Hey there everybody, a note before we begin: This is a more realistic telling of history and wartime, so expect lots of killing and gore and what not. Know that this is my first time using the editor on Fanfiction and I'm still getting used to it so bear with me. Also, this venture will be novel-length by the time it's finished, so you've got a lot to look forward to haha. Anyway, I hope you like it, leave a review, I'd love to hear your opinions! Enjoy!
Chapter I: Exchanging Pleasantries
May 15th, 1944 – Weymouth, England
The steady pitter-patter of rain began the day as it would any other. Through the hazy trees the first peach-creams and oranges stained the leaves, reaching tentatively across the English horizon only to be smothered by heavy clouds. There were hardly any birds in the sky, such was the time; few people were awake and if so, even fewer were sound of mind. Major Randall Carter, thirty-one years old but looking far younger, observed the morning from his office window with a wintry indifference. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them again, and, with a sigh, continued his vigil.
"They're late." He said when another man joined him. Lieutenant James Lane squinted and looked outward, as his superior did, into the dreary weather.
"Seems like it."
Carter harrumphed, and, scratching the back of his cropped brown head, descended into an easy silence. The only difference was in his eyes: pensive and narrowed slightly. Lane looked out again. A line of headlights began to rumble and splash their way through the trees and into camp, each carrying a small portion of the invasion force they'd be sending to France in a month. Every one of them was likely to be a draftee - young and fresh off American soil for the first time in their little lives - and Lane, along with his other seasoned counterparts, had as much duty to get them ready as Major Carter. The man would have enough to do anyway, breaking in the new company.
"Let's go, Lane. No sense in making them wait." Carter set off into the rain, ready to begin preparation for Operation Overlord.
"Gentlemen, I am Major Randall Carter, your new company commander," With Lane at his side, he addressed the line of new recruits with a voice like tempered steel, "I request only your respect and obedience. Follow my lead, do exactly as I say and maybe you'll go home alive. If that is too much then, please, give me your names so I may begin writing those letters of condolence." His affect was hard and lordly; certainly not something they were used to hearing. Upper-crust New Yorker. Major Carter was a man of privilege.
As if sensing their observation he halted, surveyed them with cold eyes, and amended his presence.
"We're fixing to cross the Channel come June, and as part of the main invasion force the job is simple: keep your heads down, your eyes sharp, and cross that beach. You might be thinking that it'll be a cakewalk, but let me tell you that those Krauts are not going down without a fight." He cast an eye over the assembled men, "Well, it's our job to take that fight right out of 'em, and gentlemen? I'll be damned before I see Adolf Hitler get the drop on us."
Lightning flashed, catching fire in the conviction upon Carter's face and the amused smile upon Lane's. He certainly knew how to command an audience. The boys chorused a hearty 'yes sir!'
"Right then," Lane took over when Carter was accosted by another officer sitting inside a great, black hulk of an automobile, "Barracks are over yonder, PT starts in ten. I suggest you get cracking." They made off, anxious to be out of the rain, while Lane lingered, anxious to hear whatever news had rankled Carter's stout mood. The furrow in his brow was not indicative of good tidings.
"Lane, I'm going to need you to keep them in line for a couple of days. I've got to go to London." Lane, noting the irritation in Carter's voice, complied immediately.
"Yes sir, what's it about this time?"
"Higher ups called a meeting." Carter didn't offer any more detail and Lane expected none. He nodded once.
"How long?"
"A day or two, I'm not planning to stay any longer than I need to. These boys need me more than Jones does." Lane coughed a laugh.
"Don't worry Major, they'll be fine." Carter's lip twitched in a sort of smile and then he was gone, walking with long, brisk strides to join General Jones's representative in the car. Lane caught one last glimpse of his drawn features as the driver turned around and bore them away. Whatever was going on, Carter wasn't looking forward to it.
London, England
Carter ignored most of Lieutenant Gillan's prattle on the way to London. He slapped his officers' crush cap against his thigh, readying himself for the oncoming ordeal that characterized a meeting with the Western Allies. General Jones, a man of boundless energy and ceaseless optimism, was as different from Carter as the summer was from the winter. He was America, and Carter was but a man, and yet Jones relied on him like no other, as was made evident by his greeting. No sooner had Carter entered the threshold and made to salute was Jones upon him.
"Carter!" The Major, being a small man, found himself lifted easily from the ground in an iron embrace, "Good to see you!"
"Goddammit Jones! Let me go!" Carter growled, embarrassed by such an ungainly gesture and painfully aware of the eyes upon them. Jones's flagrant disregard for proper decorum was frequently cause for reproach. He dropped his subordinate unceremoniously, tossing his honey blonde head back in jejune enjoyment.
"As upbeat as always, Major," Jones said with laugh, "Glad you could make it."
"And I am glad to be here, I trust this won't take long. The reinforcements arrived this morning."
"Oh no, not long at all. We're finalizing the plan for Overlord." The Americans, including forces led personally by Carter and Jones, would go ashore to face the Germans and their guns, and their minefields, and their mortars. If they succeeded in taking the beach it would mark the changing of the tides; the Germans could only hold out so long Europe, in fact, their deficiencies were already beginning to show. Judgement was far past due.
"Who's all here?"
"Oh, just me, and Arthur, and Mattie." Jones turned away and started toward the meeting room. Carter didn't follow. He watched him with quickly narrowing eyes.
"Jones. Who else?" The young country grinned sheepishly.
"The rest of SHAEF came in around noon." Carter stood stock still, shock and irritation writing themselves across his features. He was very late.
"God bless America," He shot his superior a disparaging look, "You'll be the death of me one day you know that?" Jones failed to hear the hard edge in his voice. He adjusted his glasses and tie and continued on, Carter close behind.
"There you are Alfred, I thought you'd gotten lost." Kirkland said when they entered. The other men, all gathered around a large table upon which lay a detailed map of the English Channel, spared only a glance for the young general and his aide. Carter swallowed and approached behind Jones, as obtrusive as a shadow in the dead of night.
"Have some faith England." Jones returned, far more composed than he had been before.
At this point, everyone in the room was aware of the concept of a Country, and Carter felt himself release a breath when no one commented on their behavior, not even Montgomery who'd been the most averse to allowing these young, often immature men participate in the planning procedure. After the battles in Sicily, most of SHAEF understood the value of putting centuries old, near indestructible beings in the field, and the nay-sayers were quickly over-ruled.
SHAEF's function, to be most direct, was the planning and execution of Allied strategy. Their talking points of late concerned Overlord and the measures it would take to gain a foothold in France, both on the ground and in the air. Today's topic, regarding such plans, was the weather. In place in the Atlantic were a number of observation ships, secretly taking measurements of the coming weather in the English Channel and routing it directly to SHAEF headquarters. The latest bit of intelligence was that there was to be a break in the storms for a single day - the sixth of June - and the Allied high-command was eager to exploit it. All that was left to figure was the logistics of doing so.
"Major?" Carter jumped when Eisenhower himself addressed him, "I understand the new recruits have arrived today?"
"Yes sir, six hundred and fifty fresh out of basic, and more keep pouring in. We're nearly at twenty thousand in Weymouth."
"And you know the new regulations?"
"Yes sir," Carter affirmed, "We're keeping a tight lid on it." Eisenhower nodded and turned to the other countries. Carter put a hand over his thundering heartbeat; it wasn't every day you were addressed personally by the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, and it made Carter feel at once very honored and very out of his league. He resumed his unobtrusive vigilance.
"How about you Kirkland?"
"Just fine sir, the chaps are jolly-well ready for action." Kirkland puffed up with self-satisfaction. His natural state, if you asked Randall Carter. It wasn't that England was a bad man, or even a particularly dislikeable one – he was simply very stuffy and proud, traits shared by both his subordinates and his superiors, especially, Carter had come to understand, Montgomery.
The men of the SHAEF were adept and experienced, good leaders with undeniable merit and Montgomery was no different. However, his personality was fickle and his nature petulant. He was a difficult man to work with, although you would never hear that from Randall Carter's lips.
The countries, on the other hand, were a different sort.
It wasn't that they lacked intelligence or experience, but agedness and those qualities were often mutually exclusive, and America, England, and Canada looked no different from the fresh-faced greenies that Carter dealt with every day in the marshalling camps. Subsequently, they were targets of much doubt and derision. Carter had attended enough SHAEF conferences to know that their opinions were often undermined by men who thought themselves more qualified. Carter caught himself rolling his eyes at the high-commands' ever-present myopia but quickly corrected himself, he'd been spared their scorn but he didn't think for a second that it would last if he made an ass of himself.
Across the table, Williams smiled in understanding as yet another one of America's proposals was shot down. Carter, on the other hand, felt his patience sour; if they knew just who these young men were they wouldn't be so keen to disregard them. Under the table, his fist clenched; however, the meeting was over long before Carter's patience wore to the point of transparency and he was spared the court marshalling that would have come with speaking his mind.
He took a deep breath as the room cleared, thankful to have made it through another meeting without complication. The three countries gathered to exchange news and pleasantries. Each of them was stationed in a different part of Britain to assist with preparations for the invasion. General Jones and Carter, as his aide, remained with the 16th regiment of the 1st Infantry Division at Weymouth where, in concert with the other divisions, rehearsed the beach landings and amphibious assault. Carter was happy with their progress, and though his duties often took him into the sphere of administration, he was careful to build rapport with the men under his command. Granted, he was not as well liked as his subordinate Lane, but they respected him, and that was all he needed.
"Major, are you sure you want to go back right away?"
"Yes sir, I need to see to my company." To this, Jones rolled his eyes.
"Oh Carter, you don't mean that. Come on, I know a great little pub just down the way!"
"Sir, I-" Carter's indignant protest was ignored. Duty forced him to follow his superior to the place he'd indicated. Gillan, England's 2nd, glanced at him sympathetically, but Carter knew his sympathy was limited only to the skin and so he ignored him.
"See Carter? Isn't this more fun than riding the train?" Jones said, beaming. Carter smiled frostily from his chair at the butt-end of the table. At this point, everyone but Kirkland and Carter were mildly inebriated - soldierly etiquette would not allow for anything further – though that didn't stop them from drawing attention. A group of young officers, handsome, good of spirit, and without female companions was an uncommon sight, one that was quickly being remedied. A couple of young Englishwomen had quickly and gladly been welcomed into the group, both brunettes and both full of smiles and adulation, especially for the Americans.
"I'm General Jones miss, but you can call me Alfred," He smiled his bright Yankee smile, earning one in return, "And over there is my good buddy, Randall." Carter bristled at Jones' distinct omission of his proper title. The other woman, younger than her companion, sidled up to him and Carter, out of politeness, offered his hand and a thin smile.
"Randall Carter, ma'am." He said a might awkwardly, shooting his superior a withering look; Carter was no ladies' man, even if he was a New Yorker.
"Randall," She said in her posh, English voice. Carter guessed: socialite, "May I call you Randy?" The begrudging civility demonstrated previously froze over in a second.
"No." Her smile faltered and Carter felt a deep chill of malicious satisfaction. Jones reminded himself to bring him into pubs more often.
May 25th, 1944 – Normandy, France
Germany stared at the field report with abject disbelief.
"Is this all the mobile divisions we can muster?" He said.
"This is all the mobile divisions that we have been provisioned." Rommel answered, with no lack of spite.
"Well that won't do, we must have more! Surely the Führer understands our position! We cannot fend off an Allied attack with the Ostruppen and Volksdeutsche! They are not prepared!" Rommel frowned and tented his fingers.
"If the Führer understands, then he does nothing. He cares little for our predicament."
"Rommel, you must be cautious with such things." Rundstedt admonished, looking about him as he did so as if expecting Gestapo men come melting out of the woodwork. They must be very careful about their conversations. Almost anything, if said improperly, could be mistaken for slander or sedition.
"Ach, but they are true nonetheless!" Rommel rebutted fiercely, "I will go to him soon, and I will not take no for an answer. We must have more men."
"Even if we do have more men, the Atlantic Wall is not yet finished. It will not stand against a bombardment." Germany spoke evenly in order to diffuse the tension. It was no mystery why Rundstedt and Rommel disagreed so heartily. Rommel believed that the Allies would attack along the Normandy coast, whereas Rundstedt had his heart set on the area between the Somme and Calais. The two were justified in their opinions, but because of their disagreement the forces they did have were spread thin. Furthermore, Rundstedt's command was virtually nonexistent at this point, due to various compromises meant to satisfy the other commanders.
On the topic of invasion, however, Germany was more inclined to agree with Rommel – he'd fought at Salerno, the conditions there were very like those in Normandy; therefore it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to assume that the Allies would favor them again – but he refrained from saying so. Administrative cohesion was of the utmost importance at the current time; there were already enough rifts without Germany creating more. Especially with the French Resistance growing bolder, blowing up trains and sabotaging communications - everyone in high command had to be on the same page.
In an erratic fury, directed at no one in particular, Rommel stormed out of the room. Rundstedt and Germany watched him go with varying degrees of resignation and hope. The situation was dire, but if anyone could convince the Führer to send them reinforcements, it was the Desert Fox.
"Beilschmidt," Rundstedt said after a moment of consideration, "What is the condition in Bayeux?"
"It is the most heavily defended stretch. We had thirty-five miles to address, but it is secure now. The Americans are going to have quite the time getting through." Indeed, Germany was proud of himself for this particular accomplishment. The 352nd had not been deployed to Normandy until March, and when they got there they found the defenses to been lackluster and insufficient. Germany, whom Rommel had called upon a few days later, worked with him tirelessly to rectify the situation. He didn't mind, for it was certainly more stimulating than sitting around in Strasbourg doing paperwork, but he disliked the ever present possibility of an unpredicted attack. Early May had been an all too nerve-wracking period.
"That is good. I cannot say the same for the other divisions. They are static, untrained. If we have even a chance in hell of beating the Allies back into the sea it must be on the beaches."
"Do we even know when this supposed invasion is to occur?" Rundstedt shrugged.
"The weather is too turbulent. I doubt we can expect them before July," He said, "Dollmann wants to hold a map exercise in Rennes on the sixth. Will you be attending?"
"I plan to stay in Bayeux." Rundstedt nodded.
"Then I would encourage you to rest. You've been working yourself into the ground." Germany chuckled and shook his head.
"I shall rest when the war is won."
