Dead Fish, Dead GIs. [Erik, Two Others]

[George O'Brian]

The squad erupted from behind the cover, a makeshift group of varying ranks and armaments. But they were doing their job, and that's what mattered. One Private went crazy trying to slice a German in to bacon. A Sergeant Major came up, lifting the lad to his feet. O'Brian couldn't hear but he guessed the Private received a typical Sergeant-Major bollocking, and the Sergeant couldn't help with a crazy smile. As he moved past, pressing up the slope, he grabbed the shirt of the Private who was standing half-dazed.

"Stick with me Private, I like your style." He didn't want the boy to be terrified and stay where he was, everybody needed to move before machine guns, mortars, artillery, anything really, wouldn't be good. He pressed onwards, up the slipery causeway. They were in a blind spot of the large concrete houses, and this was good. Less guns firing on them.

As he came to the top of the hill, he was behind a BAR wielding PFC and a Corporal with a Grease Gun. The pair had crouched and where firing towards German's in a fall-back position, automatic fire showing them the Americans had landed. O'Brian took a moment to drop to a knee and aim along the top of his M1 Carbine. He aligned it with the head of a German, and squeezed the trigger, feeling the kick of the weapon and he saw the German fall over backwards. He didn't know if he was wounded, dead, or just a very good actor. He felt a hand tap his shoulder as a group of men headed by the Lieutenant ran towards the concrete trench behind one of the bunkers. By his feet, the BAR sparked in to life, barking out heavy rounds towards Germans who yelled in their foreign language. Some sporadic fire came towards the runners, but it ws quickly quashed.

O'Brian rang along the top of the trench, aiming down in to it. Somebody dropped a grenade in behind the door. Sure enough, somebody leaned out to investigate and was dropped instantly. The Lieutenat yelled, and a flamethrower dropped in, spurting out his boiling load in to the belly of one of the most hated sights of the day. Screams of agony came out, dark, evil and dirty noises, but everybody tried shaking them off. They needed to keep thinking of the enemy as the faceless evil things they were.

He jumped down in to the trench, taking cover from a spray of MG42 fire coming from behind them. "PANZER! German armour incoming," was a cry given out. Christ, was their anything not available? The American didn't blame the Germans at all, though. If he was Hitler, he wouldn't want a few hundred thousand G.I.s knocking on his front door. A call came for a Bazooka, and O'Brian signalled a few men to follow him as they moved quickly through the concrete labyrinth, looking for a Panzershreck or something.

[Jamie-Todd Peterson]

Private First Class Peterson worked the rifle up and down, the bloody knife at the end cracking ribs and slicing lungs. He found himself smiling as the rosy blossoms of blood crept across the sand, mingling with bootprints and spent shells. When two big hands clamped across his shoulders, Jamie's eyes widened with fear and he dropped his Garand, which clattered uselessly in the sand. He couldn't move a muscle as the unseen figure lifted him off of the sand, his boots leaving solid earth as his fingernails dug into his palms. The young soldier was sure that some surviving German monster had found him and was about to throw him off the cliff to his utter demise, where several krauts had already met their fate. He clenched his eyes shut and waited for the free fall, but instead the boy's body was lurched against the ground, sending repurcussioins through every bone in his body. Jamie-Todd opened his eyes and was greeted by the horrid sight of the poor corpse that he had been butchering, lifeless eyes staring at the frightened boy. With a jolt, the Pfc. remembered his adversary and jumped for his rifle, but was instead lifted off of the ground by the collar of his uniform. To his surprise, he did not see the angered face of a German but the grizzled one of the Sergeant Major who had been wounded on the beach. "The man's dead, Peterson. Leave him to rest in peace, or so help me, I will see to it that you reach the same fate." Hissed his superior and then ran off, leaving Peterson to fend for himself. "Aw, shit...shit, shit, shit..." He muttered in a child-like panic, looking around with dazed blue eyes.

Another American, a Sergeant this time, grasped his shirt and told him to follow him. An exasperated Jamie just nodded and scooped up his rifle, in which he loaded a new clip. The convoy of remaining American troops scrambled up the steep sand embankment, the bunkers unable to fire at them. His whole body was washed with sand and seawater, and his eyes stung from the smoke hovering over the landscape. He didn't want to be here anymore...he wanted to be back in England, or the states, anywhere other than here. Jamie crested the top of the hill and immediatly dropped to a crouch, raising his chipped and bloody M1 to his eye and searching the maze of bunkers and trenches for an easy target. The soldier found a German soldier exiting one of the entrenched blockhouses and thought quick, pumping two shots into his enemy's torso and making him drop lifelessly into the trench. Another ran down a trench to man a empty MG and Jamie emptied the rest of his clip on him, every round falling short except the last one, which sent his helmet off and blonde head oozing blood. Jamie yowelled with pride as a flamethrower dropped in one of the most fortified trenches, spurting fire to burn up the retreating Germans.

The Private sprinted and dropped into one of the deep German fortifications, almost ankle deep in the corpses of unfortunate Jerries. His face twisted with emotion as three Panzer tanks rolled into the picture, sending the Americans in a panicked scatter. The Sergeant that had picked him up earlier motioned for a few men to look for any scattered anti-tank weapons in the maze of entrenchments. Pfc. Peterson branched off from the rest of them and threw open the door to a bunker, entered, and shut it just as shrapnel from a Panzer cannon sprayed the exterior. His rifle raised, Jamie carefully made his way through the twisted iron clad trench, barely able to make out a thing through the darkness other than the tiny pricks of light provided from bullet holes. He could hear the moaning of wounded Germans, and occasionaly tripped over limbs extended in death. The bunker was shooken by a tank blast just ahead, and the sounds of war reappeared. He came upon the blast spot, and with great relief found two Panzershrecks leaned up against the wall. "Hey Sarge, we got some 'Schrecks over here!" Peterson yelled, hoping to Sergeant could hear him.

[Andrew J. Ryan]

Continuing the climb with the bloodied leg, he grimaced as he caught a grinning Sergeant saying something about liking the young PFC's style. That boy had just gone mad with psychotic thoughts and brutally murdered a German soldier. Why the hell the man was encouraging such actions, Ryan didn't know, but he continued on the voyage up the slope. The Sergeant Major had to force himself to not scream out in pain as he crested the top of the cliff and dropped down onto his knee alongside a PFC and Corporal. He panted a little, before raising his M1 Garand up to level the iron sights with his pupil. Almost immediately, his vision focused on that of two German soldiers lugging an MG42 alongside the concrete trench. The duo were attempting to make it to cover and set up the fresh weapon on the American's advancing position. Squeezing off two shots, the recoil shot back into the rugged veteran's soldier, the slight pain drifting down to cause a stirring of pain in his thigh.

One was down for the count, apparently. The other had frantically dropped onto his belly and was desperately crawling for the protection of the trench. Licking his lips intently, he felt as if he somehow strengthened his shot. Two more shots rang out and the other man fell limp with death. The wave of American soldiers washing over the top of the cliff side like the ocean tides, were now advancing for a new position. The safety of the German fortifications. To his left, the same encouraging Sergeant was on his knee, taking aim with his Carbine. The man seemed too focused on claiming a kill than what was going on around him, so Ryan tapped him on the shoulder before he pursued his advancing allies. Naturally, the man arrived a bit late, but in time to catch the fireworks. The concrete trench was cleared with flames, agonizing screams of terror and pain echoed out.

He eased his way into the trench, not wishing to irritate the hole in his thigh. A burning German was eerily crawling towards him, screaming something in his confusing foreign tongue. He reached for the Sergeant Major's boots and Ryan raised his Garand up. The last three bullets exited the barrel and put the man out of his misery. A spray of MG42 fire smothered a few late soldiers trying to get into the trench and forced the others to duck down under the protection. How the hell did the German War Machine produce so many damn machine guns. Kill one MG42 gunner, get pinned by a new one. Sighing, he knew the orders were coming to flank and take out the gun's position. He collapsed onto his healthy knee and jammed a fresh clip of ammo into his Garand, but no order was given. Instead, there were cries of German armor and a Panzer tank incoming. Someone had caught enough of a glimpse to realize that it was a tank heading their way, not just a simple MG42.

Cussing ferociously, the briefing had stated that the Germans wouldn't be able to get armor to the beaches in time. The paratroopers were meant to deal with that issue and there weren't suppose to be armor near the beachheads anyways. Apparently, Allied Intel had got it all wrong. Soldiers started calling for bazookas or panzershrecks and a few NCOs began to lead the search for anti tank weapons. Exhausted and wounded, Ryan collapsed onto his ass and rested up against the solid concrete wall. There was a feeling as deja vu as a medic stopped beside Ryan and began to examine his wound. This time, Ryan didn't turn down the help he needed. No words were exchanged as the man frowned at the bullet wound, hoping it didn't hit an artery. There was no way he could risk pulling out the bullet and causing more damage, so all he could do is put some disinfectant in and patch him up. More sulphur was poured into the bullet wound, before it was packed with gauze and the wound was properly wrapped.

The Sergeant Major would live. For now, at least. The medic moved on down the trench, in search of other soldiers in need of assistance. A shell from the tank exploded against a nearby bunker, seemingly shaking Ryan and sending debris onto the Americans. A faint noise of someone yelling about "Shrecks" could be distantly heard from within the bunker. Propping himself back up with the Garand, he pointed to a Corporal and a Private, signalling for them to follow him. The trio made their way through the maze of darkness and corpses within the massacred bunker, to find Peterson standing near two German anti tank weapons. "Grab 'em and let's get the hell out of here." Cautiously moving through the darkness, Ryan heaved one of the Panzershcrecks over his shoulder. The weight of the weapon dug down into his shoulder blade, but the Corporal gave a hand and helped with the rear of the weapon.

OOC: Just carrying the big guns out to the trench. Should let some trained boys deal with them. ;P

[George O'Brian]

OOC: Sorry Hobbar, but I don't want this stagnating.

The concrete walls of the trenches had an eerie quality as O'Brian moved through them on point, his M1 held firmly in his shoulder as he peered through the ring of the sights.

There was an almost eerie effect in the trench. As his arm brushed the concrete wall, he could feel just how cold it was, and smoke from artillery was starting to blow over the top of it. He could smell the tangy odour of gunpoweder and cordite from the thousands of rounds that had been fired that morning. More were being fired, and he could hear various noises. The unmistakeable rattling of MG42s, the sharp bangs of Garands, and the occasional rattling explosion as a sniper sat on a perch high up, the noise echoing off of the hills.

As a corner approached, he came down on to one knee, and signalled one of the Privates that had fallen in behind him forward as everyone else steadied weapons. Reluctantly, the Private looked around the corner, before moving forward as he realised the emptiness. Cockily, he took a few more steps forward past another corner and was mown down by a sub-machine gun. Shouts of German came towards them and the Sergeant’s squad moved forward around the corner. He plucked a grenade from his webbing and yanked the pin out and bounced it off the concrete wall around the corner. A shout of ”Shize, shize, shize!” came before the explosion and the squad turned around, firing off volleys to make sure everyone was dead.

He came down on to his knee again, it was a large cut out, with a door to a bunker to their right. He nodded towards it, and one Corporal ran up and tried to push it open, and just bounced off backwards. The doors were metal, and looked quite thick and there was no doubt some sort of barrig device behind them.

One of the Privates came shouting towards his ear. ”There are a pair of bunkers in operation still. Luey says we need to get with that guy and destroy them!” His arm was pointed at the Sergeant Major he had found himself next to on the beach, limping down the trench, and with him was the psycho PFC from the beach. O’Brian ran over to them, signalling for them to crouch down next to them. He yelled over the sound of gunfire. ”Sergeant Major! Officers say we need to take out this,” he pointed to one bunker, ”and that,” he pointed at another ”bunker! We need to rally men and break open the doors, they’re probably reinforced or something. Barred, maybe.”

He stood up, but his helmet peeked over the edge of the trench drawing fire, and he quickly dropped back down. ”What’re we going to do then? Knock on the door and hope they think we’re the sausage delivery?”

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

Moderation Post:

The following CP has been issued:

Peterson - 11

Ryan - 11

Hobbar - 9

O'Brian - 10

-JT