Ch4 - Uncle Sam

"Zhang!" came a shout.

Frank turned abruptly, rifle at his shoulder in a flash and muzzle firmly in between the eyes of the one approaching him, before he lowered it slowly, a sheepish grin gracing his lips when he noticed who exactly it was who had approached him.
"Commendable reactions, Corporal," Captain Perseus Jackson drawled appraisingly, a small smirk on his face, "But I'd wager that you'd be hard pressed to find a German gentleman who speaks in the King's English to such an extent."
At this point, Frank was blushing for sure, the offending rifle now held loosely in his hands.
"So, Corporal Zhang, anything of note?" he asked, a single eyebrow raised. Frank had noticed very early on that Perseus Jackson was very much different from his colleagues in the Officer Class of the British Army, a habit born out of a life aboard ships. Everyone was together for months, even years at a time on a voyage, and all were very much literally in the same boat. It made for somewhat less aloof officers, who actually bothered to interact with their NCOs, though Frank was sure Jackson would lose it at some point.

The Warrant Officer, or Petty Officer as he insisted he were to be called despite his new allocation, from Jackson's platoon, Jennings (Or was it Jenkins) strode over, Sten Gun in his hands and a section of men - Frank's section - in tow.
He saluted Jackson smartly, before turning to Frank.
"Corporal Zhang, I come bearing gifts," he proclaimed proudly, his accent forcing Frank to bite his tongue to prevent himself from laughing.
"What Gifts, Sir?" the Canadian asked in curiosity, not seeing what use his own section would be to him.
"We're out on a bit of reconnaissance, Corporal. There's a town a few miles up, and we've heard murmurs and such of Jerry having a presence there. We're off to take a look, the nine of us, and we can tell the boss here and old Yorkie up top what we find."
Frank nodded, shouldering his pack which had been resting by a tree as he had been taking his shift as a sentry.

The East Yorkshire Regiment had been moving down the Orne River, encountering limited resistance thus far, and making contact with more than one cell of the French Resistance on their way. The plan was to swing around the eastern side of the city, meeting the 716th Wehrmacht head on. There were near-excessive levels of caution being taken, due to the fact that one measly company would hardly hold out against a full division of Wehrmacht troops, especially men moving at full speed to reinforce the defenders in Caen.

The town ahead was a small one, closer to a village or perhaps a hamlet, a few houses here and there, surrounding a church and a market. As the scouting party advanced, they noted that the streets were cobbled - not ideal for running on, Frank thought inwardly.
The town was surrounded on one side by hills and by forests on the other - not ideal to attack, but the law of averages had to catch up eventually.
They loitered a while, keeping behind the treeline and away from potentially prying eyes, attempting to glean any other information from the little village, but alas, nothing seemed to materialise.
That was, of course, until the convoy arrived. The Canadians fell back further into the forest to avoid sighting, the Englishman Jenkins swearing bloody murder under his breath at their misfortune.

The Company of the East Yorkshire Regiment of which they were a part was no small force, numbering close to two hundred, and each had proven his worth in a fight. However, the Germans had arrived in their Maultier, or Mule, Half-Tracks, meaning they had an effective movement range of as much as 20 miles in an hour.
Their own reinforcements, by comparison, would be on foot for now, the majority of British armour being deployed to the main battle in Caen.
They had to be exceptionally quick in their movement, and set up defensive positions of their own, lest they be overrun.
This battle would be one hell of a fight, and Frank was quietly unsure once more if he would live to see the next day.
They continued to watch for another half hour, meticulously analysing any artillery, heavy automatic weapon emplacements and the like, knowing that every bit of information would save lives.

"Corporal!"

A hushed vocal cut through the trees, making Jenkins grimace in moderate fear, and Frank recoiled at the sound, wary of the enemy a mere few hundred metres away.
Frank glared at the young private, causing the young rifleman to wince in shame for ignoring the danger.
The young man regained his composure quickly though, and beckoned the NCOs to follow him, mouthing Prisoner as a response to their questioning gazes.
Now, Frank hadn't been a soldier long, but he knew for a fact that a prisoner was big news, especially on a mission like this one. If the Germans had sent this man out on a mission, then he'd have information.

What's more, every man had a price.

The trio fell back to where the prisoner had been caught, and Frank had to suppress a smirk. The soldier was quite evidently an enemy, matching the 'Aryan' stereotype of straw-blond hair and piercing blue eyes to a tee.
The prisoner glared at Zhang and Jenkins as they approached him, clearly wishing to vocalise his grievances, but unable to do so by virtue of the gag in his mouth.
"Okay, who the hell stuffed their sock in his mouth?" Frank asked, equally disgusted and amused at the German's predicament.
His Lance Corporal grinned back at him, a vindictive look of sadistic glee on his face.
Smirking to himself, Frank ripped out the grotesque gag, allowing the captured soldier to take a moment to clear his mouth, even offering the man water, because it'd hardly be kind to interrogate a man who hadn't been allowed water, would it?

"Alright Fritz, I'll ask you this once," Frank began, "Wie heisst du?"
The prisoner paled dramatically, before looking positively outraged.
"Your Moose-fucking mother 'wie heisst du', you think I'm the enemy?" That accent definitely wasn't German
Frank nodded, looking at an equally nonplussed Warrant Officer Jennings.
"You fucking moron, I'm American! What about me ever looked or sounded German? Your men just found me on a motherfucking stakeout, and suddenly here I am with Lance Corporal Maple Tree's sock in my mouth, I mean, what the hell?" he ranted, struggling furiously against his bonds.

The Canadian riflemen were now looking terrified, not only at the vitriol of the now revealed American soldier, who continued to fume silently, but the Canadians were also quite obvious in their fear of the British Warrant Officer. Jenkins was positively steaming from the ears, glaring gaze directed at the Lance Corporal.
"Let me get this straight, shall I?" He spat out, eyes seeming now to burn a hole in the Lance Corporal's own, "You found a lad, and what, tied him up without so much as letting him speak?"
"Jenkins," Frank cut across the seething SNCO quickly, suddenly alert.
"Yes, Corporal Zhang," he replied, emphasising the man's rank to drive home Frank's little Faux Pas in addressing a higher rank by last name alone.
"Sir, we should really take this to the boss - Yankee Doodle over here reckons he's got intel of his own, and I don't think we've exactly been subtle with all of our shouting."
Jenkins swore once more, ordering the men to march double time back to the camp they had set up a few kilometres down the road, the now revealed American in tow.
There was no telling quite what Jackson would make of this, but it certainly wasn't going to be good.
It wasn't.
For anyone.

"Jenkins…"
"Sir?"
Frank had never seen the Warrant Officer look scared in the few days they'd known each other, and yet here he was, near enough sharing. The American behind him was smirking proudly, a smug, superior smirk which immediately got on Frank's wrong side.
"What have you blithering fools managed now?" he all but bellowed, "We need to take that bloody arse end of nowhere collection of ragtag houses, and you come to me with some incompetent Yankee Paratrooper and the National Geographic Magazine's page on the town!"
Jenkins looked sufficiently cowed at this, stepping out of the way, not even bothering to defend himself.
"You, Para." Jackson demanded, now shifting his attention onto the American. The man dropped his formerly too-relaxed attitude, standing smartly at attention.
"Sergeant Jason Grace, 26 years of age Sir. Originally American 82nd, transferred to the British 6th Airborne back in April when they requested additional SNCOs."
"Thank you Sergeant, what did you make of the town?

The now named Sergeant Grace frowned, motioning as though he was wearing webbing. "I'd written it down sir, but the pad was in my webbing - I can give you the outlook, though." he explained.
Jackson produced a map and a sheet of paper, copying down the 'National Geographic details' as he had previously referred to them as, and drawing a sketch of the town. Zhang and Jennings pointed out details as he drew, pointing out narrow streets, gun emplacements and the like.
As Jackson drew an outline for the church, Grace chose his moment to add in, "Sir, the tower is on the opposite side - towards the hills."
Jackson nodded thoughtfully, drawing a circle on his rectangular plan view of the church.
"Troops stationed?"
"One little platoon in there sir, I saw them moving in and out of this house here," he pointed to one of the houses on the sketch. The commander had posted guards on the street and in the houses either side. I'm fairly sure they're SS - the collar badges certainly look that way."
"Sir, that can't be right!" Jenkins burst out, eyes bulging in fear now.
"How so, Jenkins?" the Captain responded, carefully marking out the enemy positions in red pen, "The Sergeant has been very specific in his assessment."
"Corporal Zhang and I saw a new motorised company arrive this morning - half tracks, armed with machine guns and all. They may well suspect an attack at this point," he explained, marking out the new positions in the drawing.
"Well then, we'll have to go in and take it quickly - I give us up to three hours to secure it. Get a message to Bairstow through, we will hold position until he catches us." Jackson declared, with an almost foreboding sense of formality.
"The SS Guards though, Captain?" Grace asked, tapping once more on the marked out building. "They'll likely either rally to the church, or in there, depending on what it is they're guarding."
"Well thought out Sergeant," responded Jenkins, crouching down by the table, "We'll have to steer clear of destroying that - they may well have prisoners in there, high value ones if the SS are holding them, we may even find some spies with intel."

This received nods of assent from all present, and so Jackson continued with the briefing. The rest of the section ICs walked in, looking somewhat nervous. It was an expected reaction, in all fairness to the,. Their roles in the navy hadn't been much more than manning their stations on a huge warship, and yet here they were preparing to take a village. They had fought on land before, yes, countless times in training in the UK, and then again for the first time on Sword Beach, but this was something entirely different to anything they had ever done.
On the beach, they had nothing to lose.
Here, in stark contrast, there was everything.
They had a responsibility to fight here, to win. It was essential that the company managed to secure this village, even more so now that they suspected friendly hostages within the mysterious building.
The Yorkshiremen thought of Captain Bairstow, moved laterally to a different company within the Yorkshire Regiment as a result of that company's previous OC being sent home due to a significant injury. They knew he wasn't far away, having been notified that it was Bairstow's new company that was to reinforce them as soon as they reached, a few hours from now.

The plan was set. A devious one, and very much more ambitious than the metaphorical playbook would have put it, and Jason Grace was very much looking forward to it. He had spent a while in the military, joining up as early as he could, fresh out of High School, and then into the infantry he had gone.
It hasn't really worked though, due to the fact that he was so constrained in his role. Jason loved the sky, and yet he knew that he had an innate talent for fighting on land. What better place, therefore, than the Paratroopers? He had been told many a time that he was more than good enough, and this was his opportunity to prove it.
There was nothing better, in Jason's mind, than the ethereal sensation of the wind rushing through his ears as he plummeted through the air, nothing to prevent him from meeting a grisly demise but his trusty parachute. It was a beautiful feeling, and he had embraced every opportunity presented to him by the 82nd.
The decision to land with the British had been an obvious one to his officers - he had always worked better with the Brits, and had in fact expressed an interest in their armed forces, his ancestors having been soldiers among the redcoats and then once more in Washington's force which fought to liberate the colonies from British rule.

To Jason, though, it was much more selfish. He had known that his sister, Thalia, had been living with their cousins since their mother had passed away - their father was far too busy in the aviation business to care for the two of them, after all, and he had been raised by his father, and then later by his stepmother.
He had always remembered Thalia, no matter how young they had been when separated. He didn't know which cousins in the UK exactly she had stayed with, but from their infrequent contact, he knew that she was in the Army. Joining that very same army was possibly his last chance to find her before he was sent to fight in the field of North France and beyond.

Alas, he hadn't managed to track her down prior to his deployment that fateful evening, and the landings had hardly gone to plan on his part.

He had parachuted down in the pitch darkness, taking out several enemy positions, and then gone to lay out drop zones for the next groups of paras, and yet the kit, reflective panels, flashlights and the like, had been scattered or badly damaged in the drop, leaving many of their backup stranded in the sky, with no idea where to land in the dim watery light of the morning.
His luck had only got worse from there, as he had been found - chased from the banks of the Orne towards Caen, where he knew the Germans would be on the lookout for enemy soldiers now, surely. He had chosen to take a chance, doubling back towards the little hamlet along the Orne, and had continued his assessment of the situation there, noticing Gestapo, and then SS activity in this smallest of farming villages. It was certainly a discrepancy, and therefore was worth noting down for those who would eventually join him. After all, it was nearly guaranteed that the Allied troops were targeting this little town, even more so with the added factor of this vital bit of intel.
As such, Jason had gone on some further reconnaissance. Under the darkness of night, he had crept into the town, stealing the attire of a Frenchman in such a rural setting and stashing his gear in a tree, ready to make camp later.

He hadn't discovered much, but he had indeed confirmed two of his suspicions as to what exactly was in the building and who was guarding it.
Prisoners, guarded by the SS. Nearly certainly spies, otherwise the Gestapo wouldn't have been anywhere near this little alcove in the middle of nowhere.
He could only suspect that the Germans were not expecting an attack, instead the Wehrmacht troops were merely there to escort the prisoners of war to Berlin, or perhaps Paris, where they would be tried and quite possibly sentenced to death, or worse.
It had been tough withholding this information from Captain Jackson, but it was necessary. Rather be buoyed by the fact that the enemy wre taken by surprise during the assault as a boost to the men's morale than knowing so beforehand and regretting losses all the more.
Cold, he knew, but necessary.
Jackson would understand.

The company moved out early the next morning, splitting off into platoons. One would take the majority of the automatic fire, assaulting the middle down the main road which ran through the centre of town. They would draw fire and men away from the flanks as they progressed, allowing for an encirclement of the entire village. The fourth platoon would rush around the town towards the hills, blocking off the main road some way down to prevent mechanised reinforcements from reaching in optimal time.

An excellent plan in theory, Jason thought, had the enemy been prepared. Now, with an unprepared foe, it may well have become a great deal easier. The men stationed in the hills would be perfectly placed to intercept the fleeing enemy, perhaps guaranteeing prisoners as well as cutting off reinforcements. It was a well-set trap, all that the plan required now was to survive first contact with the enemy.

The best that Germany had to offer - the Waffen SS themselves.

They struck early, just as the sun began to rise over the hills to the east, the sound of the Orne River a warm rush in the distance. Jason himself was in the first group - drawing in men and fire as they began the ambush, making sure to occupy time and firepower from the enemy. He had attached himself to the platoon of seamen and Canadians - a fine mix of misfits, he thought, but excellent soldiers to a man. Together, they marched up the road, ready to do their duty, for King, for Country and the liberation of the free.

There was nothing to begin with, only the rhythmic sound of men marching in time, the clinking of their packs and the clacks of their rifles. Zhang checked his watch, and Jackson looked over at him, searching for an answer.

Zhang raised three fingers. Three Minutes to go was the silent message, and Jason nodded grimly to himself. Three minutes for the others to reach their respective positions. Jason checked his rifle once more, noticing many of the men going something similar, running through the nine point check for the safety of a rifle.

Safety catches were firmly off, negating any chances of a mistake, and the Lee Enfield Rifles were certainly a more than reliable companion for their mission.

Three minutes was not a long time by any means, and yet it seemed to stretch out for an eternity. The sun was only beginning its journey in the sky as Frank gave a nod, and Jackson nodded grimly back .

They began their march once more.

They burst out of the forest, rifles at the shoulder and ready to let loose, 10 round magazines full and good to go. To his great pleasure, the enemy hadn't reacted. Grace and the section he accompanied threw one of their fragmentation grenades into the front room of one of the houses, slamming the door firmly shut, and turning away as the miniature shrapnel bomb exploded, and they entered, rifles up and ready to fire at the slightest hint of movement. Nobody emerged immediately, and so they advanced. The second room, too, proved to be empty, and so up the stairs the Allied troops went, bayonets fixed and ready to go should the distance be closed.

Still, nothing materialised.

Sounds of fighting began to echo in the street, the typical rattle of gunfire and the dull boom of exploding grenades. There was one detail which pleased Jason, though, which was how far away the fighting was.

It meant either that the Germans had fallen back to a stronghold, or that they were truly so unprepared that men had been captured thus far. Jason shook his head - there was no time for thinking at the moment.

Pushing into one room, Jason went in, rifle to his shoulder and ready to open fire when he found his first hostile soldier.

It was a room of them, in fact, all slowly waking from a night of sleep, rubbing the tiredness out of their eyes. It was so shocking, Jason thought, that he almost didn't know what to do when they looked at him. Zhang entered the room a moment later, gun raised much as Jason's had been moments ago, and he also seemed to sag like a limp ragdoll at the sheer normalcy of the fact that their enemies, the mighty Wehrmacht who had taken control of the European mainland, slept and woke up as normal people did.

Slowly, as though in a dream, they brought ropes from their packs, securing the groggy prisoners in their freshly seized building, leaving them in the care of Zhang's section.

It was at that moment that the sound of fighting seemed to crescendo to a climax, machine guns chugging away in deafening bursts. One such burst ripped through the plasterboard wall of their room, sending debris in all directions.

One man hit the deck, clutching his face, blood seeming to seep through his fingers an a steady trickle, and he began to scream.

Jason felt horrible, exiting that room as a comrade of his lay there in such extreme pain, and yet he had to. There was no time for them to spend doing anything but achieving their goal, and so it was with an aching heart that Sergeant Grace emerged from the building, back into the literal warzone which the town had now descended into, firing off three quick rounds into the defenders, who were crouched down behind an automobile further down the road. One hit its target, the other two striking the tractor.

Such a result may have seemed dissatisfactory, until the engine of the tractor caught fire, engulfing the mammoth machine in a firebell, incinerating the two remaining Germans and putting the street firmly in allied control.

Jogging over to Jackson, Grace's jaw seemed to drop as he witnessed the whirlwind of destruction the man seemed to become in such situations.

Many officers may have shied away from such a situation, but not this one. He darted from cover to cover, ducking and rolling behind the stone wall of one property and firing off two rounds in quick succession, removing two enemies from their path. Turning once more, he fired off a round at the steeple of the church, somehow managing to kill, or at least incapacitate the German MG-42 gunner up there, and facilitating another rapid advance of his troops.

On he went, dancing that beautiful yet macabre dance of death, and Jason Grace felt as though he was in the front seat of the greatest opera house in the world as the ex-naval officer seemed to go to a rhythm, wreaking havoc among his enemies and almost single handedly dragging the allied company forwards.

It was at this moment that the men who had swung around either flank made their appearances, appearing like ghosts all over the town, from atop buildings, behind automobiles and ducking behind fences.

The Germans, at this point, were in full retreat, and Jason was in complete awe as he kept fighting, watching a force which had only ever been described to him as a fighting machine, being dismantled by the most skilled of mechanics.

Perseus Jackson, for his part, was immersed in Beethoven, for a change.

The moonlight sonata, with its beautiful, heart wrenching piano melodies and gently shifting dynamics filled his ears as his body simply conducted the music. He was blind to the destruction around him, deaf to the cries of pain, to the gunshots and explosions, unfeeling of the kick of his trusty rifle as he advanced. He thought of the goal, and of his men, buoyed by his drive and on the sweet rush of combat and victory.

Today, he wasn't Perseus.
Today, he was Achilles, the untouchable, the sword of the Myrmidons.
On they went, men of the Yorkshire Regiment seeming to materialise from nowhere, and yet their numbers also diminishing as their German foe rallied at the house.
The Mauser-Werke MG-42 in the church opened fire once more, and two, three, four men met quick ends to its 7.92mm Mauser cartridges. Wordlessly, Jackson motioned for Norman, now alongside him with Sten Gun in hand, to send a section across to neutralise it.

There they stayed for a few minutes, perhaps hours, perhaps days as the machine gun maintained its suppressing fire, and Percy heard the remainder of the Wehrmacht infantrymen slamming the doors of the house in which they knew the SS were barricaded in.
They could ill afford to destroy the place by accord of the potentially crucial information locked within, and so it would have to be taken the hard way.

The gun fell silent moments later, and so they advanced once more, keeping to the near side of the road, making sure to keep as narrow an angle as possible with the men within the house, taking care to check for any windows on other sides of the house. The concerning factor, of course, was that the SS were the elite of Hitler's force - the best trained and the coolest under pressure.

The British Infantry were no slouches in the field of war, but these were an entirely new level to what any of the men under Jackson's command had ever faced.
The company moved quickly, encircling the farmhouse, leaving no gaps through which their enemy could break for the hills or unguarded forest, and it was then that First Lieutenant Brook made his way over, an unrecognisable look on his face.

"Sir, casualties currently at thirty eight - eighteen killed in action, thirteen wounded but not critical, a further seven in critical condition," he reported, a slight grimace on his face at the loss of yet more of his men, soldiers who he had led into combat under the King's banner.
Jackson merely nodded, eyes hidden by the peak of his cap, though it was plain to see for all that his lips were drawn into a tight, thin line.
"In we go. The losses have mounted entirely too far, and I, for my part, shan't lose more for us to stand around here talking about the men we should now be saving. Synchronise watches once more gents, we advance in three - go for any food, and shoot any fucker that dare move. Call for friendlies is Argonaut."
Norman and Brook each nodded sharply, not questioning the interesting callsign, and jogged back over to their waiting platoons, keeping low to avoid the intermittent fire of the SS soldiers' own MG-42, which spat its poison from the first floor of the farmhouse.

Frank Zhang, once more on the frontline, was suddenly more nervous than he had been in a long time, rifle gripped tightly in his hands as Captain Jackson gave the sign to advance, the intrepid Officer leading the charge himself, weaving between the puffs of dust raised by the thuds of bullets striking the ground around him.
In they went, two men ramming the door down with the butts of their rifles, as the rest of the platoon filed in, rifles braced firmly against their shoulders, and sections branching out into the wider house.

Grenades were out of the question - the risk was too great of killing their own men, or perhaps the elusive object or objects being guarded by the SS. Therefore, it was with bayonets fixed and rifles forward that they went in, methodically clearing out the house. Frank had the pleasure of leading his men up the stairs, feeling a crushing sense of Deja-Vu as rounds from a machine gun thudded into the wall. This time, though, they were prepared, firing into the room and quickly despatching the defenders hidden within, if the screams of the wounded were anything to go by.

As if by magic, the tick returned - the tick which seemed to herald doom wherever Frank went, like the blessings of a God of War.
Who knew, his grandmother always seemed today that Mars watched over them as they slept, perhaps the God of War himself watched over him as he fought?
Now wasn't the time to debate, though.
Into the next room he went, barrelling along like a rhino on a rampage, eyes narrowing as he saw the German SS Machine Gunner attempt to wheel his weapon around to focus his fire on the inside of the building.
No more, Frank thought, his vision clouding red as he heard the screams of one of his men as he bled out, horrific wounds on his face from the first farmhouse they had managed to capture.
Three shots.
Down the SS soldier went, and up went a cheer of relief as the upstairs was secured into the hands of the Canadians.

It wasn't over yet, though, as Frank followed the sounds of combat downstairs to the ground floor, and then again to a hidden basement.
"Argonaut!" Frank bellowed down a passage, as he advanced slowly, breaking into a jog as he heard a response.
He caught up to Sergeant Grace slightly further down, and together they continued, following the sounds of combat down the dimly lit underground passageway.
It wasn't much longer before they caught up with Jackson himself - seemingly untouched and somehow going at the same pace as ever before; a definite 'full steam ahead'.

The light seemed to brighten down the other side of the passageway, and on they went, the last defenders falling to a fiery bayonet charge called by the ever-demanding Captain, who darted along, before he stopped in his tracks in front of a gate.
Frank jogged ahead of him, looking at the group of young men and women within what looked like a cage.
"Oh, fucking hell, piss off…" his Commanding Officer whispered, eyes wide in joined them shock.
Sergeant Grace, too joined them, curious to see what exactly had shaken the seemingly unflappable Captain.
All was silent until Jackson spoke once more.

"Thalia?"

A/N

Righto, short little AN, I promise, I think.
So, two newbies join our little group of travellers, or is it more?
(It definitely is, I'll save you that little bit of thought - credit to anyone who saw that it was Thalia in the Prologue. Google who Garbo was - the story is cool. I must admit, I'm somewhat proud of the line, "Garbo's Muse will flourish again" - Thalia is among the nine muses in Greek mythology, and the name itself refers to flourishing.
Me showing off my modest intelligence aside, do let me know what you made of this chapter, look forward to hearing from yous.
Once again, PJO ain't mine, never will be, I'm just a lad from the UK having fun writing about these great characters.
REVISED 04/04/2023