Author's Note: All properties are the rights of their respective owners, Sledgehammer, Activision , Lucasarts Games, etc.

I got to see the band Sabaton in concert recently and it was the most fun I've had in a very long time. If you get a chance to see them perform, take it, Sabaton and Epica put on a great show.

waceycorely: Glad to hear it man, thank you for reading and I hope you continue to enjoy.

Guest: You have my sympathies for spending money on Vanguard. I liked the premise of the campaign but felt the execution left something to be desired (to put it mildly). Obviously, I will be playing loose with history but I want this story to feel like it could've happened. I can promise you there will be no cursed gun in this, so you won't have to break out your emotional support sturmgewehr to get through this story. The lack of iconic CoD characters is something I will change because it struck me as odd (especially with Zakhaev's cameo in Cold War). We already have Price, who is meant to be the Captain Price from CoD 1 who survived the mission on Tirpitz, and there will be more. (Also, lol at people looking back fondly at Rorke from Ghosts). I feel confident I can keep it going, and I hope you keep enjoying.

In this chapter, 'The Depot' is a reference to the Commando Basic Training Centre at Achnacarry in the Scottish Highlands. While 'The Devil's Brigade' is a big inspiration for this story (Look at the title if you don't believe me), it can't be argued about the impact and exploits of the Royal Commandos during WW2. If you have an hour, I can't reccommend 'The Greatest Raid of All' on Youtube enough, presented by Jeremy Clarkson it recounts a story that, if I wrote it, you'd call it ridiculous.


The Devil's Company

Chapter 2: The Depot

Royal Air Force Station Castletown

Caithness, Scotland

1147 Hours, December 22, 1944.

After a delay in Iceland due to the notoriously poor North Atlantic weather, Captain Curtis Wright brought his F4U-4 Corsair down onto the tarmac of his new home. The Marine Triple Ace felt the wheels hit the runway as he eased off the throttle and applied the brakes, the Corsair, heavy as it was, had been designed for carrier use, and so the flaps and brakes were potent enough to quickly bring the fighter to nearly a complete stop.

Following the guidance of the ground crew, Wright steered the gull-winged fighter off the main runway and towards a trio of hangers in the far corner of the airbase. While taxiing, the Daredevil got a good look at the base, and quickly realized that there was more he hadn't been told. The navy blue Corsair passed by a group of DC-3 transport aircraft, all of which bore RAF roundels. More interesting were the barracks that had been set up, surrounded by a collection of men wearing uniforms closer to those of Marine ground pounders than aviators, and most of them were engaged in either calisthenics or target practice. Unable to keep himself from watching as he guided his plane past them, Walker wondered just who those men were, the group was too large to merely be the MP contingent assigned to protect the airfield.

Filing that thought away to be brought up when he met his new CO, the next sight was something that needed no explanation. Neatly arrayed on the side of the runway was a collection of varied but equally beautiful fighter aircraft. One was a camouflaged Hawker Tempest Mk V, one of Britain's newest fighters. Powered by the Napier Sabre Mk II engine, featuring a distinctive chin radiator, and armed with four 20mm Hispano cannons, the Tempest had gained a reputation as a potent low altitude fighter. Next to it was a British classic, a Supermarine Spitfire Mk XVI, every bit as gorgeous as its reputation suggested with its full elliptical wings, and this was the last of the Merlin engine marks. Third in line was a bright silver airplane with American stars painted on it, what sun made it through the thick cloud cover shining off the unpainted aluminum skin of the North American P-51D-20. The 'Mustang' had earned a formidable reputation as a long-ranged bomber escort in both Europe and the Pacific, powered by the same engine as the Spitfire but faster, the Mustang was every bit a thoroughbred.

It was an eclectic mix, but from what Trevor had told Wright about the pilots of the Battle Hawks each choosing their own aircraft, the Marine had expected a varied group of planes. Bringing his Corsair to a halt at the end of the line, Wright killed the engine and pulled the canopy back, instantly getting a face full of cold and damp Scottish air. "I sure as shit ain't in the Solomons anymore," grunted the Marine as he hoisted himself up and out of the cockpit. Thankful that he had his G-1 to help ward off the cold, Wright dropped down to the tarmac and took a look around.

"Ah, you must be our new pilot," said a British accented voice, causing Wright to turn and see the source. Approaching the Marine was a balding middle-aged man in coveralls and wearing a friendly expression on his bearded face. The man extended a grease covered hand and said, "I'm Lyle, the Squadrons chief mechanic and general handyman around here." Wright made to salute the man, but was waved off, "None of that. Rork doesn't care about ceremony, just about how you fly."

"Black Sheep rules then, no complaints from me," replied the Daredevil as he shook the offered hand. "Curtis Wright, nice to meet you, Lyle. This here is my girl," he said as he pointed at the Corsair, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'll leave her in your capable hands and get the hell outta the cold."

"Never had to work on a Corsair before, but don't worry, I'll be gentle," answered the handyman before turning, "Now over there is the pilots quarters and over there is the O Club, those are your best bets," suggested Lyle, pointing to two simple but sturdy structures a few hundred yards off the tarmac.

Making his way in that direction, Wright only made it a fraction of the distance when a jeep emerged from the hanger where Pauline's DC-3 was parked. "Curtis!" called Trevor from behind the wheel, waving the Marine over. As soon as Wright was settled in beside the Englishman, Trevor spoke again, "Got your kit in back there, now let's get you settled in."

The jeep pulled away and Trevor spoke again, "I see you met Lyle, trust me when I say he's a good friend to have."

"Any other good friends to have?" asked Curtis.

"Besides me?" replied Trevor with more than a small hint of smugness. "Well, there aren't many of us up here, truth be told. Most of the squadron shipped out for the far east a month back. Soon as they were too far away to be recalled, a new mission came down. It really put high command in a tizzy, we're the only ones that can sort it out."

"What mission is that?" asked Wright, "I assume it has to do with whoever those folks back there are?"

"Rork will tell you about that after you get settled in, he's the squadron boss, good chap. He's also the one that decided I should go out and pick you up, wanted you for when the rest of us went to the Pacific. You've already met Pauline, the only other pilot here is another Yank, James Chase. Know him?" Wright shook his head, "He was a Navy Pilot before heading across the pond back in 1940, I've flown with him since Dunkirk. Ah, here we are."

Trevor brought the Jeep to a stop outside the building Lyle had said was the pilot's quarters and Curtis retrieved his bags. "Your room is the third one on the left," informed Trevor as he led the pair inside.

Wright found his room and opened the door to find a quarters not unlike the one he had at Quantico. There was a simple bed, dresser, wardrobe, and nightstand, at least this one had come with a reading lamp. Setting to work, the Marine began unpacking his bags, his dress uniforms in the wardrobe, others in the dresser, and shoes on the floor in between. Then came his other government issued items and few personnel effects, notably a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap and a picture of him and his brother taken in July 1941, Curtis wearing his USMC dress blues and Kent in his Navy white. The day after that photo was taken, Curtis' big brother had gone to his new assignment aboard the USS Arizona.

Then the Daredevil stripped off some of the gear he still wre. His gloves, life preserver and attached first aid kit, as well as the holster that held his M1911A1 handgun and spare magazines all came off and were arranged neatly on the bed when a knock on the door preceded its opening. In marched a short, serious looking man with close cropped hair and a thin mustache, his shoulder pauldrons had four stripes on them, equivalent to a USMC Colonel. Wright was about to snap to attention on instinct when the new arrival extended his hand, "You must be Captain Wright, I'm Benjamin Rork." Curtis shook the Englishman's hand, noting that his accent, while distinct, didn't sound as posh as Trevor's. "You have everything squared away?" The Daredevil nodded, prompting Rork to crack a small smile, "Very good, follow me please."

Curtis did just that as Rork led him back to the common area of the pilots quarters, which had a few tables and couches for pilots to relax at while being able to make for their planes at a moment's notice. Seated around one of the tables were the two Battle Hawk pilots Curtis had already met, Pauline and Trevor, along with one he hadn't. This one had both RAF and USN patches on his jacket, which was an American G-1, just like Wrights. Poking out from under the lamb's wool collar were the twin silver bars of captain on his collar. "Wright, let me introduce you to your fellow Yank, James Chase," said Rork. "Chase, this is Curtis Wright, from your Marine Corps."

"Nice to meet you Curt," greeted Chase, his voice had a similar midwestern drawl as Wrights, "Before coming over here I flew Wildcats off Yorktown, until I got my wings clipped."

"Lemme guess, Rothschild?" replied the Daredevil, not at all surprised as the shocked look he got back from his fellow American. "He got me too, after my stint flying Wildcats with the one-twelve," the Marine sat down at the table, "Probably killed my MoH nom too," added Wright with a shrug.

"Who's this?" asked Trevor, "Sounds like a right bloody prick."

Chase answered, "I knew him as XO of the Yorktown, a Captain William Rothschild."

"Admiral now," interjected Wright, "Was ComAirSols when I was still out flying."

"Then he's the reason we got you Curt, and for that I am grateful," deadpanned Rork as he sat down, "Now, to business?" The whole table fell silent as everyone turned to the shorter man as he pulled out a map and began to unfold it, "The Boche seem to be cooking up something in one of their laboratories in East Germany." By this point, the map was unfolded and laid out on the table, and even Wright could recognize the northern coast of Germany and some of the Danish islands north of that. "Somewhere in this area," continued Rork as he indicated the space from Neubrandenburg to Pasewalk up to the coast of the Baltic, north of Berlin, "Is where their boffins are developing new warheads for their V-2 Rockets. So they're sending us to see to it. We're going to fly up to Sweden, who is kindly allowing us the use of one of their airfields, Pauline, you'll be with some boys from the IX Troop Carrier Command. From there, we go here, where our friend, WHITE ROSE, has found an abandoned German airstrip."

"Boss, why would the Krauts abandon a perfectly good airstrip?" asked Chase skeptically.

"The Reds shelled it with their destroyers earlier this year, damage was minimal, but it was enough for the Luftwaffe to pull the interceptors based there back," answered the shorter brit. "Which means it's wide open for us to move in, and it would be rude to turn down an invitation like that. Pauline and the transport pilots will tow the gliders carrying the two Commando units out there, and then we'll land. Pauline, the Skytrains will be going back and forth to Norway bringing in our resupply. Gentleman," addressed Rork, turning to the fighter pilots, "Our job will be to do whatever we can to defend that airstrip, support the ground forces, and, when the time comes, destroy that laboratory and the rockets, if we can."

Wright couldn't help but start to chuckle, as much at the utterly calm delivery as anything else. "Is something the matter Captain?" asked Trevor.

"Let me… let me make sure I'm understandin' you right," replied Wright as he took a breath, "Our mission is to invade Germany with about a hundred guys and four fighters, hold an airfield, preferably without anyone noticing, and then destroy some factory, which we still don't have an exact location for."

Rork only blinked once, "That's correct."

"Man, Trevor," drawled the Marine with a shake of his head, "You weren't kidding when you said 'Special' operations."

"No my boy, I was not."


Royal Air Force Station Castletown

Caithness, Scotland

1328 Hours, December 22, 1944.

Cheek pressed against the comforting bandage wrapped around her Mosin's stock, Polina released a slow breath as she brought the inverted chevron to rest. The center post hovered just above the silhouette target some 500 meters away, remaining there as her trigger finger began to squeeze. Like other snipers, she'd removed her glove's index finger, allowing her to feel the hint of resistance as the bit of metal eased a few millimeters.

She eased the finger back even more, using the pad to apply even pressure, and felt the hammer's faint release click.

In an eyeblink, faster than she could consciously follow, the hammer stcuk a 7.62x54mmR cartridge in the chamber, igniting the back end's primer, which in turn set off the powder within the case. Flash-burning, the pressure generated slammed the 148 grain bullet forwards through the barrel. Curved grooves caught the expanding metal, rifling forcing the copper jacket and spinning its contents while gases expanded behind.

The bullet managed a full two and a half rotations before exiting the barrel, at nearly nine hundred meters per second. Such velocity exceeded the speed of sound, producing the characteristic 'crack' feared by many.

Of course, Petrova knew the mechanics of ballistics. Once airborne, the bullet lost velocity. Gravity and air resistance combined forces to drag her bullet down … but succeeded in altering its course by four centimeters by the time it reached the target.

The new hole sat where a man's left eye would've rested, matching the torn openings situated on the false figure's right eye and heart. Smirking, Polina grabbed the knob on the bolt handle between her right thumb and first two fingers, lifting it until it stopped a quarter turn later and then pulling the bolt back. The spent brass case, still smoking from the heat generated by the fast burn of the gunpowder, flipped as it was caught by the ejector and sent flying from the rifle until it bounced along the ground and came to a stop next to three identical, necked, tapered, and rimmed cases.

A round of cheers erupted from all around the brunette as she pushed herself up from her prone shooting position. A selection of men from Nos 64 and 65 Royal Commando Regiments had gathered around, and while most of the were exuberant, a few others were not, but their attention was mostly directed at the man still in a crouch next to Petrova. "Time to pay up, boy-o!" whooped one Commando in a strange accent.

Grumbling, the fourth consecutive Commando that had challenged the Red Army Sniper to a shooting competition reached into his pocket and extracted a ten pound note. And like the four before him, he handed the money to Petrova, "How can I be expected to shoot with all you lot bloody distracting me?" he grumbled before turning away.

Petrova did have to admit that the Commandos were good shots, better than the average soldier in the Red Army by some margin, but none of them were snipers, and none of them were her. So it was with that confidence that she turned to the crowd, "Are there any others who would like to try?" she challenged. The range fell silent as, for the first time, nobody seemed interested in taking her up on her offer, "No? Are you Englishman so easily defeated?" taunted Polina.

"That's quite enough Leftennant," interjected an authoritative voice that prompted all of the commandoes to snap to attention. "Have you all had your fun? Yes? Good," he called out, "Because our new Russian friend will be accompanying us," announced Major Price. Polina could feel the eyes of the other commandoes on her, but none of them raised any objections.

"Accompanying us where, sir?" asked one after a moment. Polina saw him in the corner of her eye, a dark-skinned man wearing a uniform with two circular emblems on his shoulders.

"To Germany, Kingsley," replied Major Price, his words taking the British Commandos by surprise, eliciting a few hushed whispers amongst those gathered. For Polina, his words caused her to buzz with unhindered anticipation. Ever since the Nazis had brought the war to her home, the former nurse had desired nothing but show them the same courtesy. She knew that these Britons, as capable as they had proven themselves to be, lacked this same desire, for their homes had not suffered as hers had. Yes, they had been bombed, and bombed badly, but no Nazis had occupied their streets, no Panzers had run roughshod through their countryside, and none of their families had been round up and shot.

The dark-skinned Briton squared his shoulders and asked, "What for sir?"

Looking about, the Major reached into his breast pocket an withdrew a cigar, one of the men stepping forwards to offer him his lighter. Grunting in thanks, Price puffed on the tobacco before speaking again. "You all know of our German friends V-2 Rockets?" he asked the crowd, "Because it seems they are working on some new type of V-2 and it will our job to ensure that it is destroyed. I know all of you have seen action, but this will be a very different sort of mission."

The mustached officer puffed on his cigar and let out a long, smoke-filled breath. "Our friends in the RAF will fly us into Germany on gliders because I don't want us spread out across the countryside. We won't be going alone thought, the flyboys will be gracing us with their presence."

Petrova rolled her eyes at hearing that, her experience with pilots was that they were vain, self-centered bastards. Judging by the groans from the commandos around her, the sentiment was widely shared. "Our first mission will be to take an airstrip for them," announced Price, drawing a round of jeers that the Major silenced with a look, "From there, they will be helping us, lads. Helping us as we find where the Hun are making their new rockets and blow it to kingdom come."

"We'll have some of our jeeps with us, to scout, and our friends in the air will be able to bring us fresh supplies in case this turns into an extended stay," continued Price. "And the intel chaps haven't been able to pin down where the factory is, we might very well need them."

"Do we know what the krauts have waiting for us?" asked a soldier from the crowd, his accent noticeably different from the others as he tacked on, "Uh, Sir."

Price didn't seem bothered by the breach of etiquette, merely puffing on his cigar. "We ought to be far enough removed from the line to not come across many German regulars," began the Major. Petrova smirked, unless the Red Army moves the lines mused the sharpshooter silently. "There will still be Gestapo about, so we'll be avoiding major roads and crossings. However, this target is under the control of the SS, and it is expected some of those buggers will be guarding the factory."

"Bloody hell," muttered someone behind Polina. Looking around, it seemed that there was the same expression on the faces off all the men. They all had the reserved stoicism of hardened soldiers, but there was another shared aspect, that daunting reality of their task was beginning to set in, and anxiety flickered across their expressions. Anxiety about their ability to accomplish the mission, or surviving it.

The Russian was undaunted, in fact, she was even smiling maliciously at the prospect of facing those who serve under Freisinger, who no doubt would be present. She did not care if these Britons had no designs to kill Freisinger, Polina herself would create a chance to kill the man who had been the cause of much suffering in her Motherland, and to Petrova personally.

Now the tables had turned, this time it would be Freisinger's land, and his blood.


Royal Air Force Station Castletown

Caithness, Scotland

1012 Hours, December 23, 1944

"There's still time to back out old chap," intoned Trevor over the radio. Wright looked to his left, at the British pilot's Spitfire only a thousand feet away from his navy-blue Corsair. For the Marine triple ace, being back the stick of the powerful gull-winged fighter was a thrill, especially with a formidable pilot giving him the same appraising eye that Curtis was casting at the Supermarine machine.

The results would be different, since the guns of both aircraft were loaded with training rounds that were filled with paint, ensuring the loser would only have to patch up a damaged ego, and not a damaged aircraft. Inside the cockpit of his F4U, Wright tweaked the trim of the Vought aircraft, making sure it was in the best place it could be before speaking into the radio. "Not when I'll have a free night of drinks tonight," drawled the Marine, "And I'm thirsty."

"So bloody confident, you Yanks," returned Trevor with typically dry British wit before turning serious. "Time to see if its warranted. Three… two… one… fights on!" called the Brit, and Wright turned on his new squadron mate.

Throwing his stick over, the Corsair rolled towards his foe as Wright looked up through the bubble canopy to watch the clipped winged Spitfire pull the same move before he yanked the stick back, trying to bring the nose around for the merge. Despite its size, the big gull-winged fighter responded smartly, at speeds above 160 knots, the Corsair was agile, meaning he went nose to nose with the lighter Spitfire before the two aircraft flashed past each other. Simultaneously, Wright shoved the throttle to its stop, calling on the 28 cylinder radial engine ahead of him to give him all the power it could muster as he twisted around in his seat, trying to keep track of which way his foe turned.

When Wright saw the Spitfire roll left, he threw his yoke in the same direction, turning away so he could use his airplanes superior power to open the range. The last thing he wanted to do was get into a turning fight with the lighter and nimbler Spitfire, so the Marine opted for a two-circle fight, allowing him to fight the way he wanted, building up speed while he lazily banked back towards Trevor. After 300 degrees of turn, the Corsair was once again nose to nose with the British fighter, but the closure speed of a combined 350 knots meant neither pilot could line up a shot.

Once again, the process repeated itself, with the Marine twisting in his seat to keep sight of his opponent, and like before, Trevor rolled his plane left. Unlike before, Wright threw his stick right, snap rolling the Corsair over so it stood on its wingtip before yanking the stick back, burying it in his gut as he wheeled the big fighter around. Wright strained to keep his neck up, the force of the turn made his head weigh four times what it normally did, neck muscles struggling with the effort of the one-circle fight, his body and plane pushed as far as he dared.

The effort was worth it, and the shorter, 120 degree pull allowed the Corsair's high speed turning advantage to show its value. Tracking Trevor's Spitfire, Wright saw he had managed to get inside his adversary's turn, enough that he could tap the rudder pedals to line up a high angle deflection shot. Squeezing the trigger, Wright felt his whole airplane vibrate as the six caliber fifty AN/M2 machine guns began chewing through their belts, each gun spitting out 12 rounds during the one second burst, none of which struck Trevor's aircraft, yet doing what Wright wanted them to do.

As soon as the Spitfire had flashed past, Wright's reaction was immediate, throwing the stick in the opposite direction to turn back into the Briton, relying on the Corsair's familiar, high-speed responsiveness. While his hands and feet worked the controls, the eyes of the Marine were focused solely on the camouflaged Spitfire, watching the aircraft stutter once before Trevor reacted, reversing his turn as well to cut back at Wright and try for a shot of his own. "Got you…" growled Curtis, feeling his blood pumping as he grit his teeth and tightened his turn, gladly accepting the challenge of a flat scissors.

The Marine knew what his opponent was thinking, that because the Corsair was a big brute of an airplane, that it turned like a cow, and the Spitfire would easily take the fight. At low altitude, and especially at low speed, the Brit would have been right. But at 10,000 feet and 150 knots, Wright knew that Trevor didn't have a hope in hell of coming out on top now that he had forced the Brit into the scissors. The two airplanes cut across each other again before both pilots reversed, each struggling to breathe as he coaxed the most out of his respective aircraft.

Like the knights of old, the two pilots jousted in the sky atop their steeds of steel bones and aluminum skin, the hydraulic muscles of each bringing them around for a second pass when they reversed again, now traveling in the same direction as their first cut. As they crossed the scissors for the third time, it was clear to both that Wright was winning, and would soon have the better of the Briton.

Despite the strain of the hard maneuvering, Wright kept his head fixated on his opponent, and so he saw the moment that the flaps of the Spitfire began to extend. The RAF fighter instantly began to bleed speed and tighten its turn as a result, turning the tables on Wright, who would be forced to overshoot when he reversed. Instead of doing that, Curtis leveled his wings and pulled back on the stick, the supercharged R-2800 and four blade Hamilton Standard propeller pulling all 12,000 pounds of the Corsair skyward, well out of reach of the Spitfire. "Making me work for it huh…" mused Wright under his breath, which he was still trying to catch after the hard cranking and banking of the scissors. Looping over the top, the Marine picked out his prey before coming around and diving on Trevor, coming down on the Battlehawk pilot in a screaming power dive.

Trevor was determined to not go down easy, it seemed, Wright saw the British fighter roll onto its back before its nose came around, pointing towards the ground, the smaller aircraft diving away from the oncoming American. It was delaying the inevitable, but Wright wasn't about to let Trevor escape, so he matched the move, throwing his Corsair over until he was suspended by his harness and then pulling back on the stick, plunging the F4U into a crushing split-S turn in pursuit of the Spitfire.

Hurtling to the ground at more than 300 knots, the Corsair reeled in the Spitfire without mercy, Wright held the plane steady as another of the F4Us signature quirks made itself known. The shape of the Inverted Gull Wings meant the air rushing past the airplane generated a distinct, high pitched whistling scream until the Marine began yanking back on the stick to pull the F4U out of its power dive, leveling out 1000 feet above the countryside and just as far behind Trevor's airplane. Straining against the weight of the controls, Wright wrestled the Corsair to bring the crosshairs on the reflector gunsight onto the Spitfire before squeezing the trigger again. The familiar chattering of the guns drowned out the roar of the Pratt & Whitney radial engine, a hail of paint projectiles peppering the Spitfire, splotches of pink dotting the tail and wings of the camouflaged airplane.

"Cease fire, cease fire, that's a kill," called Trevor over the radio, the Spitfire pilot not bothering to hide his annoyance at the mock engagement's outcome. Inside the confines of the Corsair Cockpit, Wright leaned back in his seat, relaxing as he gulped down deep breaths now that G forces were no longer forcing air out of his lungs. "Return to altitude and reset for the next engagement. Remember, our wager was for two out of three."

"Not like it's gonna make a difference."


Royal Air Force Station Castletown

Caithness, Scotland

1336 Hours, December 23, 1944

With the Battlehawks only taking up a small portion of the airbase, the two Commando units were given free rein to use the unused space. Much of this space was used for training, and Lieutenant Arthur Kingsley was learning how different the Royal Commandoes were from the 1st Airborne Division. There had been some of the expected elements, long marches, assault courses, mock assaults, all of which were done with his full kit and using live ammunition. But there had been more than a few surprises, boxing, unarmed combat, and each man was being taught to call in tactical air support. Another thing Major Price had done was order the construction of a plywood training course inside one of the disused hangers, which was why Kingsley was standing at the door to the hanger, his Sten gun clutched in his hands, waiting for Price's signal, the Major standing in one of the observation towers that surrounded the plywood construction.

"Lieutenant!" barked Price, getting Kingsley's attention. "In this exercise, you will clear the building in under sixty seconds, following my precise instructions. Speed is the vital factor in this course. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir!" called back Arthur, removing the bolt from its safety notch so that the weapon was ready to go before preparing to sprint forwards.

"Very well, on your mark… get set… go! Sprint to the door!" shouted Price, and Kingsley launched himself forwards, despite the sixty pounds of gear he was carrying; the Commando covered the thirty yards to the plywood construction in just a few short seconds. "Get inside!" ordered the Major from his elevated position.

Arthur had already spotted the door and was sprinting towards it, his mind moving faster than his body to decide how he would enter. Since speed was of the essence, Kingsley grit his teeth and lowered his shoulder, throwing his weight against the door. Feeling it give from the impact, the Commando stumbled inside, but quickly regained his wits when he heard Price call, "Clear the room!"

Automatically, the Lieutenant tucked the Sten's wire stock under his right arm, left hand gripping the side mounted magazine well as hunching over in what was called the 'Assault Position,' finger on the trigger. There was no select fire feature on the Sten, and so when Kingsley leveled the weapon at the first paper target, he saw and squeezed the trigger, the submachine gun unleashed a torrent of 9mm rounds that left his ears ringing, even as he swept the room for more targets, finding one more and firing another burst into it.

When the ringing faded, he could hear Price shouting, "… Next room! To your left!" and the Lieutenant complied immediately, whipping himself around and dashing through the door. Finding himself in another room with a third target, Arthur fired at it, spraying it, and the wall behind it, with the last of his magazine. "Forward! Up the stairs!" called the Major. Kingsley reached for the Hi-Power pistol he had on his hip instead of wasting time reloading his Sten.

Pistol drawn, Kingsley pressed up the flimsy plywood stairs to the second floor of the structure. "Shoot the targets!" barked Price as Arthur turned out of the stairwell, pistol up. Planting his feet and raising one hand, Kingsley aimed the gun with instinct, instead of the sights, since the range was so short. Being met with three targets, the Commando fired two rounds at each, pointing the gun as if he were pointing a finger at them, pivoting on his feet to acquire subsequent targets until all three had been hit. "Front of the building!"

Pistol still out, but low at the hip, Kingsley charged across the plywood floor, rounding a corner to meet a sandbag hanging from the ceiling. "Cut the bag down and take it back to the start line! Quickly!" urged Price as the Lieutenant was already reaching for his Fairburn-Sykes knife to cut the rope the bag was suspended by.

Kingsley stowed his knife and pistol when the bag hit the floor with a 'thud' before scooping up the extra forty pounds. Instead of going back to the stairs, Arthur turned to the window in the room and hurled the sandbag out before jumping after it, bracing his knees as the took the brunt of the impact, rolling like he had been taught when parachuting before springing back to his feet and picking up the sandbag. Hefting the extra weight, Kingsley sprinted back to the start line, his muscles burning from the exertion while he huffed and puffed the last few yards until he crossed the start/finish line, rejoining the rest of his platoon as Price yelled, "Time!"

Dropping the bag, Kingsley put his hands on his hips, catching his breath when the Major's voice echoed through the hanger. "Kingsley! What possessed you to jump out the window?"

"Sir," replied the Lieutenant as he snapped to attention, pausing to finish catching his breath, "Your orders were 'quickly,' sir."

There was a pause before Price spoke again, "Indeed they were Lieutenant," answered the Major without any sign of emotion, "All considered, you did fairly well, but I've seen better. Nevertheless, that is the new squadron record," he revealed. Before Arthur could answer, Price continued, "You're dismissed Lieutenant, next man, take your position at the start line."


Royal Air Force Station Castletown

Caithness, Scotland

2023 Hours, December 23, 1944

Tucked in the corner, Polina had found the closest thing to peace and quiet in a place she had not expected: the base 'Officer's Club' as it was called. The Russian woman was occupying her time with one of the few keepsakes of her home, a book that had been a gift from her mother, a well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice, a book that had for many years, shaped Petrova's view of what life was like in the West.

It seemed to Polina that the English, or British, or whatever they wished to be called, lived up to the characters in the novel, somewhat stuck up and aloof, with a predominantly detached demeanor that was off putting to the Sharpshooter. However, the quality of their soldiers, at least these 'Commandoes' as they were called, had astonished Petrova. The pace and types of training were unlike she had received or seen in the Red Army, further adding to the claims of this 'Major Price' that these were no ordinary soldiers undertaking this operation.

The men had mostly treated her with suspicion, but a respect that meant she wasn't bothered by the British soldiers, a welcome change from her fame in the Red Army. That had not stopped her from being a part of the training, learning things she felt somewhat irrelevant, things like map reading, glider training, and a long hike carrying her equipment through the Scottish countryside. Polina felt they would not aid in her desire to kill Freisinger but had suffered through them so that she would get her shot on the Fascist.

Polina's peace and quiet was brought to an abrupt end when the doors flung open and four men came in, all wearing matching leather jackets, all four adorned with a variety of patches and insignia. The one that stood out the most was that all four had a patch depicting a diving yellow hawk on a blue circle. All went to a table, three sitting down while one separated himself and strode to the bar, with Polina looking him over with a keen eye. He was a handsome man, Petrova could admit, with a certain ruggedness about him despite the grin on his face. The jacket he wore had unusual adornment, with golden wings, a patch with an eagle, globe, and anchor, and a white shield bisected by a diagonal black bar.

His eyes met hers, and the pilot, she presumed, smiled at her. Uninterested, Polina narrowed her eyes into a glare before going back to her book before she heard a bell ring out. Startled, the Sniper looked up to see the Pilot leaning over the bar, ringing the bell, and saw the most outrageous artwork on the back, depicting a red skinned devil driving a fork through an airplane. Nobody else seemed bothered by the image, instead cheering as the bell died down, "Everyone give a big thank you to Captain Trevor over there for losing to me," called the man in a different accent than she had been hearing, "Because, as a result, this round's on him."

Another cheer went up from the officers in the club, each one meandering up to the bar to receive their pint, usually exchanging a greeting with the man in the Devil jacket at the bar. Petrova turned her attention to her novel, despite having read through it many times before, having no desire to consume alcohol, especially British alcohol. But she would not get her wish, because she was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat. Looking up, Polina saw the man in the devil jacket standing over her with a glass in each hand. "I dunno about where you're from miss, but back home it's considered impolite to leave a lovely lady like yourself sitting on her lonesome."

"I have no desire for your company, or that of anyone else," retorted Petrova, demeanor cold and direct. She then eyed the glass in his hand, "And I certainly do not want your drinks."

"If you don't want the drink that's fine, I just got it to make Trevor pay for it," he said with a chuckle. "I'm new to the squadron here, and I wanted to get to know everybody, and I'd rather not be surrounded by limeys if I can help it."

Polina eyed the man, wary of him as she spoke, "You are not an English pilot, then?"

That elicited a full laugh back, "God forbid, no, I'm an American, a Marine Aviator. The name's Curtis, Curtis Wright." Petrova furrowed her brow, not understanding the distinction. He then slid one of the glasses over to her, "But I'm here to kill krauts, and might as well know who I'm doing that with. So come join us, or at least come over and give that back," he said before turning around and heading back to his table.

The brunette sniper looked down at the glass of dark liquid, sniffing it and recoiling at the aroma filling her nostrils. Grimacing, Petrova considered her options, and left to choose between the well worn book or new tales, some small part of the Sniper wanted a new tale of adventure, so she slipped out of the booth and made her way over to the gathering, keen to find out what sort of men these new comrades of hers were.


Closing Notes: So that will wrap this chapter up, mostly laying groundwork and introducing characters. Next chapter will be a bit more interesting I think, and that should be due out in two weeks. Though yes, I did my best to recreate an F.N.G. type plywood simulacrum training. Sadly, I couldn't manage to fit in "Your fruit killing skills are remarkable."

Stay Frosty, Misfit Delta out.