OC chapter. You can skip if you would like.

Expedition

Noise. Panic. Chaos.

Things weren't going well. They hadn't from the start. And now it was the end.

The ground shook as an explosion blew a hole into the side of a nearby building. Bullets rang out in all directions. Diving stukas screamed in the distance. Smoke poured from buildings and rose up from the ground. The stench of death and decay radiated from every crater and every broken building.

Lieutenant Gilbert Sinclair of the British Expeditionary Force crouched down behind a small pile of rubble. His shoulder– hit two days before and covered with a grubby, bloody bandage– ached. For three days his men had had neither food nor rest. And for days before that, they had fought bitterly as the Germans drove them back at lightning speed. Now the city of Dunkirk was their last stand as, behind them, the beach teemed with men, awaiting the rescue that was well underway.

"Private, we need better cover," Sinclair said to his companion, Private Babbage, who his unit had picked up in the chaos. Sinclair looked around and pointed to a crumbling wall. "There. Go." The private hesitated. "Go, I have you."

Babbage nodded and scrambled out from their cover. Sinclair rose and rested his gun on the rubble pile and fired a few shots to cover the private's escape. He caught a German peeking out from around a corner and pegged him. He looked behind him to find the private had made it to safety.

"Now cover me," he hissed, knowing Babbage couldn't hear him, but hoping the private had enough wits to cover him anyway. He waited a moment but quickly realized he was on his own. So he stood up and fired, moving backwards quickly towards the wall. A bullet zipped past him, so close that it scraped his Brodie helmet, causing it to vibrate and ring in his ear. He cursed and fired another shot, pleased to see a German fall from a window. As he retreated, he nearly stumbled over debris. He caught himself, turned and made a run for it.

Time slowed when, above the din of battle, Sinclair heard a terrible blast, the force of which knocked him off his feet and onto the ground.

A grenade, his brain told him.

Shrapnel, his back screamed.

Sinclair groaned and took a moment– which he didn't have– to collect himself. He wasn't dead. His back was on fire, but he wasn't dead. And if he wasn't dead, he could keep going.

His hand shook as he reached out and clawed at the ground in front of him. Bits of the cobblestone street sprayed up beside him as bullets smashed into the ground. He grunted and shielded his face as he crawled forward, expecting to be hit at any moment. Luck, however, seemed to be on his side and he finally gathered enough strength to get up and dodge to the safety of the wall.

He made it to the other side and dropped to the ground, pressing himself up against the defense, breathless. Beside him, Babbage trembled.

"Pull yourself together," he ordered, though he wasn't sure if he was ordering himself or Babbage.

The private stared at him, wide-eyed, and shook his head before throwing his rifle to the ground. Then he lunged at Sinclair, pawing at his chest. "We've got to retreat, Lieutenant. We can't win this. We… We can't win this!"

Sinclair grabbed Babbage's wrists and threw down his hands. Then he grabbed Babbage's coat and shook him. "Listen to me. Listen to me!" he growled between clenched teeth. Babbage's eyes met his. "We're the rear guard, which means we fight to the last man and the last bloody bullet! We're not here to win! We're here to buy time! To buy time for the men on the beach. To buy time for England, so she can fight another day. And if we have to pay with your blood and mine, we'll spill every last drop!" He reached down and grabbed Babbage's rifle and shoved it into his hands. "Now make sure that Jerry bloody well pays for it, too!"

He held Babbage's gaze and saw the terror in the man's face. He hoped it wasn't reflective of his own expression. Because the truth was he was scared, too. He was terrified. And tired. And hungry. And, by Jove, his body hurt. But they couldn't give up. Even though they were retreating, they couldn't give up. Not until the beach was clear.

His mask of confidence must have worked because Babbage's breath steadied and he gripped his rifle tightly. "All right, Lieutenant. I'm here."

"Good." Sinclair scanned behind him. "Sergeant Weatherby, are you still alive?" he called out as loudly as he could.

"Back here, Lieutenant!" a voice called back.

Sinclair felt a rush of relief as he caught sight of the burly sergeant who was down a little way across the street. Weatherby had been his right hand since the Maginot Line, so many months ago. A lifetime ago. During the 'Phoney War' that was now all-too-real.

"Cover us!"

He heard Weatherby whistle and saw a few more of his men pop up from their hiding spots to fire at the German line. Sinclair clapped Babbage on the shoulder and together they ran from their position and fell back. Bullets whizzed by, but they both made it safely to Weatherby.

"Hullo," Weatherby greeted.

"Hello, old chap. What's the situation?"

Weatherby grunted. "We're Donald Ducked, that's the ruddy situation." He peeked around the corner and then moved to fire before pulling back and pressing himself against the building. "There's a bloody sniper down that way who's been going at us. We lost Freckleton and Reeves to him."

Sinclair frowned. "Where?"

Weatherby motioned for him to follow. They raced down the alley to the next street. Weatherby crouched down, an action that Sinclair and Babbage mimicked. "Over there, sir," Weatherby said, pointing to a building up the road. As if sensing their discussion, a shot rang out. A puff of red sprayed into the air and suddenly Babbage, who had leaned too far out from safety, didn't have a face. He collapsed like a marionette that had lost its strings. Sinclair and Weatherby quickly fell back behind the building.

"We've got to ferret that bastard out," Sinclair said as he wiped blood off his face. "Got a grenade?"

Weatherby shook his head. The action caused a bloodied glob of brain matter to slide off his helmet. "I think Perkins has one left. Hold tight, sir." Weatherby rushed back through the alley, leaving Sinclair alone. Sinclair forced himself not to look at Babbage's body. Forced himself to ignore the fire in his back. Forced himself to dampen the pain in his shoulder.

"Steady on," he told himself.

"Here, Lieutenant." Weatherby came back, Perkins and Rogers in tow. "No grenade, but Rogers has a smoke bomb!"

That was a stroke of luck. "Bloody good show. Rogers, Perkins, you're with me," Sinclair said. "Weatherby, go gather up anyone else you can find. Bomb."

Rogers handed over his smoke bomb and Sincair threw it into the street. A plume of smoke filled the air, providing them cover. Together, the three men darted out and ran across the street to the next alleyway. They ran along the building to the other side. "Perkins, cover us."

Perkins stepped into the street, ready to fire. Rogers and Sinclair ran around the corner and raced down the street to the building where the sniper was located. Perkins trailed behind, searching for anyone trying to stop them. When they reached the building, Rogers kicked down the door, rifle raised and ready. "Clear."

Sinclair went in after him and swung his rifle around the room. The sniper would be upstairs. Still, they needed to clear the main floor. "Perkins?"

Perkins slipped into the building. "Sir?"

"Stand guard. Rogers." Sinclair motioned for him to follow. Together, they kicked down doors and swept the main floor. No one. "Up." They climbed the stairs, Sinclair first, with Rogers following. They started to clear the second floor. "Keep going, Rogers."

Rogers nodded and hurried to the next flight of stairs. Sinclair took a breath before breaking down another door. He swept the room, which, again, was empty. The sniper had to be on the top level.

He heard a shot above him and then another. He turned on his heel and rushed up the stairs. When he reached the top, he found Rogers on the floor, grappling with a German. Roger pulled out his knife and plunged it into the German's stomach. Once, twice. Again and again and again, until the German lay still. Rogers looked back to Sinclair and wiped his nose, still holding the bloody knife in his hand.

"Got him, sir. I think someone already got his leg. Made it easier."

"Are you hurt?"

"Bullet nicked me arm, sir. I'm okay, though. Just a flesh wound."

Sinclair nodded. The sniper wasn't the only body in the room. Two British soldiers lay dead, as well as another German. It was obvious they had expired some time ago. The other dead German, Sinclair was pleased to see, had a submachine gun. While not as accurate, it was far faster than his bolt-action rifle. Sinclair shouldered his rifle and grabbed the other gun. Then he motioned for Rogers to follow him and together they cleared the next two floors without any resistance.

On the top floor, Sinclair moved to the window. From this vantage point, he could see where he had left Weatherby. Pockets of defenders still held their ground throughout the city. Beyond that, he could make out a solid defensive perimeter near the edge of the city. And even further, he could make out the beach.

They were too close. There wasn't much of the city left to defend. He looked in the opposite direction and could see Germans advancing closer to their position. He sprayed bullets at any Nazi he saw, satisfied to see several fall, until the magazine was spent.

Twang.

The window frame splintered and sprayed out chunks of wood, one of which cut across his cheek. Sinclair pulled back and headed for the stairs.

"Come on."

Rogers and Sinclair hurried to the main floor where they met up with Perkins. The three men quickly exited the building and headed back to Weatherby's position. The sergeant was where they had left him, but had been joined by three more men, two of whom wore French uniforms.

"We can't keep moving back," Sinclair said. "We need to push forward. As much as we can. The Germans are too close to the beach."

It was an impossible task. They would do it anyway.

Sinclair recalled where he saw the Germans from the window as well as the other pockets of defense. If they could meet up with one, it might give them a better chance to launch an offensive push. It didn't need to be very effective. It just needed to buy more time. Just a little more time.

"Weatherby, take Perkins, Rogers and Upshaw and go that way to there and come around the side of the building. I'll take these two and we'll go down the alley and up the opposite road. We'll join up and make our way South," he said. He quickly relayed his orders in French. The Frenchmen nodded.

"We will follow you, Lieutenant!"

"All right," Sinclair turned to move down the alley. "Let's–"

Thwump. Thwump.

Sinclair heard them as they hit. One in the gut. One in the chest. He fell with a thud.

The world turned grey. The sound of battle became muffled, silenced by the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

His luck had run out. This was it; he was done. He had bought a small snippet of time with blood.

Sinclair squeezed his eyes shut, feeling tears forming in the corners. Then through his lips passed the plaintive cry he had heard from so many of the other wounded and dying before they went: "Mum."

"Oh no, you don't." Something jerked him back into painful consciousness. "Your mum isn't here, and I'm not letting you die, you ruddy berk."

Sinclair blinked to see Weatherby above him. The sergeant grabbed Sinclair's coat and pulled him into a sitting position. Sinclair tried to hold his head up, but it lolled forward, his cheek coming to rest on Weatherby's hand.

"Wake up. Wake up! Perkins!" Weatherby barked. "Perkins, take the Lieutenant to the beach. Take him there now."

"N-no." Sinclair feebly tried to pry Weatherby's hands off. There were already too many people on the beach. Too many men in need of rescue. Too many men who were still capable of fighting for England. They didn't need the dead to take up the precious few spots that were left.

"Shut up you bloody toff," Weatherby snapped. "Perkins, take him and don't you dare let him fool you; this bastard is as tough as they come. He's not going to die. So get him to the beach and get him on a bloody boat!"

Sinclair knew Weatherby had to be lying. He was dead already. But the conviction in the sergeant's voice made him want to hold on.

Sinclair groaned as Perkins grabbed him and hoisted him onto his shoulders. He started to run, jostling Sinclair horribly as he went.

"Let's go!" Weatherby cried. "We can still hold Jerry back!"

Through ringing ears, Sinclair heard Weatherby take command of their small group. Even without him, they would keep fighting. They would keep going until they, too, fell or were forced to surrender.

Sinclair didn't know if he would make it home or if he would perish on French soil. But he did know that, through the valour of the rear guard, England would live to fight another day.

Expedition, Expeditionary, close enough for Jazz.

The Sherwood Foresters were sent to the Maginot Line at the start of the war. They even conducted a few raids beyond enemy lines (the the horror of the French command who, I don't know, didn't want to antagonize the Germans? Keep things civil?) There were also selected to be part of the rear guard, defending Dunkirk for the evacuation. And I thought that being in an outfit called the Sherwood Foresters was pretty apt for a guy (yeah, I know, an OC) who helped write a fairy-tale based code.