Ch1: Percy's backstory.

An Emergency Landing

The main battery of HMS Argo belched death and destruction towards the cliff face, its lethal shells striking the dull concrete of the German pillbox a few moments later with a mighty boom and marking a crater on the robust defensive fortification. The impact was punctuated by a cheer from the British seamen, relieving some of the pent-up stress which had gradually weighed up upon their shoulders. Their guns had found their range, and at this distance any shot guaranteed the desired levels of destruction.

The secondary battery of the Bellona - Class Light Cruiser rumbled to life, the smaller shells strafing the beach and aiming to destroy any barbed wire traps set by their foes, and further clear the stretch of once-picturesque Norman beach that history would one day remember as Sword.

Another eardrum-shattering salvo of shells bombarded the gun turret at the top of the beach, prompting another cheer. This cry of joy was furthered as the first landing craft hit the beach, skidding due to the speed gained from the chop of the waves breaking on the North French shore. The ramp dropped with an audible clang, and the men of the British Third let out a cry of rage as they sprinted out from their landing craft and into the books of history.
Almost supernaturally the world went silent.
And then, it all went wrong.

German machine guns opened fire from the top of the beach, the cracks of bullets sounding to the inexperienced Englishmen almost akin to the tapping of a typewriter.
Typewriters, however, were not known for their tendency for wanton destruction.
The screams of righteous fury and patriotic glory quickly turned to shrill screams which pierced the early morning air, a macabre harmony of death and suffering accompanied by the deadly percussion of machine gun and rifle fire.

A shout from the bridge shook the Royal Navy seamen from their stupor, as they tore their gazes away from the destruction upon the beaches and resumed their efforts to destroy enemy positions along the beaches. Each of the four twin 5.25 inch guns loosed once more, this time obliterating one of the many concrete fortifications built into Hitler's mighty Seawall.

D Day was underway.

Amongst the madness, Lieutenant Perseus 'Jacks' Jackson strode briskly into the bridge of the Argo, a sheet of paper clutched in his left hand.
Saluting sharply to the captain, he presented the hastily scrawled message from the radio operator to the man in charge.
"You've read this?" Captain James Barnes asked of his junior officer.
"As it came in, sir." Jackson confirmed, nodding his affirmation.
"And you see this to be possible, Jacks?" The Captain demanded, raising an eyebrow to his subordinate, hoping against hope that the man could truly execute the manoeuvre detailed by high command.
"Sir, the turret falls within the hour, that I'll give you on my life," Was the response of the Junior Officer, who saluted once more, before turning on his heels and leaving the bridge.

Barnes exhaled in exasperation at the clearly flawed orders given by his own superiors. The Argo was a light cruiser of the Dido Class, with some modifications which placed it in the Bellona Subclass. It was a fine warship, yes, but its primary armaments were hardly enough to clear their section of Sword beach, not without support from a battleship. Flipping the sheet of paper, Barnes scribbled a scathing response to high command for a seaman to take over to the radio operator.

The message would never be sent.

Lieutenant Jackson abandoned all his father's conditioning as he sprinted from the bridge over to one of the twin guns of the primary battery. Inspecting the layout of the beach, he made a decision.
Grabbing a man by the collar of his uniform, Jackson instructed him to run a message over to the next weapon, as the other two turrets resumed their incessant, albeit ineffective pounding of German machine gun nests.

"Jenkins!" He called out, catching the attention of the Petty Officer overseeing the turret. The man - a veteran of nearly thirty long years which spanned the age of the dreadnought and beyond - turned to face the source of the sound and fired off a sharp salute.
"Beautiful day then Lieutenant. What can I do for you then sir?" He asked, the barest hint of a smile emerging behind his bushy moustache.
Jackson acknowledged the man with a brisk nod, before returning to business.
"Incendiary shells Jenkins," He ordered sharply, leaving no room for argument despite the questionable order. "If we can't remove Jerry with our Armour Piercing shells, we're just going to have time to do with crispy roasted bastards on the beach when next we're here on holiday, won't we?"
"Well that will hardly do, will it sir?" The Senior NCO responded with a smirk, before turning around to relay the order.

The din of two guns firing receded a moment as incendiary shells, meant to explode in a fiery ball of destruction, were loaded into the ship's primary armaments.
Of course, what this did was leave an admittedly short, yet pregnant pause - a moment of quiet which was filled once more by the chattering of automatic weapons and the screams of the dying upon the beaches.
"Where do we target, sir?" Came the question which snapped the officer out of his reverie. "It's quite the choice, is it not?"
Jackson chuckled darkly once more, as he strode over to the sights himself. Carefully aligning his desired target in the crosshairs of the gun, he checked his range once more.
Perfect.
He must have uttered that last word aloud, as Jenkins beside him grinned, patting his shoulder. "Good sir. I reckon the gents on the beach would rather like some 'perfect' at the moment.'
Not responding to the veteran's little joke, Jackson exhaled softly, steeling himself for the consequences.
He fired.
The turret belched hellfire once more, and Jackson held his breath, watching intently at his target.

BOOM

With an almighty shudder, the inside of the pillbox seemed to belch fire, though this time the gun inside seemed to have no bearing on the matter. Two incendiary shells, on the other hand, would explain the peculiar situation rather well.
With a great roar of triumph, the men reloaded the Argo's main batteries, buoyed by their officer's success. The first salvo thundered off, further obliterating the first pillbox and screening the next in a haze of swirling smoke and debris.

The machine gunfire paused a moment, the gunner evidently blinded by the debris flung into the air by the impact of the shells.
It sputtered back to life momentarily, before being silenced by the next salvo, to another great cheer.
Lady Luck seemed to have taken the side of the British on this day, spreading her warmth and joy amongst the soldiers of the empire. This idea seemed to have caught on among the rank and file, and the mood seemed to lift almost instantly.

Jackson had been a sailor a long time. The Navy was practically his life, from watching his father return victorious from Jutland - a memory preserved only in ink and film, the young Perseus having only been aged a youthful eight at the time.
In fact it was far more than that. Ten generations of the Jackson family could be traced back as top-ranking officers in the Royal Navy, spanning from the 1750s, through the Napoleonic wars and the Reign of Victoria, through the war to end all wars, and now the one which seemed to eclipse even that.
It was this level of experience and tutelage which had taught Perseus Jackson a very good lesson, a lesson that every good sailor learned in good time.
Whatever can go wrong will most certainly do so.

Young seamen fresh on the job saw Jackson, the strapping young officer who had watched as the Bismarck went down. Jackson, the man who could shoot the stuffing out of a chicken from fifty yards, and who should really have been selected for the Marine Commandos. They assumed that they could only appreciate this from afar - that the sea was in his blood.
True as that was, Percy Jackson thought otherwise. It didn't take divine intervention to do one's duty to the best of one's capabilities. It didn't take anything extraordinary to do what he did, only hard work and experience.
That was, of course, why he didn't panic when the Bridge went up in flames.
He didn't scream or shout as his men did, and he didn't flee to the lifeboats, thoughts in a flurry and mind clouded by the terror of death. Of course not.
He didn't weep for the brother he lost in his captain - a man along whom he had served since the beginning of his time aboard the Argo. Neither did he pause to pay his fellow officers the respect they had earned through years, even decades of loyal service to King and Crown.
No, the time for that would come when his men were safe.

He spoke firmly, and yet did not shout, his voice carrying clearly over the panic of the untested soldiers attempting to flee what would inevitably become a death trap. Soldiers who would unknowingly fling themselves into a treacherous, choppy English Channel without so much as a lifeboat, let alone their wits about them.
"Jenkins, get me a headcount of this pathetic rabble. Keep the Guns firing at all costs, lives depend on us"
A set of hastily shouted orders followed, and time passed. The status of the bridge of the Cruiser was merely a new factor, tucked away within Jackson's mind. A greater objective was at stake, and it would take priority, no matter the cost.

In impressively short time, Perseus Jackson and Abraham Jenkins were faced by a formed up company of men, all stood to attention, bodies still but minds racing from the shock of the bridge of their warship - their home for the last year and a half - being reduced to a burning mess behind them. Each man donned the proud uniform of the Royal Navy, such a sign of power.

At this moment in time, however, Jackson knew that it would be something of a hindrance.
After all, what good would Navy Blue and white do to hide a man from a foe whose greatest desire was his demise?
"Men, listen and listen well," he began, speaking sharply, keenly aware of his rapidly dwindling time. "We have two choices - to die running away, or to die making a difference."
He paused, scanning the terrified faces before him at the implication of their forthcoming demise. "If you wish to take your chance against the channel in a lifeboat, you are welcome to try. No man here will think worse of you."
At those words, he stepped aside, gesturing with a dismissive wave of his left hand toward the eight remaining lifeboats on the port side of the warship.
Not a man moved.
Percy smiled, a savage grin which promised death to his enemies.

"Two sections of men prepare the lifeboats for launch, make sure to deploy on the seaward side, I'd hate to lose my assault craft before my men are aboard," he ordered, a hint of dryness seeping into his tone, prompting a chuckle or two at the hilarity of the situation.
"One section on each gun, men," he instructed, gesturing towards each of the two twin guns on their side of the warship.
"If the bridge is hit, so is fire control. Make sure the guns don't stop firing - every second, and more importantly every shell counts," he continued, pausing to make sure that every man had absorbed this crucial information.
"Final section, on me, we'll need arms if we're to take this beach, eh?"

At that, fifty men rushed to action, the smell of burning a mere distraction, ripples in the ponds of their minds. Jackson and his squad of ten rushed down the stairs, claiming all the essentials. Crates of Enfield Mk.4 rifles, boxes of grenades and ammunition, as well as the weapon which every man knew could win a fight - five band spanking new Bren Guns.

Their arms laden with lethal weaponry, the squad returned to above deck, ready to distribute their wares. What they found was very impressive, to say the least.
Two lifeboats were on the sea, a third on its way, each filled by a squad of ten. With an approving nod, Jackson looked to his Petty Officer with a stare that conveyed a wordless message of thanks. Another shout beckoned the final twenty men over, and the Argo's guns fell silent for the final time.

It was possibly one of the most difficult things Jackson had ever done, watching the Argo burn, and yet he was forced to. He would never forgive himself had he not. However, these moments of emotion that he allowed himself would need to become few and far between - he was now the highest ranked officer present - the curse of his constant desire to be involved in the action.

He shuddered as he imagined his fate had he been more akin to his comrades in the officer class, as he mourned the loss of many a friend. Death was an inevitability on the fields and beaches of France, it was simply his blind, unyielding optimism that told him that he would be the one to survive.
After all, what place did a naval officer and his men have on the beaches of Normandy when so many had already died on this day of death?
He accepted the rifle and ammunition offered to him, quickly flicking the safety catch on and inspecting the weapon for anything that would protect his enemies and hinder him.
Taking a hint, several of the men currently in the rowing boats on their way to the beach began to do the same, running through their drills to take their mind off the impending fight.

Sharing a look with the most senior NCOs of each squad, he confirmed that each squad was in possession of an automatic weapon and a stash of grenades. Nodding his affirmation, Jackson began to formulate the beginnings of a plan in his head, watching closely as the little rowing boat neared the blood-soaked sands of Sword beach.
One advantage they possessed here, of course, was that the beach was a holiday location - a shorter beach fronted by a promenade and several beach houses in which people stayed on holiday.

He observed as three platoons of the British Third Infantry regiment stormed a pillbox, a well placed grenade wreaking havoc inside the concrete fortification. Accounting for the three demolished by the Argo's guns, that left a further four to be captured or destroyed by the British today, before control of this section of beach could be claimed.
Fortunately for the sailors of the Argo, the shoreline was relatively clear, the fighting having been moved further up the beach as a result of the Light Cruiser's punishing battery of the beach, and so the greatest challenge initially would be the chilling prospect of stepping over the bodies of their dead comrades.
To think, it was not so long ago that Jackson had been comparing their screams to an orchestra.
He had always wanted to play piano for the London Philharmonic as a child - this was hardly the shining debut he had dreamt of all those years ago.

Tapping Jenkins on the shoulder, Jackson mimed preparing a weapon, and the Petty Officer understood immediately, checking over the Bren, folding the bipod on the barrel so that the Light Machine Gun could be fired from the hip as a squad support weapon.
Giving the drum magazine atop the weapon a tap, he gave a tight smile to his officer, nerves beginning to appear in the mannerisms of all the men.
What had been a relatively uninterrupted row ashore quickly took a turn for the worse, as was the manner of things that day, it seemed, as German fire began to pick out the little flotilla of rowing boats. At such a distance, it was bound to be inaccurate, and so Jackson rested easy.

Finally, after three hours of perfection, a mistake.

One moment of relaxation, a millisecond of laxity, was all that was needed to catch him off guard. With a mighty shower of water, an artillery shell from ashore hit the surface of the channel, sending the already choppy surface into chaos.
The little lifeboat had no chance, and it capsized nearly instantly, trapping the men within.
To an observer, drowning was the only outcome.

Jackson laughed, a sound unheard of in the depths of hell such as the men found themselves now. It drew a weird look, until Jenkins joined him in his laughter.

"Swim men, swim!" he urged, not bothering to point out the obvious. Each seaman was excellent in the water, trained to react to such a basic situation as a capsizing from day one at Dartmouth. The poor Germans wouldn't know any better, but they had involuntarily given a squad of ten Englishmen an effective shield - a point made blatantly clear when two rounds of machine gun fire strafed across the upturned hull with a resounding Ping.
Within seconds, the group had closed the remaining distance to the beach, and had quickly shed their improvised armour. Scanning the beach, Jackson noted that three of his squads were already on the beach, pinned by suppressing fire from one of the remaining pillboxes, while another was only now disembarking.
'This might just work Jacks old boy,' he thought, snorting in amusement at the ridiculous situation once more.
"Give me covering fire, concentrate it on Fritz in the nest at three O'clock," he demanded of one of the Bren gunners, pointing out the position in question. Tapping three men on the shoulder, he gestured for them to follow, indicating for them to crawl on their belt buckled with a patting motion towards the floor.

The next three received a similar signal, but his time under the lead of a young Sergeant who had already begun firing at the enemy position, Lee Enfield Rifle firing at a blistering rate of a shot every two seconds - an impressive feat, operating at the pace of the very best, using his initial ten-round magazine before replacing it time and time again with booster clips of 5 rounds apiece.

Each group bore a precious set of three grenades, eating into the limited supply of 'pineapples' the men had managed to salvage from the sinking Argo.
A second Bren gun joined the fray, the bursts of suppressing fire putting the German machine guns out of the fight, however momentarily.
It did, however, buy the men time.

One sailor fell quickly, nailed through the chest with a spurt of blood. He didn't even have time to scream for his mother, as the bullet had gone straight through the heart.
Such waste of life
The group picked up the pace, a fresh sense of urgency injected into their hearts as they witnessed one of their own fall.
The next to fall went down in rather more horrific fashion, his boot catching on one of the many barbed wire traps which had been obliterated by Allied shelling. He fired once, twice, thrice, before a shot in reply found its mark. His death was less quiet.

It would later be noted that three enemy soldiers had fallen to the barrel of his weapon, and he would receive a posthumous commendation for his service.
Such little reward for the price he paid, what of his mother? His wife? His children, who would live their lives knowing that Daddy never came back home?
The first machine gun nest fell with little effort - the young Sergeant throwing a grenade into the opening with unerring accuracy. Solace, he called himself, inexplicably a medic aboard the Argo - surprising for his capacity as a soldier.

They rushed to the concrete structure, clearing it out quickly and taking up a defensive position. A signal followed, and the five remaining men began to lay down suppressing fire under the Sergeant's direction, in order to allow the rest of the landing party to advance to the new, more defensible position.
Jackson turned back once again, directing his gaze to where the Argo remained, black plumes of smoke curling into the sky, marring the almost idyllic blue skies out to sea - an almost comical juxtaposition against the destruction one would face as they looked inland.

He tried desperately to tear his gaze away - to prevent himself seeing what he knew would happen any moment now - for no man wanted to see a ship as majestic as the Argo as it was now, much less as it exploded, its hull being ripped in two with the force of the blast, pink and yellow sulphurous smoke being thrown into the afternoon sky from the burning of the ship's magazine.
He did not react as this happened, he couldn't afford to show emotion. Not when the lives of so many depended on his ability to stay stoic. He merely turned and aimed his rifle.
The beach around him seemed to fall silent as he closed his left eye, the world being solely composed of himself and his target. The German machine gunner had made a mistake.
The top of a grey helmet peeped above the gap in the concrete, and that was all he needed. His finger squeezed the trigger, right shoulder braced for the kick of the Lee Enfield rifle, and eyes still trained on his target.
Not many things could stop a bullet travelling at 740 metres per second, and the young SS gunner's helmet clearly wasn't one of them.

The company of seamen advanced again, capturing the concrete structure with little hassle, and levelling with the men of the Third Infantry. One particularly grizzled looking Staff Sergeant shot Jackson a questioning look, noting the distinctive Naval Officer's uniform. Jackson merely shrugged, gesturing vaguely at the burning wreck of the Light Cruiser in the distance, earning himself a look of understanding and a grim nod.

Reassessing the situation now, Percy considered that his force now comprised a much larger 200 - three platoons of the Third to complement his own group of men, who were proving to be no layabouts in open combat themselves. Much better.

Calling once more for covering fire, he darted across the sand to join one of the Army officers. The man, a barrel-chested fellow with a rather impressive handlebar moustache, extended his hand to be shaken, and Jackson obliged, throwing a cursory glance over his shoulder to ascertain the rate of his troops' progress in the time it had taken him to reach the Infantryman.

"'Ay up Sir," the man greeted him, his Yorkshire accent becoming obvious in his manner of speech, "Good bunch of lads you've brought, I must say."
Jackson nodded appreciatively at his praise, jaw set so as to keep any more emotion from showing. "Indeed they are," he paused, glancing at the Yorkshireman's shoulder to check his rank, "Captain, is it, Sir?"
"Captain Charlie Bairstow of the Second Battalion East Yorkshire Regiment at your service, Sir." he responded with a nod, "And yourself, my friend?"
"Lieutenant Perseus Jackson, Captain." he replied, shooting a look over the man's shoulder, a questioning look over the officer's shoulder - something the Northerner caught onto quickly.
"Yes, Lieutenant, my company. We've lost one of the platoon commanders, the other two are holding the fort, as it were, you see," he explained, accounting for the commanders of each of the platoons under his command with a sad shake of his head.
"Understood, Sir," Jackson replied, a hint of sorrow making its way past his emotionless mask. All his fellow officers, to his limited knowledge, had quite probably perished in the blast which had claimed the Argo, and so he knew as well as anyone how much the loss of an officer damaged the morale of a body of men.
"Bairstow, from my understanding, there remain to be taken a further five positions before this section of Fritz's seawall is firmly in our grasp. Three on the beach, and then the two thrice-damned bastards with the emplacements behind the promenade. You agree, yes?" he listed, raising an eyebrow in anticipation of anything he had missed in his assessment.

"Wrong, Jackson." the Yorkshireman responded, causing the Naval Officer to crease his eyebrows, wondering where he had incorrectly noted a position. Perhaps there was a third gun further back? How many of his men could've died had it been on the beach?
Seeing the internal panic, the Army Officer laughed, snapping Jackson out of his stupor. "There's just the one Gun up there, old boy," he chuckled, clapping the dazed Lieutenant on the shoulder.
"Right then," Jackson responded, clearly trying to shift the attention of the Yorkshireman away from his little error, "Your boys push the first machine gunner on Nine O'clock, and then set up shop - the other two are on our side, so we'll need a spot of good old cover."
The infantryman seemed somewhat affronted by this, his eyes acquiring a yet unseen steel which Jackson nodded at appraisingly. "Hardly cricket is it, Jackson old boy? Old 'Bert Sutcliffe is screaming at us from across the channel."
Chuckling himself, Jackson nodded at the officer, "Well, I can hardly deny you northern barbarians a bit of fun, can I now?" he remarked dryly, a single eyebrow raised. "As you wish, Bairstow, the big gun is all yours." before jogging back to his own men, the Northern Officer left spluttering in his wake.

The Lieutenant's return to his men marked a fresh assault from the crew of the Argo, a squad of ten pushing forwards to capitalise on the momentum built by the capture of the previous two. As promised, of course, the Browning Automatic Rifle, the 'BAR', held by one of Bairstow's men opened fire, limiting the pillboxes further up the beach to little or no fire.
This however, wasn't enough. Even now, as long as eight hours into the fighting, the resistance of the Wehrmacht and their Waffen SS support was fierce, an almost suicidal counter-charge felling three and forcing the raiding squad into a hasty retreat.

Jackson cursed to himself silently, eyes closed in shame that he had sent three more men to their deaths. The German officer had played his cards well - it was an extremely unconventional move to leave the safety of the concrete defences, even under fire such as the Yorkshiremen had provided, and yet their raw tenacity had seen them win the skirmish.

Without the advantage of momentum, suddenly the morale was lifted on the German side, and dropped rather dramatically in the hearts of the physically and mentally drained seamen. Action was needed.
Raising his Enfield Rifle once more, Jackson stepped out from behind his cover, his men too shocked at the foolhardy act to so much as gasp, much less rebuke him for endangering himself. He fired once, twice, thrice, letting out a slightly crazed laugh as three men fell in quick succession. The company of infantrymen across the beach picked up on his ploy, and laid down a fierce barrage of covering fire once more, pinning the German machine gunner within the confines of his defences, the rhythmic crack crack crack which promised death and destruction falling temporarily silent.

Jackson had always liked Mozart growing up. His story was simply fascinating, the fullness of music from the classical era simply entranced him, and the concertos, oh the beautiful concertos. He loved listening to the old gramophone in his grandfather's house, and he would dance about the room, conducting the unseen orchestra as it wove the maestro's thoughts into sound.
His grandfather would laugh, and show him carefully how each section of the orchestra played its part, the brass and the strings and the beautiful harps. For reasons unknown to the little boy, there had been only one piano.
'But Grandfather,' the little boy had asked, voice full of childish innocence, 'wouldn't the poor pianist be lonely, all by himself with the noisy strings all around him?'

His Grandfather had laughed, his voice rough from decades aboard ships, serving under Queen Victoria's banner, and explained how the Pianist knew his place, how he was the most important person in the orchestra. The pianist, his grandfather had explained, was the one who had the most complex role. After all, Mozart played the piano, and Mozart made beautiful music.

Today, he was Mozart. The Enfield rifle in his hands was the baton with which he conducted the orchestra, and suddenly his players sprung to life. A haunting melody of battle cries, proclaiming vengeance upon the enemies of the crown was punctuated by the percussion of the Bren gun and the BAR.

For half an hour more it went, the beautiful symphonies of terror, the heart-wrenching drama of death and glory, an opera which seemed to capture the hearts and minds of its performers. At its heart was the maestro, the writer who had so beautifully picked his moment, and who showed his musicians and actors the way, through the climax of the action, and wove a grim tale of death and glory.
The first victory, he would call it, Primo Victoria. It was a strange old story, he supposed, no heroes or villains in this first act. Rather, it was a chess match. A gambit worthy of the likes of Morphy, and complex to the tastes of Alekhine. The white queen was in position, rooks and bishops in beautiful positions.
D Day was well and truly underway, and Perseus Jackson sat on the promenade at the top of Sword beach, a pipe in his mouth and a rifle in his hand, gazing wistfully out to sea.
His landing had been unexpected, and yet to the men around him, his presence was the most natural thing imaginable.

A/N

Hello again all, Chapter 1 of the story done.
A funny story about HMS Argo, there is, in fact, a Dido-Class Light Cruiser called HMS Argonaut, which actually participated in Operation Overlord - It didn't sink though, it actually participated in Dragoon in South France, which I plan on covering later down the line with some of our other characters.
This is definitely not historically accurate, just based off true events. I will explain myself here though - the part the crew of the Argo play is so short because we're several hours into D Day. I've covered nearly an entire day in about 5,000 words.
Do let me know what you think, I'd love to hear people's thoughts.

I will also stress here that I do not own any part of Percy Jackson and the Olympians - I'm just a fanfiction writer who's messing around here.

REVISED 03/04/2023. Minor changes