Author's Notes: All properties are the rights of their respective owners, Sledgehammer, Activision, LucasArts Games, etc.
Modern Warfare II...2(?) is out. I don't care for this naming convention, even if the games seem good. Though I can't wait for the mulitplayer to be overrun with anime skins in a month's time.
Guest: Vanguard was jarring in that the group goes from seeming to hate each other to just being a well oiled machine because... the writers demanded it? Obviously, I want the group to gel somewhat more naturally, while adding in some variety to the settings and scenarios, while also getting to do some of the historical stuff I love (And is demanded in a WW2 game/story). Wade Jackson was removed for a few reasons, chiefly was that I believed he was based on Dick Best because Best is the pilot most commonly credited with sinking two Japanese carriers at Midway, I hadn't heard of Micheel until your review. But being based on Best presents a problem: Best never flew again after Midway because of his aircraft's faulty oxygen system. Even being based on Micheel doesn't solve all problems simply because of skill set. Dive Bombing is a specialized business that was never employed by the Allies in Europe outside of the A-36 Apache/Invader, a fascinating story, but those aircraft with withdrawn from service in mid '44. Simply put, it makes no sense for a dive bomber pilot to end up as part of a commando team, or even the Battlehawks, a Fighter Squadron. There are other reasons, but those might constitute spoilers. Hopefully that (Incomplete) answer is still satisfactory.
The trend of tightening up the history continues, and I hope you continue to similarly enjoy.
It's time to actually have something from the game this story is allegedly based on, kind of. I hated this mission because it is so incredibly different from the amazing story it shares a name with for, as far as I can tell, no reason. So yeah, there will be a lot of changes compared to the mission. Let me know if you have any thoughts on that.
The Devil's Company
Chapter 4: Tonga
Royal Air Force Station Castletown
Caithness, Scotland
2054 Hours, December 23, 1944
Wright returned to the table with a fresh beer, looking around, "Well?" he asked when it seemed that nobody was starting. Truth be told, the Marine couldn't help but be curious about the odd bunch he had found himself thrown in with. The Pacific had been an all-American show, with mostly fellow Marines, some Navy, and the occasional Army. But here, most other Americans were Army, with most of this base being Brits, it was even more unusual. "What's the war been like over here?"
Chase leaned forward and cleared his throat, "Well there was this one time when we were in Norway…."
"Hold on old chap," interjected Trevor, hand coming down on the shoulder of the first American Battlehawk, "I believe our new recruit," he said, nodding towards Wright, "Has ably demonstrated to our PBI friends here who we are." The Englishman sipped his beer and gave a small smirk, "Quite frankly, I'm bloody curious as to whether or not they can pull off their part of this operation."
Curtis had to respect how diplomatic the Brit made that sound, it wasn't how Marines talked to… well anyone really. Still, despite the phrasing, Wright could plainly tell that it didn't go over well. The Aussie, thank god, was still passed out, and didn't react. One of the Commandoes, Webb, seemed poised to leap out of his chair, only held back by Kingsley, who nonetheless scowled at the pilots. On the other hand, the Russian had merely turned her head the slightest amount, but her eyes had narrowed, darting around, from Trevor's face, no, throat, and then to a knife left on the table, as if planning the best way to utilize that particular implement.
Tensing, the Marine prepared for a brawl to break out, and he knew what side he would take, even if he would be of minimal use since he had to hold onto his fresh beer. Before that could happen, thankfully, Kingsley spoke, calm and with authority, "I can't speak for them," he said, gesturing to the other two ground pounders, "But Richard and I have had our fair share of scrapes with the Hun."
"You tell them, mate, you're better at it," managed Webb through gritted teeth. "Merville?"
"Yeah," allayed Kingsley as he settled Webb down, and Wright relaxed as well. "Merville."
RAF Douglas Dakota III
Over Cresseveuille, France
00:55 Hours, June 6, 1944
"Six minutes!" shouted the jump master over the drone of the engines, the words rousing a rather green 2nd Lieutenant Arthur Kingsley from his thoughts. But upon hearing those two words, the Oxford man's body began acting even if his brain was a bit slower to catch up. Even if the pitch blackness outside made seeing much beyond the man next to him, Kingsley completed his checks, confirming his packed leg back and ammo pouches were where they should be. The Para had his STEN gun draped around his shoulders, secure but easily accessible should he need it.
When the red light came on at the front of the plane, the Jumpmaster called again, "Stand up!" Kingsley complied, turning to his left to look at his platoon, his chalk, that he would be responsible for on the ground. And, in keeping with the traditions of the newly established airborne units, a young 2nd Lieutenant Kingsley would lead them into Hitler's 'Fortress Europa' by being the first to jump.
"Hook up!" came the command, and all of the paras latched their hooks onto the elastic line suspended from the ceiling. "Sound off equipment check!" Being the man in front, Kingsley didn't have anyone's equipment to check, but for the rest of the platoon, every man began checking the parachute of the man in front of him, so that they could actually do some sightseeing during their French vacation.
"Okay!" called the man behind Kingsley, flashing a thumbs up over Kingsley's shoulder, "You're good to go mate!"
Feeling a spike of adrenaline, Arthur swallowed and then shouted over the drone of the airplane engines, "All OK Jumpmaster!"
The Jumpmaster gave a thumbs up back to the two rows of paras before turning to look over his shoulder at the spotter, who was leaning out the open door to locate which field in the south of France was the one they were supposed to jump into. Something was exchanged between them, and the light above the door went from red to green, and the Jumpmaster raised a single finger, "One minute!" He then pointed to Arthur, "Stand in the door!"
Just like training, Kingsley took a few brave steps forwards, bracing his hands on the outside of the door, feeling the air rush over his knuckles as he put his right foot forward and flexed his knees. It was about to happen, months of training and preparation was all leading up to this moment, to a single word.
"Go!"
Before his mind even had a chance to process the command, Kingsley hurled himself out the airplane and into the night. Air rushing by him, the 2nd Lieutenant's body fell back into the motions that it had practiced so many times in England, straightening to get his feet under him before he reached for the pull cord on his right shoulder, yanking hard to open his backpack and release his parachute, feeling his body lurch as it deployed and slowed him down, causing him to hang from its harness. For a second, Kingsley looked up and took in the sight, an armada of aircraft filled the night sky, illuminated by the moon and tracers coming up from the ground below. There was a burst of black smoke as a Flak burst from a German eighty-eight above, one of the Dakota's shuddering from the shot, but soldiering on. Harder to spot, but no less present, were the hundreds of other paratroopers of the 9th parachute battalion dropping down to participate in the same mission he was.
And it was the thought of that mission that prompted the paratrooper to turn his eyes to the ground below, scanning for any sort of landmark that might point him in the right direction while he had his vantage point. One look around, and then a second, and then a third, all of which had the same result, and all of which caused the welling feeling of dread to grow inside Kingsley's gut. Nothing was where it should have been, and some things were missing completely, leading the Oxford man to ponder if their intel had been off or, more likely, they were at the wrong drop point.
Not that there was anything Kingsley could do about it at the moment, he was already committed, and he just would have to make the best of it, and trust that his men could do the same. He spotted one landmark he did recognize, a windmill in the distance that should be about three miles northeast of the rally point west of Gonneville-Sur-Merville.
Assuming that windmill was even the same one as the windmill on the maps Arthur had memorized.
With a direction chosen, the Paratrooper turned his eyes up to fin the moon hanging in the night sky, and then got a relative bearing to the windmill, and not a moment too soon, because the ground was steadily coming up at him and he would be on French soil in a scant few seconds. One last look revealed no German forces waiting with bayonets fixed, and so all Kingsley had to worry about was not breaking his legs on landing.
He was going to land in a small, uneven field, perhaps a pasture for livestock that were no longer around. Bracing himself, Kingsley flexed his knees as his boots hit the ground, the paratrooper stumbling forwards over the uneven ground, and his parachute deflated above him. Despite his best efforts, Arthur lost his footing and fell forwards into the grass and soft earth, his parachute smothering him in nylon.
While he quickly took a second to catch his breath, Kingsley heard the sounds of a passing truck, quickly causing his adrenaline to spike and prompting the Para to get moving. Quickly undoing the straps on his backpack and tossing it off, the 2nd Lieutenant crawled out from under his parachute and took a look around, seeing the lines of hedge and foliage that obscured his view, but also had likely prevented whoever was outside the field from seeing the Briton. Next was his leg bag, which contained his rations, water purification tablets, spare socks, and a small first aid kit, and Kingsley undid the canvas straps before slinging the hefty canvas bag over his shoulder, and securing it in place. Next came his STEN gun, the Para removing one of the seven magazines he carried and jamming it into the well on the left side before pulling the charging handle back, so the bolt locked in place to the rear of the submachine gun, and it was ready to fire.
Looking up to find the moon overhead and getting his bearings, the Oxford man turned in the direction he needed to go and set off, head on the swivel for any sign of activity, friendly or hostile. Clambering over a wooden fence and finding a walking trail on the other side, Kingsley started along it, moving briskly despite the sixty pounds of kit he was toting. On either side, tall, overgrown hedges and toppled trees lined the walking path, but that concealment didn't prevent Arthur from staying low as he heard the distant echoes of AA fire reminding him he was very much in enemy territory.
His first priority was to link up with his platoon, his men, and get them organized before moving to the rendezvous outside their target. The sound of a sudden rifle shot from startlingly close snapped Kingsley's eyes straight ahead, along the trail he was following, and the Para scrambled ahead, coming to a crouching halt behind a fallen tree, peering over to see two figures, one in a distinct Stahlhelm and holding a rifle, the other drooping, suspended by the harness he was wearing as his parachute, ensnared with the tree, held him with his feet dangling a foot off the ground.
A quick look around confirmed there were no other German soldiers around the body of the para, but the unmistakable light from vehicle headlamps came through the hedges ahead, and there was no chance the man was alone. Without another choice, Kingsley had to wait for the Bosch to turn and head back up the path, rounding a corner of the hedge to head back to the source of the lights. Arthur crept forwards, hands gripping the Sten gun a tighter, the wire stock flexing from the pressure as he got closer and heard shouts in German as he stole glances of silhouettes between hedge branches. Just as he raised his weapon, clamping his left eye shut to peer through the rudimentary peep hole sight of the Sten, all of the German soldiers circled around to the back of the truck and climbed in, the vehicle gurgling as it trundled further up the road.
Waiting a few beats, and then hearing no other sign of activity, Kingsley took a breath and took his chances, "For king and country," he muttered before stepping out of the hedgerow, looking along the road in either direction and then turning towards the windmill, which he could see over the treeline in the distance. Unfortunately for the Para, that was the same direction the truck full of Jerries.
Kingsley trekked forwards, paving his way through the dark towards the imposing sight of the windmill in the distance, the structure looming over the French countryside. His steady progress was halted by the sounds of muffled voices through the brush, and Arthur threw himself into a ditch, forcing himself to take shallow, quiet breaths as he listened, trying to make out the voices when his job was done for him. "Bloody hell!"
A form tumbled through the hedge, there was a sound, metal clattering against the ground as he dropped his weapon. Training had drilled into Kingsley what he did next, "Flash!" he hissed, Sten gun pointed right at the man.
The paratrooper turned over, scampering back as he looked at Arthur with wide eyes, "Thunder! Thunder!" he almost shouted back, holding up his hands. "Jesus fookin' Christ mate, I said Thunder!" Arthur took a breath and lowered his weapon, taking in the sight of a kid, barely 20, his Bren Gun laying on the road. "Who are you?"
"2nd Lieutenant Kingsley, 2nd Platoon, C company of the 9th Battalion," replied Arthur, eyes going from the recovering Bren gunner to the hedge, "What about you?"
"Private Thomas Jones, 3rd Platoon, B Company, sir," he said, raising his hand to his brow in salute, only for Kingsley to wave him off. This was no time to stand on ceremony. He then turned to the hedge, "In there is Jimmy May, same unit, my assistant gunner."
"Thomas, Jimmy," greeted Arthur as the second private emerged from the hedge toting an SMLE rifle and carrying extra ammo for his friend's Bren Gun. "You know where the rest of your platoon is?" asked the 2nd Lieutenant, and both enlisted men shook their heads. "Alright then," answered Kingsley with a short exhale and firm nod, "Then you two come with me, we're going to the rendezvous."
"Yes sir," answered the Bren Gun team in unison, and all three turned to the windmill when the sounds of rapid gunshots echoed through the night. The report ripped through the air like an angry buzzsaw tearing through sheet metal, and it was a sound all three recognized instantly. "Hitler's Zipper…."
The German Maschinengewehr 42, or MG 42, was a weapon that every allied soldier feared. It was a simple weapon, cheap to produce, but with its outright terrifying output of more than 1,000 rounds per minute, it could easily shred any poor sod unfortunate enough to end up in front of the gun. It was a gun so good that Jerry had used it as the building block of every one of his squads, and as such every German squad had a distinct firepower advantage compared to a British section and its Bren gun. The only downside was the way the rate of fire would heat up barrels, necessitating they be changed out during sustained use, and this was the opening Allied soldiers were trained to exploit, an opening that only lasted about three seconds.
Undaunted, Kingsley led the other two paras towards the source of the gunfire, continuing up the road until the road turned to follow a bridge over a dried-out creek bed. The gunfire was closer now, and a new glow was washing over the paras, the orange glow of the fire that had broken out at the windmill. "Into the creek bed," ordered Arthur, pointing off the road they had been following as the three slid down into the depression.
The trio continued towards the windmill, following the dried creek's winding path as the sounds of the firefight became clearer and more oppressive. Rifles firing punctuated the roar of the MG 42, and the occasional muffled explosion of a grenade drowned out everything else, but it was only growing in intensity. Reaching the point where the creek curved away from the windmill, Kingsley held up a clenched fist, signaling for the others to halt as he crawled up to the bank and peeked over, taking in what was happening.
Fire was coming out of the windmill, Kingsley judged it to be two sections, maybe a platoon of Paratroopers in a hastily formed perimeter around the growing inferno. Ahead of them were a trio of Opel Blitz trucks, the two-ton trucks which were the backbone of the Wehrmacht, one of which was smoking. Between the trucks and the windmill were a few small buildings and low stone walls, and that was where the German soldiers had set up, their MG 42s keeping the Paras pinned. Mixed in between them were the riflemen and squad leaders, but the main issues were the MGs. Eyes scanning further back, Kingsley spotted a barn that offered a good vantage and with some cover to get to it. At the edge of the German positions was a well, about halfway between them and the creek.
A plan forming in his head, Arthur slid back down to the Bren Gun team and laid it out. "Whole platoon of Jerry up there boys. I need you two, and your gun, in the barn about 50 meters in that direction," he said, pointing to where the barn was. "Our boys are pinned down by the windmill, and we're going to take the pressure off them."
"What about you?" asked May, before his buddy elbowed him, "Sir?"
"I'll flank them, make sure they don't start focusing on you instead, I'll be behind a well on this side so try not to shoot me. Now, on my mark," he said, and all three got into position, just below the lip of the creek bed. "Mark!" shouted Kingsley, the word drowned out by the gunfire for all but the two men beside him the two sprung up and dashed to the barn while Arthur leveled his Sten at the Germans, hoping he hadn't just sent those men to their deaths.
But as he watched them sprint into the night, and no Germans noticed them, Kingsley let out a sigh of relief before taking another deep breath and beginning his own dash. His focus was totally on the well as he ignored the sounds of gunfire from his enemy and the snap of bullets overhead from his fellow paras. The next thing he knew, Arthur was pressing himself against the stone of the well, Sten clutched in his hands as he kept his eyes on the barn, waiting for Jones and May to open up.
Just when the 2nd Lieutenant was starting to wonder if something had gone amiss, he saw a window on the barn's upper floor swing open and a muzzle flash light up the faces of Jones and May behind the Bren. Scampering around to the other side of the well, Arthur stuck his head out and saw the effect of the bursts of .303 British, as multiple Jerry soldiers collapsed, and yet more whirled around to try and find the source. Feeling the adrenaline in his blood, Kingsley slipped out and aimed his Sten at the remaining infantry before pulling the trigger. The bolt slammed forwards, chambering the first round just a fraction of a second before the firing pin struck the primer, firing the projectile even as the force generated by the discharge pushed the bolt back, the case going along with it until it reached the opening on the right side of the gun and tossed out by the ejector.
That happened ten times in the next second when he held down the trigger, and a third of the gun's magazine was dispensed, 9mm parabellum peppering the wall. When Kingsley let go, he saw that the first MG 42 was out of the fight, and charged forwards, going to a small shed where the second gun was emplaced. Looking out to see that the Bren Gun in the barn was engaging the third German gun crew, Kingsley took it upon himself to put this one out of action. He suited action to thought, pulling a Mills bomb from his web gear, and yanked the pin before dumping it through a small window.
The 760 gram explosive shattered the glass as it went through, rolling along the floor as Kingsley ducked, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion. When it came, the grenade sent shrapnel tearing through the shed, cutting down Germans before Kingsley burst in, finger hard down on the Sten's trigger as he unloaded the rest of the magazine. But then the bolt came forward on an empty chamber, Kingsley feeling the movement of weight inside the gun, but without the resulting discharge. The Para ducked back behind the doorframe, hastily ripping the spent magazine from his gun and slipping it into his gear, Arthur jammed a fresh one in and swept through the shed. The Lieutenant stepped over a splayed-out body, blood soaked uniform sticking to the Kraut's torso as he pressed into the shed, seeing at least five or six more bodies around the room. A flicker of movement caused Arthur to whip around and spray down a wounded German with a long burst from the hip, rounds stitching across the enemy's chest and head, killing him before Arthur let out a breath and moved to the front door, facing the windmill.
Kingsley heard more shots and shouts, but the tempo of the gunfire had been cut down to a fraction of what it had been when those MG 42s were in action. Most of the Germans whom had survived the arrival of Kingsley and the Bren Gun team had fled, the shooting that was still going came from the windmill, and the British Paras there.
It shouldn't have been as much of a surprise as it was for Arthur when the opening door was answered by a .303 rifle bullet that buried itself into the frame, sending splinters by the Para's face. "Flash! Flash! Flash!" shouted Kingsley as he dipped back behind the door.
"Thunder!" called back someone from the windmill to Arthur as he pressed himself against the stucco wall of the shed. A few more errant shots came in, and whoever was on the other side yelled "Thunder! Cease fire!" to finally silence the guns. "Damn it, is that you Kingsley? We pegged you as a Kraut! You're lucky we didn't pump you full of lead."
"Victor? That you?" asked Arthur as he poked his head out and saw the familiar face of his platoon sergeant, Victor Nelson, camouflage painted face grinning widely. "Bloody hell, are you a sight for sore eyes. Who's the ranking officer here?"
"You are now," informed Nelson with his signature bluntness, the NCO never being one to mince words. "I was the senior man until you showed up. Are you alone?"
"I got a Bren Gun team from B Company, Jones and May," replied Kingsley.
"Oh bugger," muttered one of the other Paras.
"Fall in everyone!" yelled Arthur, circling his hand, "Sun rises in four hours! By that time, we will have completed our mission. Grab your gear and let's get moving!"
Royal Air Force Station Castletown
Caithness, Scotland
2101 Hours, December 23, 1944
When the clock on the wall had stopped chiming, Polina looked at the dark-skinned Englishman and poised herself to speak. Hearing of his action against the fascists was fascinating to her, how it contrasted to her own experiences in her homeland. Before she could ask her questions of the Commando, one of the pilots spoke, the American who had just told his story. "I know you airborne folks get extra pay," he said, pausing to take a sip of his drink, "But having bailed out of a shot up and burning airplane, there's no amount you could pay me to jump outta a perfectly good one."
That remark drew a pair of grins from the British paratroopers, Webb shifted to reply, "I can't really blame you there. Once we hit the ground… nothing seemed to go right, we were scattered all across Normandy. All that planning, so much preparation, and it all went to hell in a handbasket straightaway."
"Is that what this mission will be like?" blurted out Polina, causing attention to swing to her, but she held her ground, "Will our group be scattered? All that we have prepared for to fall apart?" She was met with silence, but the Soviet Sharpshooter pressed forward, "If you entrust that you will be able to succeed despite such… mishaps, inside Germany itself, then you are not brave, but you are foolish!"
Her words were somewhat undercut by the Australian alongside her, still passed out from his drinking, slumped over in his chair until he was resting his head on her shoulder. Slowly, Polina's head turned and her eyes narrowed to a point sharper than her bayonet before she shifted her shoulders and shoved him off, watching the drunk man spill from his chair across the floor. "Oi, what the fuck?!" slurred the Australian as he shook his head, hand pressed to his face as he attempted to get up, only for him to falter, and the two American pilots to chuckle. "What are you laughing about, you cunts?" snapped Riggs as he pulled himself up into his chair and extended an arm, pulling Webb's barely touched glass to him. "Enough of that shite…" grumbled Riggs as he downed a draught of the alcohol, "What are we talkin' bout?"
"Lieutenant Kingsley here," began one of the British pilots, gesturing to the commando in question, "Was regaling us with his actions on D-Day and…."
"Aw come on… who cares what some limey did…" began Riggs, words slurred near to the point of being unintelligible to the Russian.
"I do," Interjected the other English aviator, "We were over Omaha beach on the Sixth, I for one am quite curious about how my fellow countrymen got on."
"Yeah, what the hell," interjected Wright, "I'ma kinda curious as to how this story ends."
Webb smiled, "That part is simple, Kingsley pulled us through, and I'd be willing to bet he would do it again."
9th Parachute Battalion Firm Base
500 yards Northwest of Gonneville-Sur-Meville, France
02:32 Hours, June 6, 1944
"Flash!" called a voice as Kingsley came to a sudden halt, holding up a clenched fist as he looked around for any sign of the source. But whoever it was, they were well hidden, and likely had guns trained on the 28 paras under Kingsley's command.
"Thunder!" shouted back Arthur, hearing a rustling as the forms of men took shape around them, coming up from the grass and from behind bushes. "2nd Lieutenant Kingsley, C company, 2nd platoon. I got men from my chalk, and from a few others, platoon strength total."
"Good to see you sir, Corporal Wilkins, 2nd Platoon, A company," replied the enlisted man, snapping off a quick salute that Arthur returned. "Come with me, I'll take you to 2nd Lieutenant Webb, he's running things from up at the Farmhouse."
When Wilkins turned, Arthur signaled for his men to follow as they all began trekking their way up a subtle slope. "Is Webb in charge?" asked Kingsley, and watched the corporal nod, "Where's Lieutenant Colonel Otway?"
"Not a clue sir, could've missed the drop zone, Pathfinders told me their bloody beacons all broke in the drop, hence why we're so scattered," replied Wilkins. Arthur couldn't help but suppress a grunt as the enlisted man continued, "But all I know is that he isn't here, he might be on his way, or he might never show, I can't say." Kingsley nodded as they reached the top of the hill and saw what was waiting for them, barely a hundred men by the looks of things, barely a quarter of the force that should have been there. In a stable, huddled around a table, were a group of Para's, but only one of which had Officer's insignia, the same one star of 2nd Lieutenant.
Walking up to the table, Kingsley met Webb's lifted gaze, "Kingsley," greeted the man, mouth pressed into a frown, "You're late." Both men's lips quirked up at the friendly barb, but it was a moment that could not last. "A moment of privacy, gentlemen," said Webb to the others, and they departed, leaving the only two officers present to sort out a pressing issue.
Time was short, and so Kingsley did not mince words. "When was your Commission, Richard?"
"This year, March," replied Webb. "You?"
"This year, January," returned Kingsley.
"I guess that settles that," murmured Webb, "Looks like it's your show now, Arthur." With Kingsley nodding once as the two met eyes before putting that issue behind them, the ever so slightly junior officer, "I'm afraid most of your cast is a no-show, only 130 men have arrived…."
"Make that 150, I've got most of a platoon with me," informed Kingsley. Webb nodded and made a note on the map showing the area. "What about our heavy equipment? The Six Pounder? Flamethrowers? Have our sappers shown up?"
"No, nothing. No AT gun, no mortars, no explosives, no mine detectors. We've just about got six platoons from our battalion and that is it," emphasized Webb. "We have a little over two hours to plan and execute an assault on a fortified and defended gun battery so we can destroy the guns and retreat before we have the Navy's finest six-inch starts raining down on our heads."
"And the good news?" asked Kingsley.
A sigh escaped from the other 2nd Lieutenant. "The reconnaissance element did their jobs, they've cut a path through the wire and marked four routes through the minefields. That just leaves the machine gun nests and whatever resistance we meet inside the battery. Our radios didn't make it… but we do have a pair of flare guns, so we can signal the Navy."
"The plan was to have two assaults, the main attack from the south and a diversion on the road," mused Kingsley, wondering about how best to use his forces. "Making a credible feint requires most of our force, meaning we could have just a small team for the battery."
"That would be a suicide mission… I volunteer," said Webb with only the barest hint of hesitation and a conviction that shocked Kingsley.
"That won't be necessary Richard," placated Arthur, not wanting to resort to heroic sacrifices, not yet. "We still have a bit of darkness left, we get most of our men in close, we have any Bangalores?" Webb nodded, "Then we use them to blast these machine gun posts here and here," he said, pointing to marks on the map, "Open up a path inside. Rush in, and we have our diversion lay down covering fire from here. Once inside, we need four teams, one here, here, here, and here, each to take out the guns in their respective casemates. You think you can take care of these two?"
Webb nodded, "I fancy my chances."
"I'll lead the assault on the others, at 4:30, we fall back, no matter what. Take one flare gun, I'll have the other, fire them then if you've managed to take out the guns." Webb nodded, and passed one of the short flare pistols to Kingsley, who tucked it in his belt. "Alright then, call the men back in, let's lay this all out and start to get them into position. We'll only have one shot at this."
Royal Air Force Station Castletown
Caithness, Scotland
2113 Hours, December 23, 1944
"Shit man, I hadn't heard of any of that when I was at Quantico, just saw the propaganda reels like everyone else," admitted Wright as he leaned back in his chair and took a drink. "I gotta admit, I'm a bit worried about the same thing happening here. I mean… If we don't get gas and bombs for the planes, then we ain't gonna be of much help to anyone."
"That's why our first priority is the airfield," allayed Rork, "Once we have that, our transports can bring in resupply. It also means that the commandos won't have any trouble getting whatever heavy equipment they need."
"Well, that's a relief," admitted Webb, "With a small force like this, we don't have much margin for error."
Looking up across the table at the dark-skinned Lieutenant, Curtis could still see the slightest bit of apprehension on his face. "Even with the best laid plans, things can still go awry."
South of Merville Gun Battery
1 kilometer Northwest of Gonneville-Sur-Meville, France
03:58 Hours, June 6, 1944
Crawling forward, Kingsley kept an eye on the two machine gun positions ahead, half expecting them to roar to life at any moment. The one hundred and twenty paras in a similar position to Kingsley would have faced horrific losses should that occur, thankfully, what was left of darkness had concealed their advance, for the moment at least. It had been nerve-wracking, crawling through the ad hoc markers that indicated the safe route through the German minefield, and reaching the second line of barbed wire that indicated its end was a relief.
It was even more relieving when Arthur reached a bomb crater, left behind by the Lancaster bombers that had tried to knock out the gun battery the prior evening. All their bombs had missed completely, but they did at least offer the paratroopers some semblance of cover as they approached their objective. Inside the crater, Arthur found a mud-covered Lance Corporal holding a small detonator, "Are the explosives ready?" asked the officer.
"Aye sir, two Bangalores on each nest, should blow both sky high," replied the enlisted man, and Arthur nodded in affirmation. Each of the 5 foot long tubes held about 9 pounds of explosive and were meant to clear obstacles such as mines and razor wire, but since the paras lacked conventional satchel charges they had to improvise. "Just waiting for your word."
Before Arthur could reply, the situation changed when a stream of tracers lashed up from the German position, the rolling thunder of a 20mm flak gun drumming on Kingsley's ears as he saw what the Germans were shooting at. The silhouette of an allied Horsa glider dropped from the clouds, wobbling from the hits it had sustained as it overshot the gun battery. Realizing that the Battery defenders would be on high alert, Kingsley turned to the corporal, "Blow it!"
An explosion rocked the ground, dirt and smoke flying into the air as the blast lit up the night. Even as his ears were still ringing, Kingsley stood up, needing to take advantage of the confusion while it lasted. "This is it, go! Go!" he shouted, barely able to hear his own words as he waved his men forward into the breech. The men of the 9th Battalion charged forwards; sergeants leading their platoons through the wire and blasted MG nests before splitting into their respective assault forces.
With the explosions announcing their attack, the diversionary force, with only one platoon with an extra Bren gun and the Vickers gun the Battalion had brought, and the only heavy weapon to actually arrive to the Gun Battery, opened fire, laying down a nearly continuous stream of .303, mainly directed towards the barracks. The assaulting paratroopers had to cover a lot of ground, and Arthur ran as fast as his legs could carry him, glad he'd chosen to leave his leg bag back at the staging ground.
Two squads peeled off to clear the command post for the gun battery, descending into the underground bunker as the rest of the paratroopers rushed past, their focus on the group's primary objective. Before they could reach the artillery guns however, there was one other they had to deal with, and Kingsley could already see the barrel of the 20mm flak gun depressing to fire on the oncoming paras. Before it could open up, Arthur slid to a crouch, pulling the pin and hurling a frag grenade at the anti-aircraft gun before cutting loose with a burst from his Sten. He was joined by other men from the 9th until the grenade went off, knocking the weapon out of action and clearing the way for the men to advance to the casemates.
Kingsley made it about halfway to the first armored casemate when he heard the first bullets snap past him, with defending German soldiers opening fire from where they had been patrolling. Some of the other machine gun nests opened fire, and soon the distinct buzzsaw report of the MG 42s filled the air, followed by the screams of men that were hit. As much as each one stung at the commanding officer's ears, stopping here would only lead to more losses, and they still had to accomplish their mission, so he kept pushing forwards until reaching the relative safety of the casemate, pressing his body against the concrete as he was joined by more of the paras.
At this point, Kingsley took stock of the situation and lead his men to their objective: the German Artillery. The guns had been towed inside to shelter them from the bombing, but the crews had left the armored steel doors open for ventilation and, as it turned out, the British attackers. One man rushed through, only for a salvo of rifle fire to cut him down in the doorway. Kingsley stopped short, looking down at the bloody body before waving his hand, "Drag him clear! Drag him clear!" he shouted, watching as two men grabbed the dead man by his arms and pulled him back. "Grenades!"
Four men answered immediately, an equal number of Mills Bombs were slung through the door and into the casemate, the explosions rippling through the casemate kicking out plumes of dust that forced Kingsley to cover his face. When the dust started to settle, the 2nd Lieutenant waved his men forwards, "Push in lads, clear the bunker! Go! Go!"
A squad of men took up the task, rushing through the armored door, the sounds of gunfire ensuing as muzzle flashes flickered through the opening. As much as Kingsley was worried, he had to keep his focus on the larger action taking place, and surveyed the entirety of the gun battery. "Bren gun! Bren gun get some fire down that lane!" he ordered, pointing towards a pair of active kraut gun nests. Despite the quick reaction from the trio of men, setting up and getting their light machine gun into action, the German guns had extracted a frightful toll on the platoon tasked to deal with the second casemate. Kingsley could make out near a dozen bodies on the ground between the two casemates already, and incoming fire didn't relent in the slightest.
Seeing another man fall as the stream of tracers cut through him nearly knocked the wind out of Kingsley, his mouth going dry as he could do nothing but watch as more brave men died. Looking around, Arthur's mind raced to come up with something, anything he could do to help when he felt a tug on his arm. "Sir! Sir! The sarge needs you inside!" shouted a private, pointing towards the still open door into the casemate.
Grimacing, Kingsley looked back to the other platoon before nodding and following the younger para inside. Passing through the threshold of the doorway, Arthur flinched at the stench and the heat, taking in the sight of dead German defenders before being led to the reason they were all here. "Oh bloody hell…" muttered Arthur upon seeing the artillery piece. Instead of being the colossal 150-millimeter long barreled guns that their intelligence had suggested, inside the casemate were a pair of small howitzers, maybe 105 millimeters in caliber.
Still, any thoughts about the purpose of this mission, and the sacrifice of good men to accomplish it were kept off the officer's face. "Alright guv, how do we destroy these things?" asked the private, since the paratroopers lacked their satchel charges. Looking around, Arthur saw none of the men inside had any Bangalores, so Kingsley was forced to go to the back up plan's back up plan.
"We improvise," he declared, looking about the casemate, "Who has Gammon Bombs?" A handful of troopers raised their hands, "Get them out, pull out the C2, divide it between the guns, breech and carriages of each, find some blasting caps and wire them up." When nobody moved, Kingsley shouted harshly, "What are you waiting for?"
"Alright you lazy sods, you heard the leftenant!" hollered the Sergeant, "Get to work!" The rest of the platoon immediately sprang into action, following Kingsley's directions as they prepared to destroy the guns. Satisfied that the objective would be completed, the 2nd Lieutenant turned back to the door, wanting to make sure that they had a way out of the battery.
Taking a look around, Arthur saw that there was fighting around each of the four clustered casemates, tracers criss crossing through the night. Despite the lead filling the air, the British paratroopers had gotten to each casemate and had forced their way inside, meaning it would only be a matter of time until the German guns were destroyed. But while getting in had been difficult, getting out would be even more difficult against a fully alert and fighting enemy garrison.
Minutes crawled by as Arthur let his men work with the explosives inside the casemate, and he was left to direct those fighting outside. "You there! Cover our left flank, we need our way back out to stay clear!" he shouted before turning to bark more orders when someone cut him off.
"Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!" called a trooper as men poured out of the casemate, "Get clear!" A few moments later, a blast sent more dust out the open door, what little plastic explosive scrounged up apparently doing its job.
"Alright, that's one," said Kingsley, unable to help but feel a sense of relief, even if they weren't out of the woods yet. "Runner!" he shouted, and a brave volunteer appeared at his side in a few seconds. "I need you to find Lieutenant Webb, tell him we are pulling back in twenty minutes. He needs to have his men cover that side, watching the road. He is ordered to begin evacuating his wounded now, and I need to know if his guns are all destroyed. You got all that?"
"Yes sir, I got it," assured the runner.
"Good," nodded Kingsley, "Now go." The enlisted man tore off into the night, intent upon accomplishing his task and leaving the officer to fleetingly wonder if he had sent the courageous lad to his death before pushing that thought aside. He had to do the same things he had just ordered Webb to do, so he circled back from the front to where casualties had been taken. Finding one of the few medics that had been part of the 9th and therefore arrived, he grabbed the man by the shoulder, "How soon can we get the wounded out?"
The medic shook Kingsley's hand off, pinning the bandage he had wrapped around the wounded paratrooper's arm before standing and stepping aside. "I have some that I can move now, two that need stretchers, and one that if I move, he will die."
Arthur took a breath, "We need to try, even if it kills him. Start evacuating those who can be moved and round up stretcher bearers." Without waiting for a response, Kingsley went back to the rest of his men when more explosions rumbled through the night, all coming in from the direction of the casemate's Webb's group had been assigned. "I guess Richard got his," murmured the Lieutenant before his eyes swung to the other casemate he was responsible for. He could see a few shapes running back, one dropping down in a heap and leaving just four men to make it back, and Kingsley quickly made his way over to them. "What happened?" he asked simply.
"We did what damage we could sir," replied one of the men, face covered in grime and blood, "Got their guns, but we're all that's left."
Kingsley felt his gut twist but managed to give the trooper a pat on the shoulder, "Good work lad." There was nothing else Arthur could do, other than turn to the rest and shout, "Gentlemen, we are leaving! You lot! I need your platoon to move back and secure our route out of here! The rest of you, with me, we're going to cover the Battalion's withdrawal!" He was about to say something else when he saw a huffing and puffing Runner return. "Yes?" he asked.
"Sir, Lieutenant Webb reports his withdrawal is underway and his guns destroyed," returned the Runner, and Arthur couldn't keep the small smile off his lips, they might just pull this off.
"Very good, dismissed," answered the Lieutenant before reaching into his kit and withdrawing the flare gun Webb had given him. Kingsley pointed the brass barreled flare pistol skywards and thumbed the hammer back before pulling the trigger. The bright red of the burning strontium nitrate flare lit up the night as it ascended until it reached its apex and released a parachute so it could slowly fall back to earth.
While it burned so brightly that Arthur thought there was no way it could be missed by the cruiser Arethusa offshore, so at least the Paratroopers wouldn't have to deal with a friendly naval bombardment. The downside was that the red glare illuminated the paratroopers under the signal flare, and Kingsley was forced to duck back behind the concrete of the casemate as more German fire came in, each 8mm Mauser bullet chipping concrete as it impacted.
"Sir!" shouted a voice, and Arthur turned to see an NCO behind him, "Our wounded are out, and Webb has made good his withdrawal. It would be best we do the same sir," suggested the veteran enlisted man.
Taking one last look out at the battleground the Merville Gun Battery had become, Arthur nodded, "Make it so sergeant, we've done our duty tonight." Looking back past the NCO as the older man turned away, Kingsley saw the remains of the force he had brought, and it was maybe half of the already small force with which he had started. As he moved through the midst of the soldiers he had led on this mission, Kingsley spotted a familiar face, the soldier in question still hefting his Bren Gun. "Thomas, you doing alright?"
Private Jones looked up, "I'm just swell guv, we sure showed the Bosch, didn't we sir?" asked the first friendly man Arthur had come across in France.
"We did, our boys on the beach will be having an easier time of it, thanks to us," assured Kingsley, not knowing if the words were true or not, but innately knowing they were what the lad needed to hear. "Now get ready to move, we need to liberate Le Plien, and I'm sure the locals will be happy to see us."
"Yes sir," answered Jones before Kingsley moved on to the back of the pack and saw the last of Webb's men make their break back to the breach in the southern defenses.
"Let's move out!" shouted the Lieutenant before standing and leading the last platoon back the way they had come, past the AA gun and command post that had been overcome and occupied on the way in before finally returning to cut up barbed wire and minefield beyond. Ahead of them, the other Paras were already making their way through the obstacles, with covering fire still coming in from the diversionary attack force on the road to the north. But through the distant gunfire, Arthur could hear the rumble of a distant engine and the grinding of treads, and it was getting closer.
Through the darkness, a truck like shape appeared, but the clanking of treads marked this as a German halftrack, a halftrack that was towing something behind it. The paratroopers at the head of the withdrawal opened fire on the German vehicle, and Kingsley watched as it turned away and men jumped down from the back and went to what was being towed. Seeing what was happening, Arthur stood, "Bangalores! Bangalores!" he screamed before he was drowned out by the report of the half-track towed gun.
That report echoed through the night like a rapidly beating drum, louder and deeper than an MG 42 but just as rapid, and its effects were even more devastating. The four distinct muzzle flashes blinking in the darkness marked it as a Flakvierling, a quadruple mount of a 20mm AA gun that had been turned on the 9th Battalion. A 7.92mm bullet would put a hole in a man, but a 20mm shell would blow him apart, and there were a lot of 20mm shells in the air.
Further ahead, those shells were pounding the dirt as fire raked the Paras that had thrown themselves to the ground as soil was thrown up by the landing shells. The thorough tenderizing of the earth was punctuated when a shell struck a mine, detonating the buried explosive and throwing up dust, dirt, and smoke. Amidst that was carnage as some soldiers were hit, and Kingsley knew that the gun would turn what was left of the 9th to mincemeat in short order unless something could be done.
When the Bangalores arrived, Kingsley wasn't able to shout over the gunfire going towards the AA gun, so he merely signaled to have the explosive packed tubes thrown across the minefield before watching them go. Another hand signal had the detonator twisted and the charges blown, carving a path of clarity through the minefield about fifty feet deep. "Bren Gun! Get down there and lay suppressing fire down!"
"Yes sir!" shouted Private Jones, and him and Private May began to crawl along the cleared path while a second bundle of Bangalore mines answered Kingsley's summons. The Lieutenant waved the men further south, crawling through the clear corridor in the minefield as the 20mm raked the ground around them. Nearing the opposite edge of the minefield, Arthur pointed across towards the wire, but at an angle to their current avenue, indicating where he wanted the second length of Bangalores.
Just like before, the length of ten tubes went out, fifty feet of explosive packed steel went out, laying across the ground and poised to clear a path and open up an angle on the AA gun. Arthur turned to signal the man with the detonator to turn the knob when he heard the 20mm roar again, a stream of tracers impacting the ground where Jones and May were manning the Bren Gun, and when the burst ended and the dust began to settle, it was clear that they weren't returning fire, and finally Kingsley could see what was left of their mangled bodies through the haze.
Before he could react, the second set of Bangalore's went off, and before the dust had begun to settle, Kingsley was racing through the open path, charging straight at the Flakvierling with his Sten firing long bursts from the hip, 9mm bullets plinking off the steel shield, at least the ones that didn't hit one of the eight man gun crew. When the bolt of his weapon fell forward on an empty chamber, Kingsley felt his adrenaline wear off as he realized where he was, standing in the open in front of a quadruple 20mm cannon that was slewing around to bear on him. Immediately, the Paratrooper dove into the ditch carved by the Bangalore and readied a No. 77 White Phosphorus grenade, a potent anti-personnel incendiary, but it had another application. Heaving the cylinder forwards, Arthur only had to wait a few seconds before the 'all-ways' fuse ignited and set off the contents, throwing up a cloud of thick white obscurant between himself and the German gun.
By the time the cloud was in place, Kingsley had fitted a full magazine into his Sten and scampered forwards, worming his way through the tattered remains of outer barbed wire line as more Paratroopers lay down covering fire though the smoke. When Arthur emerged on the far side of the smoke, he was a mere twenty yards from the Flakvierling as he shouldered his submachine gun and peered through the rudimentary sight before squeezing the trigger. The Sten chugged away in his hands, chattering as the bolt clattered in the sheet steel tube each time it sent a nine-millimeter slug down range. Arthur watched each man fall as he shifted his aim around, until the rest finally fled from the gun. But with his face still twisted in a snarl, the British Officer pulled a Mills bomb from his web gear and yanked out the pin before hurling towards the abandoned AA piece and watching it explode, shrapnel tearing into both the Flakvierling and the halftrack towing it.
With the fire finally dying down, Kingsley turned around, looking towards the smoking ruins of the Merville Battery, and the spot where Jones and May had been killed before finally taking a breath and moving to rejoin his men for the push onto their next objective.
Royal Air Force Station Castletown
Caithness, Scotland
2127 Hours, December 23, 1944
Curtis let out a low whistle as the Commando finished his tale, the whole table falling silent, with even the Marine and the Aussie not mustering any sort of disparaging comment. Wright merely finished his beer before meeting the dark skinned officer's eyes and simply asking, "What happened then?"
"We got our asses kicked," answered Webb, "Marched into Le Plien and ran headlong into a prepared and dug in pair of Kraut infantry companies. Mortars, machine guns, the works, and they really let us have it." There was only a grim, tired silence from the rest of the table, broken only by Webb as he finished his beer. "We had to wait for reinforcements to liberate the town."
"A pair of troops from Number 3 Commando, led by one Captain Price," finished Kingsley, "He took command of the situation there, beat those Hun bastards back. He invited Richard and I to the Commandoes afterwards, and he's the one running the show. Major Price is a fine officer, and if anyone can pull this operation off, it'd be him."
"At least the Crown sent its best," remarked Chase dryly, and the pilots all nodded in agreement. Wright himself felt more at ease with these commandoes. Deep down though, the Corsair pilot would still have preferred to have Carson's Raiders riding with them.
He didn't voice such thoughts though, because Curtis turned to the quietest member of their table and addressed the sole woman, "Well miss? What'd'ya think? I've heard stories about the Red Army, so I'm curious. Your army ever do anything like this?" His tone was laid back, polite, and perhaps a little slurred, so the response came as a shock.
The small woman's eyes snapped back to Wright from wherever they had been staring off to, "You all know nothing of my army," she declared sharply, standing up to her full height, even if that made her barely taller than the sitting Australian next to her, "You all know nothing of my war."
With that, the Russian brunette turned and stormed out of the O club, leaving all of the men in a shared and stunned silence. Finally, it was Wright's new CO, Rork, who broke the silence. "I believe that we have shared in enough camaraderie and revelry for one night gentlemen," he declared as he pushed his glass away and stood, retrieving his hat as he nodded at the Americans.
Understanding what Rork meant, Wright stood, stretching and stifling a yawn as he did so, straightening his flight jacket. "Let's go chaps, nevermind the holiday, we have a busy week ahead of us," reminded Trevor, the other English pilot still uptight and dignified after the night's events.
The three ground pounders didn't seem as interested in leaving, "Thanks for the drinks old timer!" slurred the Australian as he tried to drink another beer, and some of it even made it into his mouth. "You're alright… for a limey!" he called as the Battlehawks retired out the door.
Closing Notes: Alright, that will be the end of that. Compared to how the mission plays out in game, there are a lot of differences, this is because I tried to mirror real life events as best I could, and so the result is a bit of a hodge podge but I'm happy with it. I do promise that the story will get onto the main mission eventually, but there is one more chapter of flashbacks before we get there.
Stay Frosty, Misfit Delta out.