Post by Nicholas Ealing on Jul 6, 2008 17:38:16 GMT
OOC: Well, seeing as I've got a Vickers Heavy Machine Gun, feel free to outnumber me, Kriegheld. As long as it's not much more than 5-2.
Lieteunant Day shielded his wary eyes from the unwavering sun and commanded his troops to push through the unreliable terrain of central Germany. At its coldest, the harsh climate of Germany could be freezing. At its warmest, it was unbearably hot. And unfortunately for Ethan and his men, they had been forced to endure both in the past week.
The Fusiliers had all split up over the past month, being positioned all throughout the world. The Bevans had only just returned from France, Robert was fighting fiercely in an unknown location in central Europe, Tom was still positioned somewhere in Africa and he hadn't even heard from Rhodri for weeks. They were all going their seperate ways and Ethan had barely seen at all during the past month. His most loyal subordinates and not one of them with him to assist him in this, his most perilous mission yet.
He had been ordered by Field Marshall Sir Christopher Donovan to lead a small squad into mainland Germany and ultimately destroy the numerous small villages in the immediate area. It was for morale, Donovan had said. Ethan hadn't been stupid enough to contradict the Field Marshall, but he had doubts about the mission. It was little less than murder. No. It was murder. They weren't out there killing troops. They would be out there killing innocent civilians. And Ethan hated himself for it.
Ethan looked back at his tiny squadron, all three fresh recruits. Only one of their company had been slain over the past week, a certain Private Cartwright, who had been unexpectedly shot in the neck by a German farmer armed with an ancient and crude rifle. Ethan had killed the man himself in his anger and grief but felt dirty inside. All the man had done was protect his village. And he had lost his life.
The three men under Ethan were all new to the Fusiliers and had seen the mission as a game. When they saw Cartwright's stinking corpse, they had sobered up alright. Dafydd Lynn and Ianto Falcon were both Privates as well as old friends, two Welshmen from Swansea while Ethan's temporary second-in-command was the Russian Sergeant Dostoevsky. Ethan was still unsure of the pronunciation and had gone to great pains to always refer to him as "Sergeant" so as to avoid saying it.
"Take cover behind the farmhouse," whispered the Lieteunant, drawing to a sudden stop and pointing towards a large wooden building on the outskirts of the town. His men obeyed and Ethan followed them, poking his head out from behind. He could see the villagers' fear as they saw the heavily armed Brits enter their village, a look of undisguised terror as they fled to the relative safety of their houses. But it was no use, thought Ethan grimly. Because they were all going to die.
img78.imageshack.us/img78/3885/battlemapyv4.png
Lieteunant Day shielded his wary eyes from the unwavering sun and commanded his troops to push through the unreliable terrain of central Germany. At its coldest, the harsh climate of Germany could be freezing. At its warmest, it was unbearably hot. And unfortunately for Ethan and his men, they had been forced to endure both in the past week.
The Fusiliers had all split up over the past month, being positioned all throughout the world. The Bevans had only just returned from France, Robert was fighting fiercely in an unknown location in central Europe, Tom was still positioned somewhere in Africa and he hadn't even heard from Rhodri for weeks. They were all going their seperate ways and Ethan had barely seen at all during the past month. His most loyal subordinates and not one of them with him to assist him in this, his most perilous mission yet.
He had been ordered by Field Marshall Sir Christopher Donovan to lead a small squad into mainland Germany and ultimately destroy the numerous small villages in the immediate area. It was for morale, Donovan had said. Ethan hadn't been stupid enough to contradict the Field Marshall, but he had doubts about the mission. It was little less than murder. No. It was murder. They weren't out there killing troops. They would be out there killing innocent civilians. And Ethan hated himself for it.
Ethan looked back at his tiny squadron, all three fresh recruits. Only one of their company had been slain over the past week, a certain Private Cartwright, who had been unexpectedly shot in the neck by a German farmer armed with an ancient and crude rifle. Ethan had killed the man himself in his anger and grief but felt dirty inside. All the man had done was protect his village. And he had lost his life.
The three men under Ethan were all new to the Fusiliers and had seen the mission as a game. When they saw Cartwright's stinking corpse, they had sobered up alright. Dafydd Lynn and Ianto Falcon were both Privates as well as old friends, two Welshmen from Swansea while Ethan's temporary second-in-command was the Russian Sergeant Dostoevsky. Ethan was still unsure of the pronunciation and had gone to great pains to always refer to him as "Sergeant" so as to avoid saying it.
"Take cover behind the farmhouse," whispered the Lieteunant, drawing to a sudden stop and pointing towards a large wooden building on the outskirts of the town. His men obeyed and Ethan followed them, poking his head out from behind. He could see the villagers' fear as they saw the heavily armed Brits enter their village, a look of undisguised terror as they fled to the relative safety of their houses. But it was no use, thought Ethan grimly. Because they were all going to die.
img78.imageshack.us/img78/3885/battlemapyv4.png
