Carentan (Open)

[George O'Brian]

Country: Carentan, France
Current Time: D-Day+27, 1437
Weather Conditions: Sunny, a gentle breeze.

Finally, after almost a month of fighting, Battalion had been pulled off the line. The small squad O'Brian had led in through the French countryside had in fact been one of the last operations by the entire 3ID before they were pulled off.

He currently lay out on the stairs of a small building looking in to a town square, a sheet layed out beside him with his newly acquired M1 Garand dismantled - he had decided that in an actualy combat situation, the M1 Carbine just didn't have enough power behind it. The trigger system was in his hand, as he carefully cleaned it, even though it was brand new, he liked to know it was perfectly clean and maintained, and the only way to do that was by employing a bit of elbow grease. His right trouser leg was rolled up to his knee, and he grimaced slightly as he lifted and moved the stiff limb.

"What's the damage, Doc?"
The medic who was having a quick examination slapped him on the knee and stood up, "It's going to hurt, but you probably know that already, but it shouldn't cause too much of a problem, and it definately isn't fatal!" The medic laughed at his own joke, but the Sergeant didn't return the gesture, thinking suddenly of Private Davis. Some people had said one soldier wasn't much of a price to pay for five dead Germans and a further one taken prisoner, but to O'Brian he would rather have had no dead Kraut's than one of his boys dead. He blamed himself, he'd given one slightly dodgy order, and this was the result.

He put the weapon part back down on the oily sheet, and leant back, enjoying the sun as it gently warmed him and the concrete. He shifted slightly, as his .45 dug in to his ribs and looked across the courtyard, where other members of the company were laid out. He slowly leant forwards, and rolled the leg of his trouser back down lest he be punished.

[Joshua Kennedy]

Joshua was relieved that the battalion had been pulled off the line. At the moment he was in some town in France or something. 'The Germans wanted it, which means that they'd soon launch a counter attack,' Joshua figured. For the time being he was positioned behind a broken wall, crouched with his M1 aimed down a road. He didn't know when the Germans would launch an attack, but it was inevitable.

Two other men were to his right, both privates. Joshua knew they were likely inexperienced, but they had perfectly good weapons at their disposal. For the time being Joshua had his weapon loaded, and kept the safety off. For all he knew, the Germans could just waltz into town with an army of tanks and roll over his position with little resistance. Joshua trained his sights and looked for any way the Germans could flank him. His position was a bit farther in front of the rest of the guys, so he didn't want to get killed just yet.

Keeping his head cool, he sat back and watched the road for a minute or two, then took a few breaths before getting back into his position.

[Nicholas Ealing]

He was just a rookie trooper and he surely shook with fright
He checked off his equipment and made sure his pack was tight;
He had to sit and listen to those awful engines roar,
"You ain't gonna jump no more!"

Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die,
Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die,
Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die,
He ain't gonna jump no more!

"Is everybody happy?" cried the Sergeant looking up,
Our Hero feebly answered "Yes," and then they stood him up;
He jumped into the icy blast, his static line unhooked,
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die,
Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die,
Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die,
He ain't gonna jump no more!

Lieutenant Nicholas Ealing, acting commander of Easy Company was relaxing. This in itself was a rarity. The past few weeks had been a nightmare, where days had been filled with nothing but blood and exhaustion and rifle shells. Where officer and soldier had fallen as one, where Hell had finally come to Easy Company.

At least it was warm.

The Lieutenant leaned against the back of the jeep as it rumbled down the gentle main road, enjoying the warmth of the mild French sun on his weather-beaten face. A tranquil breeze rustled in his hair, the voices of his companions sounded cheerfully in his ears. For the first time in what felt like years, the officer was content. He genuinely didn't have a care in the world.

Nicholas joined in with the singing contentedly, adding a poignant harmony to the old paratrooper hymn. He had trusted these men with his life and they had trusted him with their's. Thirteen men were with him on the back of the jeep, most of them old veterans of the D-Day Landings who had fought through the graveyard of Omaha right through to the uneasy horrors of the Normandy hedgegrows. He was helping to transport them into another company, one that needed their presence a lot more than Nicholas did.

Second Lieutenant Richard Dalton, who sat absent-mindedly at Nicholas' side, would be taking command of Sergeant O'Brian's small force stationed nearby. Nicholas didn't know how the young NCO would deal with the news but hoped he would be mature enough to accept Dalton's authority. Nicholas would be staying with the Sergeant for two nights before returning to his own camp. Dalton and his twelve subordinates would stay behind and help O'Brian claw his way through the French countryside.

As the men reached a semi-improvised seventh verse, the jeep at last took an about turn and drove towards the small town O'Brian and his companions had so admirably seized and held against the German onslaught. As the jeep rolled on forwards, Nicholas noticed a small number of men apart from the others, rifles at the ready. Guards, Nicholas guessed.

"Afternoon," he said with a grin, watching the corporal and two privates. His British accent had Americanized somewhat over the past few months but there was still a glimmer of the "old English gent" about the way he spoke and this was no exception. "Lieutenant Ealing, Easy Company. Can you tell Sergeant O'Brian that I've arrived, please?"

[George O'Brian]

O'Brian had just finished reassembling the rifle, and was slipping the edges of an en bloc in to the breech when a small convoy of jeeps pulled up. He used the palm of his hand to push the ammunition in to the rifle, and pulled the cocking handle, before using the butt to push himself up. He walked the small distance to the convoy with a little pain, morphine being saved for the more serious, but a few aspirin had been provided, and as he walked he slung the weapon over his shoulder.

He stopped in front of the jeep, where a Lieutenant was climbing out. He snapped to attention, grimacing slightly. He didn't have any headgear on, so he didn't salute. He didn't recognise him, but he recognised the 3ID flash on his shoulder. He also overheard the mention of Easy Company. "Sergeant O'Brian, reporting sir," he announced, awaiting the command to be stood at ease. "I'm in command of Second Platoon temporarily, there is nobody else better qualified around here. Second Lieutenant Strange has been pulled away to a bridge on the Merderet, he was in charge of the Company, now we have Second Lieutenant Donaldson from Third Platoon in charge of the Company. We only have about 50 men at the moment, though. We have no idea what kind of situation Charlie and Able company are in, but I'm guessing something similar. Is there any good news form Second Battalion?"

The 3ID had two clear cut battalions available at the moment. Able through Charlie, with Fox assigned as Air Support forming First Battalion, with Delta and Easy making up Second Battalion with the medical company, George as there support. In the weeks since the landing, everyone had taken considerable losses, many men hardened in combat from Italy were now dead, all of them good soldiers. It was a terrible loss, but they had more than made up for it in terms of dead Germans, taken ground and the burning enemy vehicles which now littered the countryside.

[Nicholas Ealing]

OOC: As it's been a week and a half, I guess I'll skip Kennedy.

"Sergeant O'Brian, reporting sir. I'm in command of Second Platoon temporarily, there is nobody else better qualified around here. Second Lieutenant Strange has been pulled away to a bridge on the Merderet, he was in charge of the Company, now we have Second Lieutenant Donaldson from Third Platoon in charge of the Company. We only have about 50 men at the moment, though. We have no idea what kind of situation Charlie and Able company are in, but I'm guessing something similar. Is there any good news form Second Battalion?"

Nicholas slid from the half-track, his fingers clenched around his old Browning Hi-Power, a constant source of comfort for him in the brutal bloodshded of the Normandy campaign. He returned O'Brian's salute before turning back to Lt. Dalton and Sgt. Greenway, his second and third in-command respectively. Greenway would also be temporarily transferred to First Batallion where he would take on the role of Lt. Donaldson's second-in-command. His predecessor had bought it during the vicious fighting to secure the streets of Carentan, a bullet to the windpipe delivering him slowly and agonizingly to the arms of the Lord.

"Sergeant," he said, adressing Greenway. "Get the lads out of the trucks. Help Lieutenant Donaldson's men in any way you can. Patching up the wounded, setting up fortifications, whatever. See you back here at 1500 hours."

"Yes, sir," said Greenway, as the men spilled out of the vehicles. They were brave men, good men, and Nicholas knew he would miss them. The American soldiers, cigarettes clenched between their teeth, cheerfully singing old ditties and telling dirty jokes had been his family for the past few weeks and it would be strange going back to base with them. Nicholas waved them a half-ironic goodbye as they jogged off to lend a helping hand to First Batallion.After a matter of seconds, Nicholas' only companion was Dalton, who stood somewhat awkwardly at his side.

Nicholas at last began to address O'Brian. "Good news? I don't know if you could call it that. We lost a lot of men in an ambush a few clicks north and heavy fighting near Cherbourg took down a lot of guys from Delta. But apart from that...things are looking up. We've got the krauts worried. High Command reckons Hitler must be shitting himself in the Eagle's Nest." Nicholas played absent-mindedly with the sidearm. "Which is, I'm sure you'll agree, a delightful and rather reassuring thought."

Nicholas clapped Dalton on the back. "This is 2nd Lieutenant Richard Dalton, an old friend of mine. He'll be taking command of Second Platoon. I hope your boys can give him a proper 3ID welcome." Dalton held out a hand for Sergeant O'Brian to shake. Such a good-natured attidute to non-commisioned officers was hardly orthodox but Dalton, for all his failings on the battlefield, was a naturally pleasant person.

Lieutenant Ealing scratched the back of his head, looking around the French town with some interest. It had certainly taken its fair share of destruction during the battle and the officer couldn't tear his gaze from a single wall, splattered gloriously with blood, guts and slivers of brain. A grenade, Nicholas thought to himself. "So," he said. "What exactly happened here, Sergeant? You look like the kind of bloke who'd enjoy telling a good war story." He pulled out a single cigarette from a case and, after offering the smokes to both Dalton and to O'Brian, popped it in his mouth. "Go on, then. Tell away."

[George O'Brian]

OOC: Fair enough, Rhys.

Without really thinking, George began nodding to Ealing's recount of Second Battalion's story. It seemed they had slightly better luck than first, and the Sergeant was that much envious of them. He felt a twinge of pain in his leg, so he gently bent it a few degrees at the knee to relieve it.

He reached forward and shook Dalton's hand. The 2nd Lieutenant had a strong grip, and from his dirtied and damaged hands, he could tell that Dalton had some experience of combat. That was good the last thing he wanted was for a green graduate of West Point or wherever that thought the sun shone out of his asshole to come and get everyone killed. "Good to have you with us, Lieutenant." He had no doubt he has more experience than Dalton, having recieved promotions to Sergeant in Italy and North Africa, and if Dalton had been in both theatres then doubtlessly he would be a First Lieutenant by now, but that didn't matter - men learnt fast in places like this.

He accepted the offer of a cigarette, pulling one from the cardboard box, before signalling over to a small French cafe, the owner having quickly opened it back up and setting some furniture outside. "Would you care for a seat, Officers? Only, I've got a leg injury so I can't really stand for too long." He began leading the way over, reaching out as he did and grabbing the upper arm of a Private scurrying somewhere. He studied the face for half a moment before deciding he couldn't remember the soldier's name. "Would you mind finding Lieutenant Donaldson? You'd best let him know all these guys have arrived."

With a quick "Yes, Sergeant," the soldier scurried away, and O'Brian reached a small cast-iron table with a round glass top. As he walked around it, he pulled out a pair of mis-matching wooden chairs for the Lieutenants before sitting down. He waited for the Officers to sit before begging his narrative. "As you know, we landed at Utah on D-Day, and the 101st Airborne landed nearby. They took this town, but quickly vacated to pursue German forces, and as we wear nearby, we were moved in to occupy this town. It's become our home away from home if you like, since a few days after landing there has always been units from First Battalion here, and we've been sending out out units on patrols from squad to platoon sized. We've also been sending out units to support other divisions in their manouevres, as an example like I've already said, Lieutenant Strange is currently with the 82nd Airborne trying to secure some bridges. I got back from a patrol a few days ago, we took a prisoner who has confirmed there are still several small German units in the area, which is why we can't abandon the town. At the moment, we're starting to gather all of the Battalion's units together so we ecan make an armor-supported attack through the bocage."

He stopped, taking a deep puff on the cigarette. "In a nutshell, that's our situation at the moment. What can you tell me about Second Battalion, sir?"

[Joshua Kennedy]

OOC: I'm back

Joshua looked left, then right. The roads were clear. He sat back, reclining on some rubble. The roads were always clear, it's just some town in the middle nowhere that's only significance to the Allies was if taken the route to Utah was secure. Other than that this town was nothing of any real importance. Joshua hated war, but he was in the middle of one, and that sucked.

On the other hand, Joshua heard mention of Easy Company. That was the company that he was assigned to. He looked over his shoulder to see Lieutenant Ealing. Then Joshua remembered, he should have reported back to Easy, but got lost after the beach landing. After that he had no idea where he was going until he was found by Baker Company. The whole time he just traveled with them until they came to this backwards place that had already been captured by the 101st Airborne.

At the moment he was watching Sergeant O' Brian talk to the lieutenant, telling him the situation of the company. Joshua wanted to tell him he needed to hitch a ride, but right now it seemed like the two didn't want to be bothered. Joshua continued to gaze on, the men talking back and forth. A Lieutenant Dalton had been assigned to lead the platoon, and Ealing brought a handful of men to assist the situation.

"This day is getting better already," he said to himself.

[Nicholas Ealing]

"As you know, we landed at Utah on D-Day, and the 101st Airborne landed nearby. They took this town, but quickly vacated to pursue German forces, and as we wear nearby, we were moved in to occupy this town. It's become our home away from home if you like, since a few days after landing there has always been units from First Battalion here, and we've been sending out out units on patrols from squad to platoon sized. We've also been sending out units to support other divisions in their manouevres, as an example like I've already said, Lieutenant Strange is currently with the 82nd Airborne trying to secure some bridges. I got back from a patrol a few days ago, we took a prisoner who has confirmed there are still several small German units in the area, which is why we can't abandon the town. At the moment, we're starting to gather all of the Battalion's units together so we ecan make an armor-supported attack through the bocage. "In a nutshell, that's our situation at the moment. What can you tell me about Second Battalion, sir?""

Nicholas nodded absent-mindedly as the Sergeant spoke. He had heard of the battalion's exploits before, of course he had, but it was always good to have an after action report from someone who had seen the action first-hand. "We've had a rather less exciting time than you lot, I'm sorry to say. We landed at Omaha as support more than anything. High Command didn't really know what to do with us; we were just...flotsam and jetsam so they chucked us in with the 1st ID. It was a massacre on that beach-head. Bloodiest of the operation. You lot were lucky, the Brits and Canadians even more so. I saw a lot of men die that day."

Nicholas sighed. Every Senior Officer he had ever met had warned him about making personal attatchements to the men. It could cause problems, they said. Potential break-down in discipline, avoidable emotional pain in the event of a death in action. But Nicholas had always ignored them. He always saw himself as more of a friend than a soldier. He knew the name of every single man in his company; knew their likes and dislikes, their battle history, their homes. So it hurt just that much more when thet inevitably - and brutally - fell on the battlefield.

"From then on we advanced through the hedgerows. There was no...mission objective. We weren't even really meant to be there. We just kept moving, seeing off any bastards we came across. And there were plenty of those. More Germans than bloody Frenchmen in this bloody country! We've been holding the line fifty clicks back for the past few days. That's about it, to be honest. Flotsam and jetsam, Sergeant, flotsam and jetsam."

He leaned back contentedly when suddenly a grave subject came to the forefront of his mind. "You haven't had any contact with HQ, have you? Captain Patterson? There are rumours that he bought it a couple of weeks back? You haven't heard anything, have you?"

[George O'Brian]

The cigarette, as always, had a calming effect on the Sergeant, as he slowly inhaled the poison. He managed to take his mind off of the throbbing in his leg as he leant back, feeling the cast-iron back of the seat push in to his back, the artistic french twirls seating themselves either side of his spine.

"Flotsam and jetsam, Sergeant, flotsam and jetsam." The words were echoed a few times, and it struck O'Brian how that reflected everybodies situation. Thousands of men were now displaced. Wounded, shocked, scared. Unsure what to do, where they were going, whether they would survive the day. Not just Americans, but the Germans too. British, French, Italian, and dozens of other nationalities scatered over the Normandy peninsula.

He was brought back to Carentan by the mention of Captain Patterson, his thoughts returning to the cafe with an almost physical jerk. "Captain Patterson? Yeah, he was here, must have been... three... yes, three days ago. He was trying to link up with all our units, trying to assemble the Division in one place. But as soon as he gets two men together, they're told to deploy elsewhere, it's just how this thing is at the moment, sir."

It was bad for the NCO's this thing. They had to try and keep morale up, the men organised, but things were changing so often, and often losses were so bad it was near impossible to keep spirits elevated. They did what they could, but the men needed rest. Proper beds, warm showers. Food that hadn't been dehydrated and lugged around the French countryside on their backs. It was bloody inconveniant of these Germans starting up this war, dragging people who had perfectly good lives on the other side of the Atlantic over here for no good reason.

[Nicholas Ealing]

"Captain Patterson? Yeah, he was here, must have been... three... yes, three days ago. He was trying to link up with all our units, trying to assemble the Division in one place. But as soon as he gets two men together, they're told to deploy elsewhere, it's just how this thing is at the moment, sir."

"I have to say that's a load off my mind, Sergeant," said Nicholas, scratching the back of his neck. "There have been a lot of rumours circulating around the camp. Morale's low, spirit's ebbing. And having half the lads convinced that their Cappy's dead isn't exactly helping." He sighed and allowed himself a tired smile. "But I'm glad to hear that he's alive. You just don't know anymore. This fighting's brutal, you know that better than anyone. You never know whose lurking in the hedgegrows. Who will or won't return from the fight."

The last few weeks had taken their toll on the Lieutenant. His face was more lined and bore fresh scars. For nearly four weeks, Death had been a constant companion, a sillhouette in the mist, a hand on the shoulder, a stalking shadow. He had lost a lot of friends. Too many.

Nicholas noticed the Sergeant's wound. It looked nasty. And the men always liked to talk about recent battles... "How did you get that by the way?" he asked with a grin, indicating the wound. "A stirring tale of bravery, perhaps? Or did you just slip on a patch of mud or something?"

[George O'Brian]

"How did you get that by the way?" Asked Ealing with a grin, indicating the wound. "A stirring tale of bravery, perhaps? Or did you just slip on a patch of mud or something?"

"This little thing?" asked O'Brian, sliding his right leg out from under the table so all could see it. The calf was padded where Doc had wrapped a bandage over the stitches to protect them from the rigours of army life. ”I had a combat patrol out, scouting ahead to check if there were any major ambushes set up for the armoured head. We got caught up in a fire fight, squad on squad sized. Our flank got damaged quite badly, so I went over there with another guy for damage control. While I was moving, took a round to the leg. In one side, out the other. We lost one man, but there were three corpses on the other side, and we took one of them prisoner. “

He allowed himself the slightest smile; it had been his first actual test as a combatant, taking charge of his own men, and it was quite a convincing victory. Unfortunately, he had lost one of his men, and that just did not feel good. He coughed to mask the downturn of his face as he put his leg back underneath, taking a puff of his cigarette. ”How about yourself, Lieutenant? No stories of injuries, or great battles to help pass the hours?” Between some soldiers, war could turn in to a game of one-upmanship, men feeling the need to out do each other and have the most spectacular tale of death and destruction.