Darkness of the Forest (Steven McMillan)

[nathansinfantry]

Jack jogged along the lightly wooded path. He had full fighting gear with him, but mercifully, no marching pack. His fingers drummed on the Springfield Sniper’s Rifle in his hand as he looked around. This was definitely where he had been told to go to, and, with a brief check of his wristwatch, it was definitely the right time.

Master Sergeant Steven McMillan was supposed to be meeting him here, but the American was no where to be seen. Odd. Very odd. Jack wasn’t sure if he had found out about what had happened to Edward, but he didn’t know if he would be that bothered either, the brothers hadn’t seemed that close to him.

Jack let the gun fall to one hand and looked around the clearing. Shafts of sunlight penetrated the canopy here and there, but the majority of the light was being filtered through the large leaves above, giving the place a rather eerie feel. The cadence of gun fire was ever present on the French morning, reminding anyone who though they might be able to escape to la-la land that a war was most definitely going on. Underfoot, the ground was still mildly wet from the downpour the night before, and Jack shivered as a drop of water fell from above, straight down his collar.

He took a second to run his hands over his uniform, checking everything was in order. The Sergeant wanted to make a good impression on his superior. He wasn’t at all sure what was going to happen, but he had a feeling that it was going to involve physical labour, and making a good impression on the man in charge was going to make it a lot easier for him. Hopefully.

He tapped his gun again and began walking in a circle, lazily cutting between and around trees. It may have looked casual, but being so close to the fighting, he was watching out for any Germans that may be around. Aaron Mitchell, a popular Second Lieutenant in his division had just captured an Axis soldier, and there were whispers about a large attack that may be happening soon. Jack wouldn’t have been surprised, the German’s had been in reluctant retreat for months now, and a counter-attack was a matter of when, not if.

He stopped in the middle of a circle, and raised his rifle to his shoulder, and peered down the scope. A figure was approaching, and Jack could clearly se the Master Sergeant insignia upon the man’s uniform. Finally, it was going to start.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

The distant eruptions of war were comforting to the Master Sergeant, it kept him on edge, forever focused until he was appointed orders to approach the front; Those orders seemed a dauntingly long way away by now, all he had been doing for the 3 ID was training recruits and inspecting quarters, not to mention the odd thrilling reconnaissance meeting alongside Captain Patterson now and again, but nothing came off it, they were just reports and the 3 ID never hailed any duty calls. When would the day come?

"Funny really, I mean, being in France to fight the Krauts. I thought we would have been here to fight the French, everyone hates the Canadians"[/b] Sergeant Marshall said with his lack of wisdom, the man was more renown for his fighting however, a fine scar sliced right down his brow and cheek from a German bullet being shot downwards directly at him in his foxhole one night. He was one lucky guy had he been but mere millimeters forwards within his position, the bullet would have penetrated the skull undoubtedly. So the scar represented his fighting experience, a true souvenir to show the grandchildren someday.

Sergeant Miller laughed at the comment made by Sergeant Marshall and smirked; The male was bulky, but had a defined face that almost made him look German and intellectual. A pair of small rounded specs would certainly have made him looked ripe for Hitler's SS. "We'll worry about the Canadians later" Sergeant Miller said sarcastically, before pointing up ahead to the lonesome figure they were approaching at a speeded pace. "We have one of her Majesty's to take care off first - right Sarg'?" Reese Miller said with a smart arse tone to his voice, the two Sergeants lumbering either side of their ranking NCO who seemed silent for the entire walk.

Master Sergeant McMillan phased a brief look between the two sergeants accompanying him and looked back up front without a word to spare. As the three men grew closer to their awaiting target, Master Sergeant McMillan tapped his knuckles at Sergeant Marshall's arm to speak; "Get your map and compass out" he requested strictly, causing the Sergeant to collapse his left shoulder and swing his pack around to his middle, unzipping it to slide out the waterproofed map in a plastic folder. Accepting it with his nimble fingers, Master Sergeant McMillan shuffled his Thompson SMG for comfort briefly and looked to the soldier who was no less than ten foot away by now .

"Sergeant Knight?" he questioned firmly, barely looking at the man for a few seconds, before his head dipped to lisp over the map at hand. Sergeant Miller glared at the British uniform curiously for a second, before grinning widely to throw his hand out for a shake as the men grew even closer. "I hear you're from New Zealand Sergeant?" the bulky male asked curiously, whilst Sergeant Miller continued to zip up his pack distractedly and Master Sergeant McMillan slumbered to a halt, planning something on the map.

"Save the introductory for on the way, there's a change of plan Sergeant Knight, we're heading off into the forest north-east off here, towards an armoury obscured between these trees. We have orders to bring back ammunition and arms to the base, for our boys up front" he said quickly, folding up the map in the process as he took a quick look about, working out their general whereabouts by raw bearings. "Come on then, let's move out boys" he ordered swiftly, moving off with a stride. Orders were orders, but it didn't mean they couldn't test the young man's wit and fitness on the way there.

[nathansinfantry]

Jack surveyed the trio of American’s ahead, looking them up and down. They all appeared fit and able soldiers a good sign when fighting along side them. If he had a trio of morbidly obese alcoholics with him, he would just turn around and go home.

” Save the introductory for on the way, there's a change of plan Sergeant Knight, we're heading off into the forest north-east off here, towards an armoury obscured between these trees. We have orders to bring back ammunition and arms to the base, for our boys up front"[/i] McMillan spoke those words, seeming distracted, but Jack knew well that he was working out what they were going to do. Doubtlessly, at a later stage, Jack would have to move upwards on his own and Recon this armoury, to make sure half a dozen King Tigers weren’t revving up outside the main doors. That definitely wouldn’t be a rosy day out for the Allied Squad.

Jack put a hand on the map before it was folded, indicating he wanted to have a quick look. From Steven’s hands, he could see their location and that of the ammo dump. To get their, they would have to try and ford a river that looked about 10 meters across, which looked like it would be a load of fun. The distance looked about three kilometres. For the first one, perhaps two at a stretch, they’d be able to go at a good pace, but for the final stretch, they would need to slow down a lot. They would want to avoid detection for as long as possible if they wanted to be able to escape.

”Let’s be off then, eh?” Jack gave a brief smile at this, showing he didn’t mind the run that was ahead. Before moving, though, he took off the steel helmet on his head, and tied the leather chinstrap around his beltkit, pulling a camouflaged baseball cap out of his tunic. He preferred wearing it when sniping; it kept the sun off of his eyes better, and was a lot less awkward. It made running that bit more comfortable as well.

Checking all his gear was secure, before jogging off down the path towards McMillan. From his experience, Americans could be a bit headstrong and over-confident. Cocky, really. It was time to bring these ones down a notch, and prove that New Zealanders were superior. He would have to make sure he racked up more kills, for sure, but to start with, he’d have to blitz them on the cross-country run ahead. His only worry, really, was keeping his weapon fine with the river ford. But then again, the Springfield had been used by the American’s in the trenches of the First World War, and survived those terrible conditions, so it should be fine. But still, no soldier looked forward to this kind of event, but atleast he was shaded and it was quite a cool day. It should be bearable.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

Their 'Mission' didn't have any dangerous tell tail signs, it was quite simply an Allied Ammo' dump in the woodlands and they were the mules for the day's fetching; Although, there was some minor reports of small pockets of German resistance in the forest. Whether they fell back with the parting fight or remained concealed in the woodland's grove, was another factor completely. Either way, the ammo' run was simple and as far as the Master Sergeant knew, they had dozens of fit men doing this trek' daily. The use of convoys was quite obviously out of the question, there was no way the vehicles could navigate between the close knitted trees and obstacles, word had spread that the ammunition dump was actually German garrisoned before the Allies passed through - perhaps the Krauts were using it for their infantryman in the woodlands?

Either way, it was of no use to the snide blonde heads now, it was Uncle Sam's and the boys needed it up front. As Steven continued to move up front, pacing quickly - not jogging just yet, he turned towards Sergeant Miller moving up along his right rear, before he looked for Sergeant Marshall moving up along his left rear. "Keep the spacing boys, seven meters, if one of us hit a mine or tripwire, we'll all be taken down" he said quite reassuringly, strafing his arm out to warn his two subordinate Sergeants to break their close gap, they was moving into unknown territory.

Feeling the presence of Sergeant Knight move up with the group after sorting himself out, he briefly turned to walk backwards a few steps and whistled at the New Zealander to get his arse up front beside him. "Alright Sergeant, sorry to drag you along, but I'd rather have you wasting good energy on something worthwhile, than that obstacle course I had set up for you today" he said firmly, looking back up front to pace alongside the Allied Soldier. "The name's Steven, that's Sergeant Marshall to your left and that's Sergeant Miller to our right" he announced in a quick introduction, cradling his Thompson SMG against his hip the whole while. The fellow Sergeants nodded in session to their names being foretold, but concentrated on the path ahead, moving between the trees every now and again.

"With the introductions done, let's get this over with swiftly. Sergeant Knight, you're on point, use that scope on your rifle if need be and use hand signals from here on out guys, if Jerry is in this forest, I don't want him hearing our yapping. Alright?" he barked with a strict tone, Steven was a nice guy, but when orders came through, he took them seriously and he expected the others to do so also; He wasn't being obnoxious by being firm, but merely looking out for their best interest, the woodlands weren't the greatest of terrains to move through undetected by unforeseen enemies.

With that, the Master Sergeant took one last look at Sergeant Knight and nodded to him. "Got that?" but after all the yapping, this was probably the first time Steven expected an answer, rather than just listening. If he was going to put Sergeant Knight up front, he wanted to know the man knew what he was doing, if anyone was to go up front, it would be the marksman and for some reason, the Master Sergeant had a good feeling with the young man - he looked, focused.

[nathansinfantry]

Jack adjusted the grip on his rifle, flipping it upside down so the scope wasn’t going to bash against him as they moved quickly. He made a final pat down of his ammunition pouches and other storage places on his gear before looking back up at Steven as he did the introductions. The Kiwi nodded at each in turn as a sign of acknowledgement as the man in charge carried on.

He instantly began picturing in his mind the path they would take. For the first part, they could move just off the main pathways, slipping between the trees with ease. Jack knew full well that this route was taken several times a day, so for the first stretch atleast, until they were almost at the river, they could move quickly and easily, a gentle jog, moving fast but leaving enough energy to fight well. There was definitely no chance of booby tracks for that stretch.

Once they reached the river, they would have to move onto the path until they found a means of crossing the river. A bridge was the obvious choice, but it would also make a good marker for the bloody Axis artillery. It had been firing pretty much constantly for the last few days, and no doubt that by now the gunners would have worked out several good targets.

”Understand. We’ll jog for a little bit, but then we’ll slow down as we approach the river. If everything messes up, just get out alive.” As he said this, he span around to face the direction they would go off on to. A couple of bushes stood in their immediate way, the borders of the small clearing they were stood in, which in peace time probably had contained a few benches and a flower bed, a little relief for the weary French picnickers. They didn’t know the meaning of weary.

He carefully stepped over a bush, snapping a few twigs in the process and walked on a couple of meters, taking long strides to move across the forest floor quickly, stepping over the larger branches and rock, and circling around a fallen trunk. He stopped for a second to make sure the others were over the bushes before turning back to the front. The sounds of birds singing had returned, as if they were arguing about the newcomers to their territory, and whether to dive bomb them or not. The last thing Jack wanted was a twenty-four bum salute from the feathered fiends.

Ignoring them, he upped his pace a bit, slightly shorter steps, but a lot faster. The sooner he was done with this little errand, the sooner he could get back to base for a cuppa. There was a game of cards going on that he wanted in on. If he put a pack of cigarettes on the line, he could get a few nice little toys. He hated the sticks, and they always screwed him up. But he put those out of his mind now. Everything had to be focused on the task at hand.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

After questioning the Allied soldier and awaiting a response, he was quite happy to actually hear one for a change; Most of the men mumbled beneath their breath or pulled a disgruntled look of having to carry out an order - it was bad enough listening to someone who had silver bars on their lapels, the pesky lieutenants and captains pushing them about, but when the order came from a friend, someone you spent a lot of time with, they didn’t always take it seriously. He just hoped the Sergeant kept his wit and didn’t get too laid back around himself, it was these qualities that had most of his friends and subordinates in early graves.

As Sergeant Knight followed through the order of being put on point, having looked at the map and prior and briefly explaining himself, it reassured the Master Sergeant they wasn’t about to go on a wild goose chase and left the Allied NCO to depart without another word said. This in it’s self was a compliment to the Sergeant put on point, as Steven was quite willingly putting their lives in his hands, by leading the way and being their main source of eyes and ears for the trek; It all boiled down to trust.

Watching Sergeant Knight climb over some foliage and take a lead, Sergeant Marshall and Miller abruptly went to follow, but found themselves being stopped by the voice of their commanding body. “Wait -- give him some tactical spacing, what good is it putting the man on point, to then go walking behind him?” he dryly noted, a little unimpressed by the slack thinking of the two Sergeants who accompanied him today - they were usually alert and thoughtful of their actions, but today, they neglected their own training. Perhaps this seemed like an all too routine mission, a safe one? But no mission was safe and regardless to being behind the front or on the front, you were never safe.

After several seconds of a head-start, Master Sergeant McMillan casually approached the hedges and gave a nod to the Sergeants who let out a winded breath, as if the Master Sergeant was being too precautious for such a non-violent errand? “Marshall, move up the left, seven meters - Miller, you’re on the right” he said in confirmation to their positions, feeling the need to remind them of where they were meant to be during their trek to the armoury.

After clambering over the hedges, the two Sergeants departed slowly on either flank, cradling their Thompson SMGs the whole while, treading carefully through the dirt. Steven looked onwards to their point-man and flagged him on, letting him know they were right behind him. After doing so, the Master Sergeant paced through the dirt and walked between the trees, taking a few steps backwards after every tenth’ step to check their rear-flank for a few seconds. Everything was clear, quiet. The daunting thought of Krauts springing from out of the dirt beneath them made him cringe, it was incidents like these that were highly plausible and more than capable of happening. They were only a small unit, barely a squad, it wouldn’t take any longer than a twenty second fire-fight to establish a winner, if taken by surprise.

[nathansinfantry]

Jack soldiered on, slipping his way through the trees, stepping over the undergrowth, but always looking out for that single elusive German soldier. Just one man was all that it would take to bring them down, to ambush them and tip four Allied corpses into the river ahead.

Behind him, he heard McMillan telling off the Sergeants under his command. Jack couldn’t help but mutter “Bloody Yanks” under his breath, and shake his head. He let it slide as he carried on, still moving with good pace over the terrain. His rifle was held tight against his body, to stop it getting caught on anything, and now he was on the move, had flipped it back around, so the scope was resting upon his forearm. Pressing a red circle onto his arm under the long sleeve of his tunic, it served a calming reminder that he had his weapon, and his wits, about him. Knowing that your life was properly in your hands and not in another’s is no end of comfort.

Every few steps, he was stopping and peering over his shoulder, making sure that he didn’t lose the trio of men behind him, if he lost them, it wouldn’t look to good on his record, and he could kiss becoming a Staff Sergeant goodbye.

Every move he made was measured, from the length of his strides to the careful rising and falling of his chest as he breathed. Every blink and slight adjustment of his jaw was planned, perfectly executed at the right moment. His head slowly rotated, left and right, eyes keen for any movement, that single Jerry.

Eventually, he raised his right hand, fingers clenched in a fist indicating a halt. He waited for the others to catch up before speaking, a hushed whisper, yet seeming as loud as a plane in the confines of the tree. ”The river is just over the brow of this hill. I’ll move up and look for where we cross and any enemy soldiers. If you here gun fire move up, stay under the brow of the hill, and I’ll direct you.”

Taking a final look between the men, Jack moved upwards, crouched around his rifle. He slowly advanced up the hill, a gently incline to the top. Just before he got to the top, he went prone, and started crawling. About half a meter to his left, as he cleared the brow, was a bush. Gingerly, he crawled behind it, and brought the scope of his rifle up to his eye. About thirty meters down the river, a small bridge stood, spanning the river. That was where they would have to cross, but his eyes fell on to what was next to it. Eight German soldiers were marching along the opposite bank. By the looks of their camouflage smocks, they probably planned on being in the area for a long time.

Jack began crawling backwards, keeping an eye on them as he moved, but a resounding crack made him stop. A ninth man must be around somewhere, a marksman. Jack dived forwards again, getting behind cover. He swung the scope of is rifle around, looking down at the squad of soldiers. They had stopped, spreading out to cover their defences. One of them turned around, speaking into the bush, and the bush spoke back, an arm swinging up and pointing towards him. The Sergeant aimed at the center of the bush, next to where the arm was and fired, pulling back the bolt and firing again. ”Move up, move up!” He called out to the Americans behind him, ”Get cover, and start moving down!”

Jack brought the rifle scope around, aiming at the eye of one of the targets. He fired, sending a large spray of liquids from the German’s head. He worked the bolt, moving on to the next target, trying to give as much cover as possible. The enemy was moving now, and he would need the American help.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

Cautiously moving along the undergrowth of the dimly lit forest, Master Sergeant McMillan kept his spine dipped by the frame of the waist, as if he were ready to take on anything, particularly mortar shells or artillery barrages, at the heightened sight of a whistle, he’d be face down in the dirt! It was a good persona to keep when on alert, not only did it provide a head-start to any fundamental tell-tail-signs of an enemy attack, but it sure did heighten the feeling of every step you took; Perfect for noticing anything unordinary beneath the dirt. Pesky Germans and their deadly pranks!

Huddling the Thompson SMG against the pit of his middle, his eyes parted across the terrain, occasionally skimming up a tree every so often, as if to make sure no misplaced bushes found themselves within the trees. The Nazis weren’t very good at hiding in the trees, they stood out like a sack of potatoes in a meat-market, or better still, shoe shop. The Japanese however, had it down to a fine art - he hadn’t witnessed their camouflage tactics personally, but he’d heard a lot about their divine efforts in remaining unhidden both over and underground…

Glancing between his two Sergeants, who seemed to have lightened up a bit since their lazy personas a few yards back, he quite happily concentrated back upon his own path and looked up front to the point-man who was all eyes and ears. Adjusting his helmet, the Master Sergeant barely made a foot from out behind a tree in his path, when the point-man alerted them to halt - immediately, the Master Sergeant fell to one knee and held his own fist up to alert his two Sergeants lingering close by, who simultaneously fell down to a low prone and remained silent; After waiting several seconds to see whether the point-man indicated back any more hand gestures to what he’d seen or why he stopped them, he figured the coast was clear of any immediate danger and grabbed his two Sergeants attention with a snap of the fingers. Strafing his arm out forwards, with an indication of three fingers slapped against his palm - suggesting a delayed approach to the point man, the Master Sergeant took the lead and hastily and moved up, briefly pausing by any nearby trees, before continuing.

Falling down beside the Sergeant, he barely drew a breath to talk before the soldier indicated their location and the precautionary methods; The man had it down to a fine art, so much so, Master Sergeant McMillan merely nodded with a brief “Carry on Sergeant”, before turning to look for his two subordinates to come trotting up, taking a knee either side the moment Sergeant Knight made haste in climbing the hill. “Orders?” asked Sergeant Miller beneath his breath, but the Master Sergeant didn’t need asking to appoint them. “Marshall - move down to the left, Miller you’re on the right. Any heat, short bursts, keep moving” he said firmly, the two NCOs nodding affirmatively, knowing the hit and run tactics worked rather well with the British SAS in small numbers - not only did it mix up the enemy, but it also made them think there was a larger force than a squad based assault unit.

Moving straight up, Master Sergeant McMillan lingered behind a tree stump at the bottom of the hill, with his two Sergeants spread out down either side, more or less doing the same. Out of no where, Sergeant Knight opened fire and yelled out, immediately, Master Sergeant McMillan sprang up and yelled “Move! Move!” but it was rather pointless, as the two men were already fumbling over the hill’s ridge, sliding down the opposite side behind immediate cover, making quick strafing bursts the moment they stalled for an appropriate aim. The Master Sergeant himself fell down the opposite side and ran his heels into the dirt, collapsing his back against a tree to pant for a breath, before swerving out behind the tree-trunk to spray into the general direction of the threat - the German voices yelled at the firing and quite obviously returned fire, their shots all over the place, as the tactics of assaulting all flanks at once had them confused.

Falling back behind the tree, Steven grunted as a close rifle-round from the marksman ripped a chunk from the tree’s bark behind himself. “Knight! That Marksman has me zeroed!” he yelled out angrily, obviously this German Marksman had a keen eye and must have seen his chevrons on the decent. Blindly aiming his Thompson out from the opposite side of the tree, he made a quick burst of fire and listened as his two Sergeants laid down a heavy barrage of burst fire, a hollering cry emitting from across the river as one of the German’s rolled down the hillside from Marshall’s spattering bullets, before another angrily shouted something in his foreign tongue - a wounded male perhaps? Either way, Steven wasn’t about to attempt his fate and remained positioned, whilst his two Sergeants continued to advance gradually, suppressing the enemy the whole while.

[nathansinfantry]

Jack kept firing; there was little else he could do. Moving from one target to the next, he sent off single shots before moving on, not caring if he hit the fast moving men down at the bottom, scrabbling from scrap of cover to scrap of cover, desperate to avoid the bullets of the four men. Jack sat him self up, leaning against the back of his tree as his fingers dived into his pocket, scooping out bullets. He held the bolt of the rifle well open as he rolled the bullets in, refilling the internal magazine of his weapon.

He pressed the last one in and cocked the weapon, looking over at Steven, behind a tree as sniper’s bullet landed around him and he called out about a marksman. ”Shit! I’m on it.”

He looked through the bush next to the tree, his rifle on the ground next to him as he slowly observed. There was another crack, and a thud near Steven, but Jack registered upon the flash of light. He pulled his rifle up, staring down at the flash. A young German, one that barely looked old to be shaving was desperately trying to slip a fresh magazine into his weapon, struggling to get it lined up with the Adrenaline flowing through his system. Jack aimed at his head, and squeezed the trigger, pulling the bolt back and ejecting the empty cartridge.

”Got the bastard” he called out as he turned back towards the bridge. Sprays of tracer descended upon the few remaining Nazis, and Jack helped in, sending another bullet down, but one of the Sergeants took the final kill.

It was over. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Jack stood up and brushed off some of the dead leaves gripping his clothes, and took a look around at the carnage, trying to figure out the best route. As he walked down the hill towards the bridge, he pressed a few more round into the weapon, making sure it was ready if they bumped into another control. He gathered with the other three men. ”What are we doing then? By the looks of things, this patrol was going to be away for a long time, so I doubt they’ll be missed. And gunfire has been on and off around here for the last few days, so I doubt that we’re going to be taken out of the ordinary, but are we going to play safe and go back? I reckon we’ll be safe moving on, as long as we’re careful. The armoury isn’t that far away, and we’ve got nothing to say that these guys had anything to do with it. Besides, we’ll need to find out whether or not it is in German hands.”

He cut off, to let the Americans think. He took a quick swig from his canteen to counter the heat trapped under the canopy as he took another look around, making sure no more Germans were waiting around to shoot them.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

Gritting his teeth, Steven retracted his head from the side of the tree as yet more splinters cut across his sights, ripping at the tree with the higher calibre of rounds that were opposed to being in his Thompson; Most definitely a marksman, as the chunks missing from the tree were certainly rifle rounds, rather than the smaller pieces of lead found in your every day piece of mean machinery - thankfully, his cry out to Sergeant Knight was acknowledged and before he knew it, the young marksman was on the problem and neutralized the threat quickly -- “Good job!” he yelled back, finally falling out from behind his cover, abruptly noticing the lack of firing upon his position, as if my magic it’d stopped.

Easing himself down behind some foliage, he knelt and leant into the Thompson with his elbow resting against the cartilage of his knee for a steadier aim. The Thompson had a knack for jumping a little more after the third shot, so stabilizing the short-range weaponry for those accurate measures was crucial - spending the last of his magazine towards the bridge, he felt a brush of cold air blow past him as Sergeant Miller pursued a running figure along the bridge, gunning him down with ease, as to stop any messengers and witnesses from the slaughter from escaping; Then silence befell the battle and Master Sergeant McMillan remained knelt, taking a quick look around to confirm it was all clear and he wasn’t suffering with a deafened piece of hearing from the noise of his Thompson.

“Miller! Move up!” he yelled towards the Sergeant bordering close to the bridge, who quickly raised himself to trot over towards the bridge to claim and guard, the jingling of his gear rattling from the paced movements he was making. “Marshall - Knight - On me!” he yelled out once again, feeling the silence had obviously broken since their fire-fight, so the need to be oh’ so secretive had completely left his mind.

Moving up towards the bridge once Sergeant Miller had taken a position against it, he looked back for the other two fellow Sergeants and slowed his pace, to accommodate their presence along the way. Listening to Sergeant Knight’s suggestions, Sergeant Marshall soon intervened as the men gathered at the bridge cautiously. “No pun intended Knight, but we’ll have to head back and report this - right Sergeant?”[/I] Marshall said worriedly, as he took off his helmet to wipe the sweat from his head, not wanting them to stumble upon another pocket of resistance as strong as what they just opposed. Master Sergeant McMillan looked between the two men and took the moment to casually open his side-pouch, pulling out a fresh magazine as he thought about the situation. It was a difficult call to make.

“Yes Marshall, we’ll report this alright, but Sergeant Knight’s right - these men have been here for a while, they didn’t even have a picket on our side of the river, they were obviously comfortable in this forest and unaware of the dangers. I don’t think we’ll encounter anymore resistance, these guys were too laid back” he said with a confident tone, thumping the fresh magazine into his Thompson as he done so. “Miller, Marshall, check the bodies for any intel. If there are any more patrols on our path, we can easily surprise them again” he ordered, watching as the two men lifted themselves to cross the bridge and cautiously approach the dead - Marshall was more reluctant though, he wanted to play it safe and go back.

“Good shooting back there Knight, you’re quite the shot” Steven complimented, before he too slowly turned to cross the bridge, indicating for Knight to follow, subliminally showing he wanted him by his side after saving his ass. “I’m putting you on point again Knight, so grab a head-start, I’ll fall in with Miller and Marshall after they’ve finished scouting these bodies” he said firmly, looking towards the two Sergeants making quick work on patting down the bodies and briefly looking over what documents they pulled out…

[nathansinfantry]

Jack nodded with McMillan, and the orders to go ahead. He let a grim smile play over his lips as he wiped the sweat off of his brow with a small handkerchief. He replaced the hat, and did another check that all his gear was tightly in place. Paranoia, it could be called, worrying that something might be wrong. That wasn’t paranoia, but the trait of a good soldier, leaving nothing within his control to chance.

He took a look towards the other side of the river. He’d have to break a lot of cover to get to the bush on the other side; there was about ten meters of bare ground after the bridge. If an enemy marksman was lurking in the trees, then A) He’d be a very bad teammate, not helping out with the previous scuffle, and B) would have a nice easy shot. Confident that everything as ready, he went into a sprint, his feet pounding upon the ground, shaking the bridge slightly, and making a bit too much noise than he would have preferred, but marksmen would be drawn to the area like flies to a pile of shit.

As he plunged into the trees, he felt himself calming slightly, a weight off of his shoulders, and he straightened up. His rifle was now in such a position where the butt was next to his shoulder, but the weapon was flat upon his chest, to minimise anything hitting the surroundings and making noise, but ready to spring up and fire at a moments notice. At the first sign of anybody else. He slowly, carefully and methodically surveyed the surroundings, checking they were clear, he spent several minutes surveying the opposite side of the bank for enemies before he was confident it was clear, a made a slight flapping motion with the fingers on his right hand, indicating for the American’s to follow on. He kept an eye on them as they crossed the bridge, and an eye out for any other movement that might jeopardise them, but nothing. He felt suspicious. If he’d learnt anything in this, if it seemed to be going to plan, you were walking into an ambush.

He tried pushing the thought out of his mind, but it sat there, an oppressive weight constantly butting in on any other though that cared to venture there. It was absolute silence now, it seemed even the birds had buggered off, the whole forest holding it’s breath, as if it knew what was about to happen. Jack didn’t like it one bit, but he carried on. If every time a soldier was overtaken by this feeling, then this war would get no where.

***

It’s funny, how sometimes you don’t notice the absence of something until it return. A distant ‘krump’ on the horizon, shattered the silence, and it was then that Jack noticed the artillery silence had stopped. He took a look over the edge of the hill in front of him, and saw a small wooden compound. A whistling noise announced itself, and Jack looked upwards.
”Oh shit.”

They had almost made it as well.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

Sergeants Marshall and Miller eventually came walking back towards Master Sergeant McMillan, with a plain expression that symbolised they hadn’t found anything of great interest to the Allies. “Got myself some more shoe polish though…”[/I] Sergeant Miller croaked in a bid to make a joke, flashing a small encased silver tin at the other two men, grinning widely. “Good on you - now lets wrap things up here and move on” Steven said with a tone to his voice, his body moving ever so slightly, before Sergeant Marshall stopped him. “-- But Sergeant, shouldn’t we bury these…”[/I] but Steven gave a unimpressed look and continued onward to the general direction their point-man had ran off into and seemingly disappeared?

Wearily looking around, Master Sergeant McMillan contemplated that the male may have been abducted within the brief moment of their reposed conversation; Thankfully, a noise caught his attention and the young Sergeant flagged them on. “C’mon boys” Steven said quickly, already pacing off towards the new forest line, from out of the clearing. Both of the Sergeants packed their minor souvenirs from the bodies and followed hastily, no remorse from any of the men showing, as they left behind the warm corpses for a midnight treat to the wildlife.

Moving through the woodlands and disembarking between the trees after brief pauses, Master Sergeant McMillan couldn’t help but keep a firm tight grip upon his Thompson SMG, highly alert after their last encounter with the Krauts. It didn’t take much for the German Patrol they’d wiped out, to have a belated station post behind their position in the woodlands somewhere. It was common amongst most patrols or dig-in locations to have a fallback location or adjoined patrol you crossed paths with every so often, so everyone knew the area was a-ok. Better still, tripwires, snipers and mines were common in dense locations such as this - CLICK! a sound erupted from beside Steven, causing him to spin upon the balls of his feet to aim his Thompson at the dim figure of Sergeant Miller lighting a cigarette.

“Fool…” he murmured to himself, taking a breath to compose himself again, quite thankful that Jerry hadn’t made this his unlucky day. “Put that out Sergeant - Now” he bellowed out quietly, watching as Sergeant Miller slipped the cigarette up his sleeve after taking a puff. “No-One will see it Sarg’ don’t worry”[/I] he replied with a cocky tone, showing borderline insubordination, but what did expect from such hardened men sometimes? Walking over, Steven grabbed the man’s wrist and yanked the cigarette out from between his fingers, stamping it out between the leaves. “Keep it together Miller, I’ve had enough of your shit” he hissed out, giving one long stare, before falling back into his own position - by now, silence had erupted and slowly Master Sergeant McMillan’s pacing drew to a crawl.

“We haven’t seen any Krauts in ages now, I don’t see --”[/I] but Steven threw his hand up and huskily spat out a “Shh!” as he listened intently to the silence, his eyes wearily drifting from tree to tree, before slowly raising up. “Oh you have to be kidding me…” he mumbled incoherently to the others as the sound of whistling buzzed through the leaves above. “GET DOWN!” he cried out a split second after, taking one long step, before diving off his feet behind a nearby tree. The incredible cracking noise of an artillery shell blowing apart a tree a mere matter of yards away from their position, jagged splinters of wood flying through the air, as the musk grit of dirt and dried wood plumed up in a single cloud of smoke from the impact area.

As the impact echoed outwards, Master Sergeant McMillan lifted his head and looked around quickly, adjusting his slanted helmet in the process. “Everyone OK!?” he yelled out, as silence befell the woodlands for a brief moment, a few weary cries from his Sergeants drifting through the air - “Y-Yes Sarg”, but before he acknowledged anymore, he raised himself and barely caught his breath to spit out “Move Move!” they couldn’t risk laying about in their current position, as each tree was a potential exploding bomb, with hundreds of miniscule jagged splinters more than capable of doing more damage than your average grenade. The compound was just beyond a nearby hill, they could at least seek refuge where possible medical care may be…

Zzzzzziiiiipppppp…. cut through the air once again, leaving Master Sergeant McMillan looking upwards for any sign of a shadow or blob to the drop-zone of the shell, before he realised he was a matter of feet from Sergeant Knight. Ditching himself forwards, he grabbed the Sergeant by the gruff of his tunic’s lapel on the shoulder and dragged him down as he fell down to take cover against the dry dirt. The astonishing noise of the artillery shell imploding a nearby tree was almost unbearable, as Steven clenched his eyes closed from the sheer noise in such a closed proximity in the woodlands; It was beyond deafening. “Sergeant… Knight… You alright!?” he yelled with a fearsome look, grabbing at the man’s shoulders to push him back some, as to display his torso, but then yet more whistling cascaded their way in numbers, as if the shelling was few and far between, fired in session. Boom! -- Boom! -- Boom! the woodlands lit up like exploding crackers all over, but they couldn’t remain still, they had to move! They had no fox holes or anything -- this was a nightmare…

[nathansinfantry]

The shells came down, whistling as they came. Branches snapped, the birds flew away, a cacophony of chaos. As the explosions went off, Jack’s ears popped and whined with the high pressure created. All around him, soil and parts of trees bombarded him as the surroundings were obliterated. He took another look towards the weapons cache, and a direct hit took it. The ammunition and explosives caught light inside, creating an almighty explosion, throwing Jack backwards into the ground.

He pushed his head into his arm and into his ground, trying to protect his face from the shards of wood and metal behind him. He felt splinters pepper his back and legs, but it was nothing serious. He looked up to see the Americans moving towards him, bent on reaching the compound.

”Shit! Stop, the compounds the target! It’s been blown. We need to clear out!” McMillan grabbed him, yanking him out of the mud, and Jack only just managed to grab his rifle on the way up. ”Sarge, we need to get moving, get as far away from here as possible, ASAP. They’ll send up scouts to check the carnage, we’re sitting ducks if we stay out here. Fuck cover, we just need to run.”

He didn’t even wait for the Thompson-wielding American’s to follow on before turning towards the direction of the bridge, and going hard out, smacking his feet into the ground as fast as they would go. The adrenalin surging through his body cut out the pain, survival instinct rising over training, not a single though crossing his mind, apart from the obligatory Move, or die.

The shells kept falling, all around him, tearing at the forest, killing off animals faster than the best predator. Jack kept moving, leaping over foxholes, vaulting fallen trees, and diving to the ground when he had that feeling something bad was about to happen, the most animal of all gut instincts that served the sole purpose to keep a man alive.

He lost his footing, falling on the edge of a foxhole, smacking hard on to the edge of the soil. Luckily, it was soft, absorbing him into it instead of cracking a rib, or winding him, or something terrible that would halt him in his death race. He stuck the butt of his rifle into the mud and pushed himself upwards, swinging his feet around the lip of the crater, and running on, desperation his fuel.

Yet another barrage of shells came down. Too close this time, and Jack was once again flung into the dirt, but this time something was different. He watched in horror as a boot flew over his head, landing with a sickening squelch meters in front of him. Eyes wide, he twisted around.

His right foot was missing.

”McMillan! Marshall! Miller! Help! I’ve lost my foot!” Already he felt the blood pumping out of his stump weakening him. His fate was in the hands of a trio of Americans. Oh joy.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

Dipping his head out of sheer instinct each time a loud crackle ripped through the air above them, Master Sergeant McMillan couldn’t help but grit his teeth each time the thunderous artillery exploded; as if the anticipation of the big-bang was worse than it actually was. In a manner of thinking, the anticipation was far worse than the shells landing - not knowing whether the next Kraut artillery shell would be the demise of your life. A simple woodlands deep in France was not where he wished to die today, not ever.

Gawping a long look at Sergeant Knight who yelled above the tremendous racket of noise, the Master Sergeant furrowed a look and strove his gaze off into the general direction of the armoury concealed behind a few dozen trees from their current bearing. He couldn’t see it, but it would make sense that the Huns were bombing their allocated location for a reason; Not just randomly. “You’re right…” he said more to himself, clarifying his clouded thought of judgement from the massacre of fireworks exploding around them, it would be a death-trap to run any further to the armoury, the place would light up the area like a global Christmas tree.

Pushing himself to his feet properly, Steven barely had a moment to respond or make an order, before the damn Sergeant ran! Although, he couldn’t blame him, this was no time to be playing silly games. “FALLBACK! FALLBACK!” he yelled out, flagging his arm out towards Sergeant Miller who’d dropped down into a smouldering pit where an artillery shell had quite cleanly landed - his verdict being “Lightening never struck in the same place twice”, without word, he simply pulled a confused look, before climbing back out and hurryingly followed in the same general direction of Sergeant Knight. Steven tried to remain composed, as he frantically looked around for Sergeant Marshall, but couldn’t see head nor tail through the wailing smoke, dirt, wood and thunderous flashing from the explosions erupting all around.

Cutting his loses, he tucked the Thompson SMG up behind himself and merely held a tight grip against the bonding strap as to not lose his weaponry. Plus, it gave him more leverage to dart about between the obstacles cascading throughout his path; Moving between the trees, Steven leapt over a fallen piece of timber and simultaneously ducked the moment his feet touched the ground, as yet another German piece of artillery thumped straight through a nearby tree. A close one at that. Moving on, he barely made it another several yards before a particularly close shell caught his attention, sending his body staggering sideways from the shockwave of it almost, briefly stunning him as dirt and grit found it’s self throttled against his head, completely knocking off his helmet in the process from the impact.

Staggering like a drunkard, his eyes wearily blinked and after a few seconds of standing there with a wobble, he slowly came back into himself; The shock or impact had him dazed, but either way this was no time to linger about in limbo, but then a faint cry caught his attention through the deafening racket like a pinprick to his thumb. Glancing to his helmet on the ground a few feet away, he didn’t have the time to grab it, as he simply inhaled a breath to move again. After moving between four trees, Steven’s foot stepped on something squeegee and caused him to step back almost instantly - but there laid a foot, a booted foot, with the laces still tied. “Oh God” he spelled out uncontrollably, expecting the worse of whomever it may be.

Reaching down, he grabbed the tattered foot by the laces and made his way through the smouldering heat of where the shell had just landed, finding Sergeant Knight no more than several foot away from the impact sight. “Sergeant!” he bellowed out, quickly running over to fall down beside him, dropping his foot down onto the ground. “Christ, hold still Knight” he yakked, fiddling a hand into a pouch tied to the back of his belt, slipping some standard medical gear. “You hurting anywhere else son?” he asked, wasting no time to amend the blooded stump before him, squirting in time to the rapid beating heart of Sergeant Knight. Ripping open a pack of white substance to sterilize the open wounded area, he doused the packet’s contents over the end of the leg, before he reeled out some bandages to press against the Sergeant’s blooded leg. “Hang in there Sergeant!” he yelled, reassuring himself more than anything, before he yanked out more bandages, watching as everything between his hands just became bloody so quickly.

Tying up a quick knot to try and hold the roughly dressed bandages together, he turned to face Sergeant Knight to speak, dipping his head some as yet another shell ran over their heads. “I’m gonna’ get you out of here Sergeant” he said comfortingly, mercilessly jabbing a quick administer of morphine from a single syrette, into the man’s wounded leg. Steven never warned people when he was going to give them morphine, as doing it quickly didn’t give them time to think about it.

Reaching over for his detached foot, he shoved it against Sergeant Knight’s chest and barked “Hold on to that! Someone will fix it back on you!”, before he raised himself to grab at the gruff of Sergeant Knight’s tunic to pull up. Leaning down on one knee, he hauled the wounded Sergeant across the back of his shoulders, ringing one of his arms up behind one of the Sergeant’s legs, whilst the other tugged his arm down to hang around his throat, holding tightly into the fabric of his sleeve. “Hold on now Sergeant” he forcefully said between the gritting of his teeth, taking the entire weight of the man upon his shoulders, wearily taking a few steps forwards, getting used to the uneven balance and heavy weight hanging from his back…

OOC:
You can mod the walk to the bridge if you like, so we don’t get stuck in one place. Better still, you could always have poor Sergeant Knight lose another foot? Lol.

[nathansinfantry]

Pain, was immense, absorbing Jack, pulling him down and not letting him go. Never had he known anything like it as the swirling air currents bombarded the bottom of his leg with small specks of wood, mud, and God knows what else. Everything that slid across it brought with it more pain, sending the man into spasms, trying to protect himself, but it was useless.

Steven dropped down beside Jack, and the man could only mutter a small ‘Thank You.’ The American fiddled with the leg, and gave him a syrette of Morphine. It was like Ambrosia, numbing the pain to a bearable level. Quite disturbingly, he felt his leg thrust into his hands, something he hoped he would never have to happen, and he felt himself hauled upon the strong American’s shoulders. Already, though, his vision was fading, the world turning to black as he was pulled down the path, his body being tortured with every uneven step. He held on as tight as possible, but his strength was waning with every step. If the American couldn’t get him out quickly, he was dead. His life was quite literally in another’s hands. He felt his eyelids collapse as he passed into the dark realm of unconciousness.

OOC: Steven, you can fit in another post, but then we’d be best closing this down.