk have fallen," he informed Oliver suddenly.
"Fikse and Dubois know their stuff, then," Oliver replied, continuing his reading of the numerous after-action reports of the assault across the river. More than a few soldiers would be getting commendations, it seemed, even if only for being wounded in action.
"Yeah. Lille surrendered," Neville added, still contemplating the painting. "Apparently the French garrison pulled out and the civilians didn't want our troops blowing the city up."
"Smart of them."
"But inconvenient for us," Neville told him as he pulled out a folder Oliver hadn't realized he'd brought with him and put it on top of the AARs. "French forces have abandoned all first-line cities. They've pulled back to the major cities and have begun establishing a line designed to contain our advance."
Picking the folder up and opening it, Oliver read through the contents — information provided for by Redemption and its allies. "Amiens, Rouen, Orleans..."
"Rheims, St. Quentin, Metz, Nancy, Strasbourg, Rennes," Neville supplied as well, knowingly leaving a few out. "They know the blackout's put them on the backpedal, but they're not giving in so easily. Each one of those cities are going to be a bitch and a half to take...especially now that the King wants there to be as little collateral damage as possible."
Oliver nodded. "I saw what the French think of that in south Caen first hand," he informed Neville sarcastically. "They didn't see it quite that way."
Neville nodded. "I heard. You're in line for a medal, by the way."
"Save it," Oliver snapped suddenly, slamming the folder shut. "I don't want it."
"Take it anyway, for your men," Neville said with a shrug. "They're all getting medals too, I hear. After what you guys pulled? They deserve it."
Oliver ignored the comment. "What happens now?" he asked, motioning towards the folder.
"Now? Now we wait until Stage Two lands," Neville informed him as he made ready to leave. "Even if we have the intel, and even if Miss Delacour and her friends help, there's no way we can do anything about the French line fortifying up until the main armies land."
"So we're just letting them dig in?" Oliver asked, bewildered.
"They got smart, Wood," Neville simply told him. "They traded Caen, Dunkirk, Calais, and Lille for the time they needed to get their gear and plans in order. That's strategy. Welcome to the war."
With that last word, Neville left, leaving his colleague confused and uncertain. If everything they'd fought for in the past few days had been merely a delaying action by the French, what the hell was the actual fight going to be like?!
He checked his calendar — D-Day Plus Five. Six days of this war, and he was already sick of it.
Post-AN: As requested, a brief reminder of what each major project or operation is:
Project MJOLNIR - the creation of combat-feasible Magnetically-Accelerated Cannons, with the added benefits of runic magic amplifications.
Project ATHENA - the creation of the first ever Artificial Intelligences via a mixture of Magical Portrait magic and virtual intelligence technology.
Project HAVOC - the improvement at the genetic and biological level of all standing forces of the Northern Sun [Genetic engineering in adults].
Project VANGUARD - the creation of a Point-to-Point Mass Floo transit system; used in Operation VANGUARD, which landed 10,000 combat-ready Northern troops in Belgium in a matter of moments.
Operation SUCKERPUNCH - deployment of numerous tactical High-Yield Magical Bombs (HYM Bombs) across the globe in a concerted denial-of-technology attack on every region of the world, with the express intent of leaving the Northern Sun and its allies as the sole nations capable of ongoing functionality and military efficacy.
Operation VANGUARD - deployment of 10,000 troops from the Northern Sun to Belgium as an advance strike force meant to reinforce the Belgian-Dutch-Luxembourgian forces, as well as the deployment of the Paratroopers into Normandy for the capture of Caen, in advance of the main invasion.
Operation Cobra - Short-hop deployment of Paratroopers behind enemy lines to search-and-destroy enemy artillery emplacements hindering the advance of the main force in North Caen.
Operation SUNRISE - The invasion of France.