Ch2 - Son of the Sea

The night fell late, the moon beginning its journey over the darkening sky to overlook a once-picturesque landscape, on which people had once laid in the sun, enjoying the heat of the North French sun, staying in the lovely, multicoloured beach houses which had once decorated a promenade that overlooked the channel.

In fact, to see so many people lying on the beach in the late evening was hardly a rare sight in early June, as people enjoyed their breaks from work in the beautiful north of France. The problem with that beautifully nostalgic notion was, of course, that holidaymakers rarely made the trek to Normandy for the barbed wire, nor did the average Briton desire the horrible stench of death which now permeated the air of the lovely sandy beach.

A full company of British soldiers now occupied the top of the little strip of beach - a full complement of near enough two hundred men - medics now safely ashore and trying desperately to save the injured. It didn't take a genius, however, to know that many of the men wounded in action would not be able to continue on this crusade.
Perseus Jackson watched this scene from the top of the beach, in the company of four other officers. The Army Captain - Charlie Bairstow of the Yorkshire regiment, along with his two remaining First Lieutenants, fine gentlemen themselves, by the names of Harry Norman and John Brook.

Each of the four officers had earned their stripes, learned and lost - the past hour of storytelling had cemented that as undeniable fact. It would be insulting to so much as hint otherwise, considering the litany of medals which decorated each man's ceremonial uniform, spanning from the Great War in the case of Bairstow, to the evacuations at Dunkirk and even the Dieppe raid in the case of the other two.
Each, to his colleagues and his men, presented a leader and a role model to be trusted and followed.
Each, to his comrades, was worthy of giving up one's life to save.

Now, all eyes seemed to be on the youngest of the four, and the odd one out by service. The three Yorkshiremen were more than familiar with one another from a good few years in each other's company. The young gentleman before them, however, seemed to have as cool a head on his shoulders as any seasoned campaigner on land, let alone on the sea. He had led his men up the beach with dignity and poise, systematically removing enemy positions one by one in a near-textbook example of urban building clearouts, and the look in his eyes…
Nobody was forgetting that in a hurry.
It invoked in Bairstow the images conjured by his father, of the Viking raiders who had once ruled the North of the island. The Naval Lieutenant seemed to define the role of Berserker - a shock trooper who could strike with the fury of a storm.
Switch the rifle for a battleaxe, the dark hair and emerald eyes for blazing ginger and blue, and the spirits of York's former rulers would be quite difficult not to juxtapose with this young soldier.
Jackson, for his part, scanned the faces of his new comrades-in-arms, and breathed out in a long-suffering sigh, before beginning his own story.

It had all begun in the year 1930 - a young, fresh-faced man of a mere twenty two had proudly entered the grand old pair of twin buildings that was the Royal Naval College in Greenwich, no parents to be seen, nor grandparents.
The recruitment officers hadn't taken a second glance at this young man. He was clearly well-bred, his Mediterranean complexion and vivid green eyes enough to make ladies around him swoon.
He was also quite evidently well educated, if his degree in Mathematics from Cambridge, no less, was anything to go by. He spoke well, clearly, as was to be expected of a young gentleman of such credentials, standing smartly at attention when addressed and not questioning an order.
Not a single soul had asked about his parentage nor his name, for Jackson was hardly a rare name. Nothing, of course, to do with the famous line of Jacksons who still held post amongst the Admiralty and a seat in the House of Lords. The boy, too, seemed to have no desire to speak of his heritage, and so Perseus Jackson entered the Naval College as just another face.
That much became known to be false mere weeks into his training.

The boy was a natural, naval tactics seeming to be second nature in the boy's mind. His ability to determine complex strategies and counter them became something of a legend within the staff rooms in Greenwich, and news of a prodigious young officer had worked its way through word of mouth to the sister college at Dartmouth, and up to the upper reaches of the Navy.
Three years, this went on, with the young man becoming an excellent young officer, appreciating how to run a body of men, and then progressing through aspects such as marksmanship and the tactics involved in battles involving capital ships. After all, vessels such as the Hood were the ones that would truly strike fear into the hearts of the enemies of King and Crown.
In fact, it had been quite the occasion, when Hood had docked not all that long into his career, he had been invited aboard as a young officer cadet, and he had visibly sighed at her beautiful lines. The biggest, fastest, most powerful warship in the world, she had been, with her mammoth 15-inch guns and slim frontal profile.
He had walked the decks, and frowned at the captain catching the man off-guard.

"Sir, what of the deck armour? We aren't in the days of Victoria any longer - shells would simply punch through!" He had asked, concern visible in his eyes.
The captain had chuckled, patting the young officer on the shoulder to placate him. "Indeed, young man, a valid concern." He had begun, with a smile. "But think of the ship's greatest asset, my boy."
Jackson had seemed perplexed for a moment, before his jaw dropped almost comically. Her speed, of course, he had mouthed silently, before apologising profusely.

Hood was sunk in 1941, by the very vessel that had replaced her as the greatest warship on the planet, one KMS Bismarck.
Rumoured to have been destroyed by plunging fire through the deck.

Of course, Jackson had watched from aboard HMS Rodney as Hitler's monstrosity was sunk, a grim smile of vengeance on his face. It was a moment that he would remember forever, knowing that he could trust himself, trust his instincts, for he now had faith in the fact that they would be hard pressed to let him down.
He had learned to become the master of his own fate.

The true defining moment of his training at Naval College Greenwich, though, was the day he passed through to the navy itself - the day he received the King's Commission. The shock wasn't that he received it, of course - it was widely accepted that he would go far in the navy.
No, the true surprise was the man, no, men in the audience.
Rear-Admiral Theseus Jackson sat in attendance, sat next to his father, an even more well-known figure - a well known veteran of the Navy, and the current First Sea Lord, Sir Bellerophon Jackson - a man who had served aboard the likes of the Royal Sovereign, even been heavily consulted in the construction of Dreadnought.
Their presence alone had incited quite the discussion among the audience, though it seemed entirely normal. After all, any good commander would come and watch the induction of new officers - it was practically custom.
That was until their wives and niece showed up.

It was a family dedicated to service in the name of the crown. The Dame Angelica Jackson was known for her work in the field of medicine, having worked tirelessly in her time in the East - India, Ceylon, even Singapore - and made huge steps towards the progress of cures for Trench Foot, saving many a man's life from the plague of the trenches in the first world war.
Sallyanne Jackson, wife of Theseus, was in the noble business of charity - the years between wars, jubilant as they were, were a hard time on the people of much of the isles, with the great positives of political upheavals overshadowed by financial instability and several crashes in the global market.

Then, of course, there was their ward - a niece of Theseus', who had lived with the family since the tender age of seven, treating Perseus almost as though he were her younger brother. She wore the uniform of an Army officer - the khaki blazer and golden buttons standing out against the dark blues and blacks of the folk in the stands watching the parade. Thalia Grace cut a striking figure among all who knew her, an anomaly in all senses of the word. A woman in the army, though nobody knew her role. An American, living and working on British shores, despite it being known fact that her brother was alive and well on the other side of the Atlantic.

It did not, however, prevent the various members of the London Upper Classes giving her the customary nods of the head, a form of recognition widely recognised as a silent deference.
They'd all seen her shoot a rifle, after all.

The crux of the conversation, though, was why exactly they had shown up. It was admirable that the gentlemen of the house had turned out for the commission of the latest intake of new officers. In fact, they had done so the last three inductions.
It was well known, though, that the womenfolk of the distinguished old house were very much to the idea of war, and did not regularly involve themselves in military parades, barring the trooping of the King's Colour.

Heads turned as they descended the steps of the stand in which the audience were seated, to be met by a young gentleman, one of those who had just now received his commission. The black blazer and trousers were neatly pressed, razor-sharp creases running down the front of the trousers leading to beautifully polished boots. The officer's sabre sheathed at his hip was sharply drawn, as he brought the hilt to his face in a salute, the golden tassels of the knot waving slightly in the soft breeze, before he brought it to his side.
Those watching would notice a slight smirk on his face as the brand new Midshipman Jackson smirked under the rim of his cap, and those watching yet closer would see the words he muttered to the First Sea Lord.
Afternoon, Grandfather, lovely weather for a parade.
A great future awaited him, should he give it the chance.

The story of his training became quite a story among the rank and file - how a young lad fresh out of the hallowed halls of Cambridge went off to Greenwich. He had refused the political clout of his ancestry, left behind the riches of his home and shunned the indubitably imminent favouritism he would have received had he admitted to have been the son of a Rear-Admiral, grandson to a First Sea Lord.

In fact, his reputation seemed to balloon out beyond any previous conception he had previously owned.
For a young man of his disposition - raised to stand chin up, stiff upper lip and let no man slander thy name, it was quite the revelation. He had never seen such adulation showered upon his father, though it was not so far away, it seemed, and his grandfather had never spoken much of the reaction of the public to his presence.

The day he boarded HMS Rodney was quite surreal, therefore. The proud warship was quite the thing, 660 feet of raw Imperial Power, displacing 34,000 tonnes. The press had been out in full flow as the Lords of the Sea saw off their latest prince on a new venture.
The flagship of the Royal Navy, HMS Nelson, had recently run aground, leaving her sister ship, none other than Rodney to pick up the role of Flagship, and Jackson, now 26 years of age and with the rank of Warrant Officer boarded the battleship.

Serving under Captain - now Admiral - John Tovey was quite the experience for any new officer, let alone the media's darling. The Admiral had shaken Jackson firmly by the hand, steely eyes meeting those of the young officer, and some sort of understanding had passed between the two.
Tovey had seen potential, and he would do his absolute damnedest to fulfil it, come hell or high water.
In fact, the two were not given much time at all to work together, the Captain receiving a nominal promotion to Commodore, and being sent off to the Naval Barracks at Chatham, later taking on the role of Rear Admiral and taking charge of the Mediterranean Flotilla.

The next time the pair had spoken was after the Rodney had made port in 1941, fresh off sinking Bismarck. He had personally promoted a 32-year-old Jackson to Lieutenant, a rank he still held now, though word among his men was that a fresh promotion was imminent.
The mention of the Admiral caused quite the stir among the growing group of listeners, several men having gathered around the group of officers. Tovey, now Admiral of the Home Fleet was almost a legendary figure throughout the military, having masterminded the operation to sink Bismarck, and to the few privy to such knowledge, he was commended as the one who brought the mutinous crew of the Rodney to 'a high state of fighting efficiency'.

It was, therefore, that First Lieutenant Norman had posed the question on the lips of every man present, "You'd been aboard Rodney all this time Jackson old pal, I take it you were about for the old chinwag with the two Battleships that were on t'old Atlantic the other year?"

The strong Yorkshire accent caused a chuckle among the mostly southern men who had fled the Argo, but Jackson answered all the same, "Indeed I did, Sir. First Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, and then Bismarck when that call went out. Good men lost those lives those two mission, and to think we were on our way to Halifax with Britannic when we heard that there were some charlatans in a bloody great battleship that'd sunk Hood. Went down same as all the rest when you hit it with a shell, though."

The young medic from the Argo, Sergeant Solace, piped up now, "Go on Sir, give us the story then," prompting a fresh wave of clamouring for the Officer to continue with his tale. After all, having the youngest of the Jackson clan regale them with tales of his adventures was not an opportunity many would dare forego.
"Gentlemen," he began with a sigh, hushing the group with a mere gesture, "The time for that will come later. For now, there are watches to be set up, and positions to be guarded."
Jackson chuckled to his fellow officers as the men dispersed, little over a hundred men who had been drawn towards the four senior soldiers' tales of valour.

Clapping a hand firmly over the shoulder of Captain Bairstow, Jackson moved close to the man and whispered in his ear, "It may also be useful, my friend, to notice that your Colonel is behind you," before backing off with a sharp salute, a smirk plastered on his face, much to the ire of the Captain from Yorkshire, and the amusement of the aforementioned colonel.

The Colonel in question, though, much to the Army Officers' apparent annoyance, was from Birmingham. Annoyance not due to the city, nor the Regiment. In fact, the Royal Warwickshire Regiment was considered one of the most prestigious regiments in His Majesty's Army, with its 240-year history of distinguished service, including no less than 6 Victoria Crosses and battle honours from the likes of the Somme, Marne and Gallipoli.
It was a brilliant Regiment, comprised by men of unquestionable valour, and with a history to turn any respectable guardsman green in jealousy.

The accent, though…
The less said, the better.

The gentleman himself was a dark-haired chap by the name of Cameron Rowen - Chiron to friends - who looked towards the twilight of his frontline career, grey hairs appearing beneath his Officer's cap.
"At ease, gents," he said, grinning at Bairstow's expense. "I come bearing gifts and fresh orders from HQ"

Jackson's eyebrows raised, intrigued at what would be demanded of his men, considering the circumstances of their arrival in the battle.
His question was answered quickly enough by the Brummie, who turned to him first. "Lieutenant Jackson, I was very sad to hear about the loss of your boat, I must say though, you've done quite the job getting here, Haven't you?"
Jackson didn't reply, the six lives lost on the beach weighing on his mind, the pointless loss of life far outweighing the loss of the Argo.
And what of the four hundred now dead or missing in the fires and blast that marked the end of HMS Argo? Her complement was an impressive 480, and yet fewer than seventy had assembled before him that afternoon as he made his plan to make his way ashore.

Noticing this internal conflict in his new comrade, Bairstow made an attempt to clear the tension building in the air, turning to the Colonel, "well, sir, it was a sterling effort from all involved, I must say," clapping Jackson over the shoulder in a masked show of support. The Lieutenant gave a small smile, mind still swirling with the faces of those he had lost in such a short time.
"It truly was, Captain," Replied the Colonel, still seemingly oblivious to the turmoil he had incited in the assembled officers before him. "In any case, I've got one more little thing to do, Gentlemen," He explained, elaborately rummaging in the pockets of his khaki uniform, before withdrawing a pair of pieces of fabric. Rank Slides, Jackson noted.
"In recognition of your service, Lieutenant, the fine gentlemen at the top would like to promote you to the rank of Captain," He declared proudly, holding out the rank slides in his left hand, awaiting a salute as was required of his subordinate.
"Captain… sir?" Jackson asked, voice low in shock. "This is quite blatant favouritism!" He declared, anger seeping into his voice, eyes alight with fury. Outstanding service be damned, who was this fool, undermining the structure of the Royal Navy?
Captain was three promotions away for a Lieutenant, and the hierarchy dared to disgrace His Majesty's commission in such a way?
"Erm, Jackson?" Asked Bairstow, slight amusement evident in his tone, "It's a Marines rank slide, lad."
"Well no, actually," Interjected the Colonel, "Army." This time, there was a laugh from Norman, a loud, clear one.

Jackson accepted them with a sharp salute, ignoring the chuckles of the officers behind him who didn't hesitate to remark that his naval salute - palm facing down and fingers of his right hand pointing towards his right temple - was not befitting of an officer in the Army, whose salutes were quite radically different.
Making a face at his comrades in arms and muttering under his breath about dirty palms, Jackson turned back to his now direct superior. "Sir, if we are to transfer to the army and advance alongside the Third, there would be a requirement for the battledress, would there not?"

The Colonel, for once, seemed to have been organised enough to predict something, bringing up a couple of large rucksacks filled to the brim with the now iconic No.5 uniform which had seen service across the globe among imperial forces. The khaki uniform was just about passable in terms of comfort, but it was tough and practical, a winning combination in combat.
It was accompanied by crates which were denoted to contain webbing and more packs - essentials to carry their equipment, food and tents.

"Right then gents, now that's out of the way, let's sort out the route of your little trek, shall we?" The colonel asked, a smile now on his lips at the prospect of the brutal push which lay ahead.
With a long suffering sigh, Bairstow withdrew a map, setting it down upon the crate of uniform, beckoning the others to crouch down beside him. "The word from HQ was that we're on our way to Caen, swinging South and then pushing to the city, unless something has changed?"
"No, Captain, nothing. Intelligence from the 6th Airborne tells us that the 716th Wehrmacht are en-route as we go South down the Orne River. Nearest hostile cavalry would be the 21st Panzers just North of Caen, and the 12th SS Panzers to the east. Understand?" The Colonel explained, pointing out rough regions on the map, giving time for the Yorkshireman to mark them out in red pen.
"You will be supported by our own armour, and our battleships are functioning as artillery barrages. Hell, Rodney herself can reach 26 kilometres inland, she's currently the one shutting up the morons down the road."

Here, Perseus Jackson looked up once more, seemingly lighting up at the mention of his old post. Instead, he snatched the pen from his colleague, further annotating the towns along the way. "Rowen -."
"-Chiron, please, my dear fellow -," the Colonel interjected,
"Chiron then," he continued, "The enemy will have no doubt set up ambushes in these towns here," tapping the two towns along the trek to Caen, "and on the railway line here," tracing the tracks on the map, looking up to his colleagues for confirmation.
"Perceptive, Sir." Brook remarked, clearly impressed by the tactical nous. "I'd assume that we may get a sliver of help from the Paras and the resistance too, if they're in a particularly belligerent mood."
"Indeed you should, gents," Rowen replied, similarly impressed by the deduction. "The railway line should be out of commission, and quite a few of the roads are blocked by felled trees and the like, and that's why the armour is going to follow your lead until we hit Caen itself."
All four officers nodded, making sure to take in the new information.

Seeing no further objections from his subordinates, the Colonel nodded brusquely, shaking Jackson's hand once more, and taking Bairstow's salute.
"Bairstow," Jackson asked, a mere hint of exasperation in his voice, prompting his fellow captain to turn towards him, "I didn't get promoted, did I?"
The Yorkshireman smirked.

"Well," Jackson said, voice morphing into a rough drawl, a rough but effective mimicry of their Brummie Colonel, "I'd better break the news to my men that they're being shunted over with me to the Junior service now, eh?"
"You do that old boy," he received in reply from Brook, "And I'll get a guard going."
"Three squads at a time, perimeter of fifty yards. I don't want men patrolling for more than an hour at a time, John," Bairstow reminded him, meeting each officer's eyes by way of confirmation, before the group parted, Jackson lugging a crate and several rucksacks in his wake, preparing to break news which he was certain would cause quite the reaction from Jenkins, if nobody else.
Chuckling softly to himself, he trudged towards the cluster of tents.

The night would be a long one, with an enemy counter imminent, and battle-weary troops. The campaign would be long and hard, but there was a job to do. France would come first, followed by the final glorious push for the heart of Hitler's regime of terror. The crusade for freedom was underway, and the liberators had now secured a firm foothold in the realm of darkness. It would still be a long time before their goal was accomplished, and yet it was a great deal closer than it was that morning as a Cruiser had fired upon a bunker, and men had stormed a beach.

A/N

Chapter 2 done, then. Slightly shorter, yes, and also not much action - also true, but a backstory was needed, and so a backstory was given. We've seen Percy, of course, who is one of the two absolute focal points of the story, and mention has been made of another. We meet a third character for real next chapter, with one of my favourite little interactions so far.
You people of class out there, We've got Blackadder, and we're meeting Baldrick, Melchett and Darling in quick succession.
Let me know how it went, of course. As I say, a bit less on the action front this chapter, but I promise, we'll be back to Orchestral destruction in the next couple.
Once more, I do not own anything of the literary universe that is Percy Jackson and the Olympians
REVISED 03/04/2023. Removed the weird bit with an orchestra and conductor