Post by ✚ Peter T. Brannigan on Jun 17, 2010 19:36:27 GMT
Weather: Heavy downpour of rain & very cloudy skies.
Time:[/b] 1532hrs (3:52pm)
Terrain & Location:[/b] Normandy - A small French village occupied by the Germans, under direct assault & advancement from the American military.
Panting and wheezing for breath even, Peter found himself rushing into cover for the twentieth time within several minutes since the enemy had opened fire from the occupied village of Villefranche a number of yards away to the north-east of his position; heavily numbered with German troops, speculated to have dug in and fortified with mines surrounding the village. No-one had blown up yet. This was a good sign -- but then as if jinxed by his prayers, Peter found himself half deafened as a mortar round whirled across the darkened rainy sky and into the wet mud of the Earth nearby himself and several comrades hiding behind a small stonewall on the outskirts of the village.
The explosion hadn’t caused any casualties, but rather proposed a new problem; no mines as of yet, but mortars instead. Peter’s eyes thinned into small slits as he looked back and forth from the guys surrounding him, a few of them being familiar faces of those under his medical-command; pale faced and bleak eyed from the astounding noise and overwhelming feel of action. Peter hated to admit it, but they’d be seeing far worse during their time in the war - especially as a medic with the tribulations and trials of battling with life and death. There was no sensitivity to what you were adjourned too, you couldn’t block out the most goriest of illnesses or injuries, no, you had to succumb to each and every aspect of life and death that landed in your lap; whether you liked it or not.
The Americans were advancing slowly across the open fields and lack of cover, the odd mortar round illuminating earth and debris wayward with every nearing yard towards the village. “Keep moving!”[/I] a sergeant bellowed with a hoarse tone to his voice, attempting to get the men to keep advancing onwards. There was least thirty men (size of an average platoon) advancing onto the village through the open fields and cattle farms of the village. Peter was hunkered down with two of his medical colleagues and a few random infantryman from the platoon, awaiting patiently for more men to move up, before risking themselves on advancing alone or heading wayward into danger without any immediate support.
Removing his helmet quickly, Peter wiped his face from mud and slime oozing out of the Earth, the rain bitterly cold and chilling as it pattered hard across his scalp and face momentarily. Replacing his helmet back onto his head, with the fading, yet very distinguishable insignia of the red-cross, he looked onwards to the village slowly from behind the short-stone wall (three foot high) and shouldered his M1 Carbine in the process. Noticing an upper window on one of the village houses spring open, with an MG protruding out of the window hastily by two German soldiers, he hesitated momentarily, before yelling out: “MACHINE-GUNNER!” towards the surrounding infantryman advancing towards the village. In an instance, men dropped to their bellies in the wet mud, as the MG42 in the top window started roaring into life, sending a hail of molten bullets across the countryside, with tracer rounds distinguishing the line of fire.
“Huurggh!” a gruesome cry emitted nearby, as a soldier toppled from off his feet as several quick strafed rounds cut the soldier from off his feet, the aim of fire directly knocking another unsuspecting soldier backwards as a countable three to four rounds blew spores of blood and holes the side of house-bricks from out of the back of the man’s torso in a split second. There was nothing Peter could do, as their lifeless bodies rolled into the mudded puddles; everyone else simply diving for any cover they could find immediately. Peter himself dropped back behind the wall in an instance as the whirlwind of bullets strafed overhead. Nearly the whole platoon was pinned down, faint cries emitting from all over as injured men crawled for survival - again, there was little Peter could entirely do at that moment in time, but sit there, holding his helmet and hugging the wall for dear life, praying they’d stop to reload sooner or later so they could get a shot off at the MG team.
Time:[/b] 1532hrs (3:52pm)
Terrain & Location:[/b] Normandy - A small French village occupied by the Germans, under direct assault & advancement from the American military.
Panting and wheezing for breath even, Peter found himself rushing into cover for the twentieth time within several minutes since the enemy had opened fire from the occupied village of Villefranche a number of yards away to the north-east of his position; heavily numbered with German troops, speculated to have dug in and fortified with mines surrounding the village. No-one had blown up yet. This was a good sign -- but then as if jinxed by his prayers, Peter found himself half deafened as a mortar round whirled across the darkened rainy sky and into the wet mud of the Earth nearby himself and several comrades hiding behind a small stonewall on the outskirts of the village.
The explosion hadn’t caused any casualties, but rather proposed a new problem; no mines as of yet, but mortars instead. Peter’s eyes thinned into small slits as he looked back and forth from the guys surrounding him, a few of them being familiar faces of those under his medical-command; pale faced and bleak eyed from the astounding noise and overwhelming feel of action. Peter hated to admit it, but they’d be seeing far worse during their time in the war - especially as a medic with the tribulations and trials of battling with life and death. There was no sensitivity to what you were adjourned too, you couldn’t block out the most goriest of illnesses or injuries, no, you had to succumb to each and every aspect of life and death that landed in your lap; whether you liked it or not.
The Americans were advancing slowly across the open fields and lack of cover, the odd mortar round illuminating earth and debris wayward with every nearing yard towards the village. “Keep moving!”[/I] a sergeant bellowed with a hoarse tone to his voice, attempting to get the men to keep advancing onwards. There was least thirty men (size of an average platoon) advancing onto the village through the open fields and cattle farms of the village. Peter was hunkered down with two of his medical colleagues and a few random infantryman from the platoon, awaiting patiently for more men to move up, before risking themselves on advancing alone or heading wayward into danger without any immediate support.
Removing his helmet quickly, Peter wiped his face from mud and slime oozing out of the Earth, the rain bitterly cold and chilling as it pattered hard across his scalp and face momentarily. Replacing his helmet back onto his head, with the fading, yet very distinguishable insignia of the red-cross, he looked onwards to the village slowly from behind the short-stone wall (three foot high) and shouldered his M1 Carbine in the process. Noticing an upper window on one of the village houses spring open, with an MG protruding out of the window hastily by two German soldiers, he hesitated momentarily, before yelling out: “MACHINE-GUNNER!” towards the surrounding infantryman advancing towards the village. In an instance, men dropped to their bellies in the wet mud, as the MG42 in the top window started roaring into life, sending a hail of molten bullets across the countryside, with tracer rounds distinguishing the line of fire.
“Huurggh!” a gruesome cry emitted nearby, as a soldier toppled from off his feet as several quick strafed rounds cut the soldier from off his feet, the aim of fire directly knocking another unsuspecting soldier backwards as a countable three to four rounds blew spores of blood and holes the side of house-bricks from out of the back of the man’s torso in a split second. There was nothing Peter could do, as their lifeless bodies rolled into the mudded puddles; everyone else simply diving for any cover they could find immediately. Peter himself dropped back behind the wall in an instance as the whirlwind of bullets strafed overhead. Nearly the whole platoon was pinned down, faint cries emitting from all over as injured men crawled for survival - again, there was little Peter could entirely do at that moment in time, but sit there, holding his helmet and hugging the wall for dear life, praying they’d stop to reload sooner or later so they could get a shot off at the MG team.
