Raining Shrapnel [Rhys]

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

Location: London, England
Time: 1500hrs
Conditions: Clear Skies, mild.

Side-Note: This is currently only open to myself and Rhys, also, Rhys. I didn’t mention you in the thread, because I didn’t know how you wanted to enter. Would’ve stopped you from writing a little more if I randomly mentioned you was in a woman’s clothes store.


“Two by the Pound! Two by the Pound!”[/b] a rich cockney trader’s voice bellowed out into the open market along the street, filled with buzzing civilians, who seemed totally oblivious to the war happening a few hundred miles away in France. “Evening there Sir, could I interest you in some silk stockings!?”[/b] a young merchant with a narrow and skinny face asked quickly, almost acting like a beggar as he hustled into Captain Brentwood’s way, hands portraying a sign of ‘Please buy them’ as the young rugged looking man held the pair of stockings like a fresh caught fish. Captain Brentwood ignored the pesky male and kept walking, he was known for his short temper and he wasn’t quite sure he’d get away with punishing civilians - somehow.

Captain Brentwood was dressed to the nines in his karki officer’s uniform, flat cap resting atop of his head and everything; He’d only been flown into London, England, within the past few hours. His company, the 7th Armoured Division, more commonly known as the Desert Rats, were on a small leave of absence; Calm before the storm, Captain Brentwood liked to think of it. His booted feet clapped against the fresh concrete of the pavement, a few wandering eyes buzzing into his general direction as he walked on by, a couple of young boys with their wooden toy guns pretending to shoot at him - Liam grinned, but continued to walk quickly along the sidewalk, a few lisping voices muttering something as he walked by, he could only hope they were praises…

Coming to a slow stop out side of a tailors, Captain Brentwood shuffled inwards towards the doorway, fumbling into each of his tunic’s pockets for his pack of cigarettes. Eventually fishing them out, he slipped one from the packet and shook out the lighter he’d left inside the pack of cigarettes, making quick work of the flint for a light, he lit the tobacco casually and inhaled with a strong breath. Sliding the cigarettes back into his pocket, a young man opened the door to the tailors behind him and slipped by the Captain, causing Liam to stiffen up a little temperamental as he felt his Webley Revolver hanging at his hip get touched. The young gentleman hardly waited about upon accidentally nudging his holster, as he flipped on his ball-cap hat to slip into the on moving crowd of the market.

“So much for appreciation in this bloody country” Captain Brentwood muttered slightly, as his idle fingers plucked the cigarette from off his lips, leaning against the shop window in the small doorway of the tailors behind him. Having a quiet smoke, before he continued his walk down the street, in hope to find a taxi to take him to his accommodation further up the road; Then a small crowd of uniformed soldiers across the street caught his attention, they must’ve been on leave too. Captain Brentwood smugly grinned to himself and rolled the cigarette back onto his lips, taking a long drag as he quietly watched them aimlessly wander along, browsing the market stalls as they cheerily continued along, helplessly unaware of the dangers they’d be facing in the next couple of weeks… They looked like fresh recruits…

[Rhys Bevan]

Rhys ambled pointlessly around the vast city of London, a sense of disappointment heavy in the pit of his stomach. This was the first time he had ever set foot in the capital and the tales he had heard of the streets being paved with gold seemed to be a slight over-exaggeration. A more accurate statement would be that the pavements were covered in an assortment of ambiguous brown patches and smelt somewhat of urine. It was a let-down, that was certain, but then, on the bright side, at least the officers would be hating it just as much as the NCO's. Or so the Staff Sergeant hoped.

At first he couldn't have believed his luck. Just nine days after being drafted into the Rats, he had been issued with a leave of absence to do with as he pleased and so, upon hearing that the majority of his companions would be spending their few days in London had hastily agreed to the offer of joining them. A big mistake, he sighed.

As well as the obvious lack of personal hygiene shared by Londoners, the locals made Rhys uneasy. He had heard of the rumours that gangs operated in the area and he had no intention of being stabbed to death whilst on leave. He didn't want to have an ironic death. That would be unfair. Of course, he would be dead, so it wouldn't really matter to him, but it was still a fair point.

Rhys was suddenly shoved aside by a tubby middle-aged gentleman without a word. The Staff Sergeant lost his footing and crashed into an indignified heap on the foul-smelling floor. It seemed that respect for the men who were saving their sorry hides from Hitler and his group of maniacs had not yet installed itself into London's society then.

Corporal Jack Diaz tried and failed to hide a smirk at his leader's misfortune and helped Rhys up from the dirt.

"You OK, Sergeant?"he grinned.

"It's not quite as glamarous as all that, is it, Jack?"scowled Rhys, brushing himself off as thoroughly as he could.

"Nothing ever is, mate," replied Diaz simply.

"True, true," muttered Rhys, smoothing himself down before turning back towards Diaz who gestured towards a couple of girls in the distance.

"Reckon I stand a chance with 'em?" he grinned.

"What? Them? They're hideous!" protested Rhys.

"Exactly,"

"Whatever," Rhys sighed. "By all means, go and have some fun. Enjoy your stalk, Jack..."

"I intend to," grinned the corporal, lifting his bowler hat in a farewell gesture before jogging over to the couple of ladies before him and putting an arm around both of them. Rhys waited with bated breath. No slap. That was a first. Lucky bugger, grinned Rhys to himself.

Rhys continued down the grimy path in a bid to try and find something of interest in the gloomy city. As he passed a sharp corner, a rank smell hit his nostrils full force and he recoiled in disgust. With the initial shock of repulsion gone, Rhys mumbled incoherently to himself before crashing headfirst into someone - or something. Rhys swallowed.

"Mr Brentwood," he stuttered. "I mean...I mean Captain. Captain Brentwood, of course...umm...I'm...umm...uh...sorry..."

This was turning out to be a really rotten day.

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

Shuffling his feet beneath himself, Captain Brentwood took another stiff draft of a breath on his cigarette, glumly observing the bewildered population of England pass him on by. No newspaper stands, articles in windows or even the apparent hole of war seemed to mark London; Sure, he’d only been here for a couple of hours, but everyone seemed, completely oblivious and utterly naïve that nothing was happening. Has the press been publishing “Heroic” fake victories of the Allies across the British Channel in France? How the Allied efforts were superior and nothing in comparison to the Axis brute - more than likely, this was a nation stuck in it’s old ways and Captain Brentwood was also resenting on accepting the leave. No one seemed to care.

The doorbell to the tailors behind himself rang again and this time, Captain Brentwood dropped back his shoulder and turned, expecting someone to try and scoot on by out of the shop. Instead, an old posh male leant against the flaking green paintwork of the door, with a smug grin beneath his moustache. “I do say dear chap, could you move from out of my doorway?”[/I] he requested with another blank and smug look, faking an irritated cough from a small wisp of smoke that’d drifted into his direction from the cigarette. Captain Brentwood straightened up and almost with a disgraced look, shook his head. “I’ll move when I’ve finished my cigarette - mate, so bugger off back into your store. Alright?” said Captain Brentwood with an intimidating tone, his patience growing thin to the lack of respect or kindness the people of London showed anymore.

“If you don’t ruddy move sir, I’ll go and phone the local police! You’re loitering on my property and disrupting business - Good day!”[/I] he angrily and stubbornly spat out, before slamming the door to return to his shop. Captain Brentwood froze for a moment, feeling quite shocked. No man would’ve spoken to him like that back at the barracks and more so, why would any man speak to him like that now? It seemed as if the casual smoke somewhere quiet irritated people, he was nothing of the sort, disrupting business!? Grumpily moaning beneath his breath, he snatched the cigarette from off his lips and pushed out onto the concrete walkway, the apparent smell of vegetables wafting along the market, but before Captain Brentwood could turn to get a sense of direction, someone collided straight into him and caused the Officer to stumble backwards a couple of steps against the shop window of the tailors. By now, Captain Brentwood was almost about ready to throttle the ignorant bystander, but turning to straighten up, to face the person, he soon found himself toe to toe with a Sergeant from his company.

“Sergeant? Staff Sergeant Bevan?” he uttered out questioning, before laughing a little to brush aside the temper of his. “That’s one hell of a push you’ve got there” he mumbled some, before he tugged up his belt a little, seeing as it had loosened from the stumble backwards. “What are you doing here Sergeant? Thought you’d be visiting family, Wales right?” he asked curiously, pulling the cigarette from off his lips to squint as the smoke drifted about his eyes beneath the visor of his cap momentarily. “Tell you what, hold that thought… You fancy getting a drink Sergeant? I don’t think I could stand being down this street any longer than I have too” he requested adamantly, turning his body some, as if waiting for them to walk -- “Almost about ready to throttle someone” he said a little aggravated by the persona of the crowd buzzing by, clearly annoyed.

[Rhys Bevan]

OOC: Sorry it's a bit short, not much I can say/I'm lazy.

Rhys blinked stupidly as the Captain burst out laughing. Whatever the Staff Sergeant had been expecting, it certainly hadn't been that his CO would invite him out for a drink.

"You fancy getting a drink Sergeant? I don’t think I could stand being down this street any longer than I have too..." he said. "Almost about ready to throttle someone,"

"Hear hear," grinned Rhys. "And, yeah, I could do with a drink, actually, sir. Although from personal experience, the beer most of the joints' around here serve is basically toilet water with bubbles. Do you know anywhere that serves digestible cuisine?"

Rhys didn't know the Captain very well, although he had served beneath him once before. Aeons ago, it seemed now, thought Rhys wistfully. All the Staff Sergeant knew was that Brentwood was good at his job; very good. He was one of the few men to have faced the elusive Wolfram on the battlefield and lived and consequently he was seen as one of the finest junior officers in the British army.

Of course, he was surprised that Brentwood knew his name let alone asked him out for a drink but then he guessed he shouldn't have been. Jack had told him once that the Captain instilled total loyalty amongst his troops and spent hours scanning their personal files so as to get to know them better. It was a bit sad in Rhys' opinion but it didn't stop the fact that Brentwood was a great rallier of men. Morale had never been higher in the 7th Armoured Division since he'd been elected as their new commander. And, of course, befriending an officer with such an obviously bright future ahead of him wasn't exactly bad news. Who knew, Rhys smiled to himself. Maybe he'd actually enjoy his company. On the other hand, he wouldn't be holding his breath.

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

OOC: No, I know there isn’t much to say and forgive me for god modding a little, but we’ll be standing there all day if I don’t say they began to walk or something…


Rolling the butt end of the cigarette against his lips, he played with the filter somewhat, taking brief inhales of the cigarette as he watched the young Sergeant contemplate on the thought of going for a drink. He seemed stiff as an ironing board! He could only imagine what was running through the Sergeant’s head; Punishments, court martial’s and a fowl tempered commander. He couldn’t help but grin upon the moment a confused look spread across his face on the word of a drink, as far as Captain Brentwood was concerned, they were out of the barracks and back to civilian life for a while. The least he could do, was make friends, rather than more enemies.

Holding his hand out a little in the general direction of which he began to walk, he insinuated for him to follow. “I second that Sergeant. The places around here are shit holes --” he bluntly said a little out-loud, emphasising the ‘Shit-Hole’ part enough, that a few bystanders glanced their way. It was true, the people were scumbags in the area now, complete and utter ignorant. “Never the less, I know a great little spot that most of the young cadets and lieutenants go to on leave - hopefully it’s still there” he said with suspicion to the tone of his voice, as if questioning himself. He couldn’t see why it wouldn’t still be there.

Taking one last puff from his cigarette, he promptly dropped it onto the floor in front of them a pace or two away and twisted his boot upon it as he approached with a further step to his stride. The atmosphere was almost choking, the street was crowded and every now and again, Captain Brentwood glanced back over his shoulder to make sure the Staff Sergeant was still in toe; He did read up upon the files of the soldiers beneath his command, particularly those transferring to his regiment with a swift hand load of soldiers beneath their command. “So, Sergeant… Tell me, did you really capture a Nazi? Sturmscharführer, wasn’t it?” he questioned curiously, looking to the Welshman briefly as he made his way through some of the people along their general path…

Before the man could reply, Captain Brentwood came to an apparent stop and drew his hands up upon his hips, taking a winded breath to overlook a sea of heads towards a nearby corner down a narrow street. “The place should be just down that road…” he muttered out, before once again he gave his attention back to the Welshman and Staff-Sergeant. “C’mon then lad, do spill the beans” he said with a smug grin, waiting to see if the report was true… Once again getting a little distracted, Captain Brentwood watched as three firemen dressed to the hilt in hear and helmets came running down the street, lumbering buckets of sand, shouting at people to move… Or something…

[Rhys Bevan]

Rhys grinned at the Captain's uniquely specific diagnosis of the London pubs. Shitholes. He couldn't agree more. Maybe the Captain wouldn't be so bad after all...

Brentwood vaguely gestured towards a general direction before them and Rhys followed him earnestly. The temperature had dropped a notable notch but Rhys wasn't really paying any attention. He was still mentally trying to picture where a sniper would position himself to pick him off. The towering buildings that beckoned him from either side were daunting for the young Staff Sergeant. Anyone could be up there...waiting.

Rhys shook his head forcefully. No, if he had ideas like that in his head all the time, he'd never enjoy himself. He got enough of being alert in a foul-smelling puddle while fighting in France, thank you very much.

"So, Sergeant… Tell me, did you really capture a Nazi? Sturmscharführer, wasn’t it?” asked Brentwood suddenly. Rhys opened his mouth to answer when the Captain suddenly stopped, almost causing the Welshman to stumble over, but eventually chose a small, winding road and carried on down it toweringly.

“C’mon then lad, do spill the beans," he grinned when the noise had calmed down.

"Uh, yeah. Slimy little bugger. Seemed to think that hiding in a hole would save him from a frag," replied Rhys, sharing the Captain's grin.

Rhys suddenly found himself barged out of the way by a muscular bloke dressed in full fire-fighting uniform, yelling at everyone around him. No, not yelling. Screaming. He was terrified. Rhys was about to raise an eyebrow with Brentwood but suddenly a roar filled the sky. An unmistakable sound. And then another. And another. Until all anyone could hear was the deafening scream that seemed to surround the city. Some civilians even dropped to the floor in pain, clutching their ears and mumbling incoherently to themselves. Rhys had heard the sound before, when visiting friends in Cardiff, and even now it filled his soul with an icy fear.

The sound of an air raid.

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

A couple of fireman pushed through the crowd, shouting incoherent and “blabberish” words from their husk voices towards the bystanders, but what really intrigued and worried Captain Brentwood, was a couple of the firemen a stone’s throw away down the street pushing people aside - searching for what seemed to be a manhole, waterline? “This is not good…” he mumbled beneath his breath worryingly, watching as a few young woman clutched at their children’s clothes, dragging them closely against their legs in fear they’d be swept away by the human tide of panicking neighbours in the street - all of which began to confer and talk amongst themselves, trying to work out what was happening… Was it a routine training run?

Then, the heavens above began to crackle with thunder. Freezing up, Captain Brentwood slowly looked towards the Staff Sergeant aside himself and muttered quietly, as if not wanting anyone else to hear. “Bombs… Distant Bombs”, the fear of an German Invasion taking place filled his heart temporarily, but then the apparent whistling in the short distance made him realise, things may be worse than a German Invasion right now, as bombs could be cascading their way instead. The Air-Raid sirens from the nearby town hall and a couple of outposts roared into life and already, people were dropping to the street as if laying against the concrete would suffice them from agony.

“Shit! Sergeant! We’ve got to get these people ---” but as his firm worrying figure of speech suddenly cut-short, a high pitched whistle that lasted around three seconds was enough to cause the Captain to freeze in complete fear and savour the last moments of what could be his last dying breaths; Surprisingly however, no thunderous boom emerged, rather a brief deafening sizzling noise, followed by numerous clunks and clangs, as if a shower of hail stones were scattering out amongst the street and it’s vehicles parked up. Multan red hot flares bounced from off the concrete and parked cars, a few cascading into nearby windows, which almost instantly engulfed the netting and curtains hanging into flames.

Captain Brentwood ducked instinctively and threw his arm out against the Sergeant’s chest to push backwards, his feet slipping a little as he stumbled back hastily, shielding his face with his spare hand, rather than stabilizing his balance as three hot flares came shooting past the two standing on the sidewalk. Then the screams began… “Ahhh! It BURNS!” a young male fell to the ground as one of the flares had throttled into his chest, melting into his flesh almost immediately, setting ablaze his waistcoat and shirt - but he wasn’t the only one, as a few other pedestrians fell to the ground, screaming out, trying to throw their clothing off. “Holy…” the Captain murmured out, watching as people rushed to their aid, but then it struck him. “These are markers…. These are markers! Sergeant! We’ve got to move! NOW!” he yelled out loudly, watching as one of the firemen on the street hauling a bucket of sand heard him, to then shout out “Extinguish them!!! They’re markers for a bombing!” - of course, this set mass panic amongst the people and civilians began to run like wild fire, whilst a few brave ripped off their jackets and garments quickly, slapping them against the hot flares to no avail of putting them out.

Knowing there was too many to even begin trying to extinguish, Captain Brentwood grabbed at the Sergeant’s tunic and pulled him along with him a few steps, yelling “C’mon! We’ve got to go!”, but his words soon fell on deaf ears as the whistling began again……….

(Have some fun, control some payloads demolishing the area. )

[Rhys Bevan]

Rhys froze in terror. All around him, he could see people screaming. People falling. People even dying. And there was nothing he could do to help. Absolutely nothing. He had never felt so useless in his life.

"Sergeant! We’ve got to move! NOW!” bellowed Brentwood at his side. Rhys could hardly hear him. The full realisation of what was going on was too much for his mind to handle. It was unreal.

"C’mon! We’ve got to go!r oared the Captain, tugging Rhys' tunic and suddenly dragging him a couple of steps. Rhys his ground and shook his head.

"We can't just leave them..." he mumbled in answer, as one unfortunate gentleman was slashed in the face by a rogue marker sending him writhing in pain on the harsh concrete floor as the flare bore into his skull.

Rhys heard a sharp whistling spiral through the air towards him and instinctively dived to the floor and rolled behind the pathetic cover of the rural vegetable cart before the already partially destroyed restaurant. A red-hot flare embedded itself into a windowsill where the Staff Sergeant's head had been a split second earlier.

A barrage hammered a tattoo into the main body of the cart, a couple of centimetres away from where the Welshman was lying. Rhys swallowed ruggedly and turned to the young man crouched at his side and double-took at the look of absolute and pure terror in his eyes. A look of unbridled fear danced around his pupils and they almost seemed to be...screaming. Rhys breathed deeply. Did his eyes look like that.

"Are you OK?" he asked breathlessly, wrinkling his nose as he did so. The smell of urine lay heavy on the air; the man had wet himself.

"Yeah....no...I don't..." replied the terrified man, his voice cracking. "I'm..."

"Listen, we've got to move," said Rhys slowly. "Get to cover. St Paul's Cathedral is just down the road; we'll be safe there, whatever the Gerries throw at us,"

"No way," said the man forcefully, shaking his head frantically. "I'm not moving,"

"You've got to," urged Rhys helplessly. "The cathedral..."

"I am not moving," repeated the man, glaring at Rhys defiantly. The Staff Sergeant sighed and took one last look at the terrified man beside him before leaving his side in search for better cover. He ducked behind a two-storey house and searched frantically for Brentwood? Had he already fled the alleyway? Or was he one of the many lunidentifiable imp forms lying still on the ground? As his eyes darted around the freezing street, he saw to his horror the man who he had been talking to but seconds earlier stagger to the floor with a red-hot flare slashed into his throat.

Suddenly, to his relief, Rhys identified the Captain in the midst of the action and crawled over to his side. He was vaguely aware of the sound of a sheet of glass smashing, and the subsequent screams of the locals as shards of glass ripped an unfortunate woman to pieces.

"Sir!" he yelled out hoarsely. "Get their attention! We've got to get to the cathedral...it's the only way anyone's going to survive this thing,"

Before the Captain could answer, silence echoed around the alleyway. The sound of the markers clinking against the floor ceased and suddenly the screaming stopped. Those remaining in the alleyway rose from their positions of cover, relief plastered across their faces. Some laughed. Some cried. Some even fainted. But Rhys knew that it was merely the calm before the storm. The bombs were coming.

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

As Captain Brentwood went to move, the Sergeant pulled against his grip and refused, which made Captain Brentwood stare back at the Sergeant in sheer anger and amazement; He was going to get them both killed! Zzzzzzzziiiiiiipppp! the high crackling whistle of something heading their way suddenly caught both of the men’s attention and Captain Brentwood broke his grasp from the Sergeant, feeling his body hurl it’s self into cover, whilst he himself quickly ran in the opposite direction, gasping for a quick breath as he fell into the doorway of what must’ve been another random shop down the street.

The concrete pillars between the doors rumbled as sparks and molten hot red flares shot on by, almost as if the sky was raining lava, civilians in the street being hurled from off their feet as the husk flares darted straight into their bodies - looking almost like a fictional sci fi movie the Hollywood actors would make up, with laser beams darting all over the place. Huddling against the pillar, the Captain watched a young boy, crying his heart out ran on by, Liam’s arm threw out in a delayed reaction, not quite believing what he was seeing until it was too late. Captain Brentwood just missed the fabric of his small jacket by an inch as he hurried on by, watching in complete awe as burning windowsill above break from it’s structure, crushing and burying the youngster in debris and flaming wood within an instant.

Ducking back into the doorway, Captain Brentwood stared lifelessly ahead, his hand dragging his Officer’s flat cap from off his head in sheer horror. These German bastards were murdering children and woman, worse still, he felt completely guilty for letting the poor boy run on by, if he just… maybe he could’ve… Captain Brentwood kicked himself mentally and flinched as yet more red hot projectiles came flying by, he had to snap out of it, this was war. Coughing as dust and smoke from the burning flares engulfed the street like a smokescreen effect, the Captain reluctantly crawled out from the doorway and coughed, holding his Officer’s hat over his mouth and nose whilst he made his way down the street back the way he came, needing to know if the Sergeant was still alive - he couldn’t leave a man behind.

“Sir!”[/b] the familiar voice broke the winded air and the Captain spun about himself to see the Sergeant, his hand dropping the Officer’s cap from off his face as he looked to the Sergeant, relieved to see he was okay, but the hugs could be saved until later. “Sergeant…” he replied huskily, the smoke of the dozens of flares almost choking. St, Peter’s cathedral was down the road, but that would be the worst place to run too; It was an historic monument and the flares cascaded down the streets were most probably meant for the church, just a little off course and their position in London to use the tube stations underground as shelter wouldn’t be too wise either, as all the nearby stations were either beneath or around the Thames, the was a high risk they could be flooded down there. So it did indeed leave one option.

“Alright Sergeant, we’ll do that… But in future, listen to me, or you’ll end up getting left behind” he firmly said to the Staff Sergeant, giving him a firm stare. If the Sergeant couldn’t listen to him to begin with, well, their relationship on the field of battle would be worse off than their friendship. Noticing a couple of fireman rig a hose into a nearby manhole, the Captain pushed himself up from off the ground and leant down to extend a hand and help the Sergeant up whilst he spoke. “Sergeant, get one of those firemen’s whistles, we’ll be needing it…” he said quickly, pointing towards the two nearby firemen who continued to rig up a hose. Un-holstering his Webley revolver, Captain Brentwood placed his Officer’s cap back onto his head. His uniform was dirty and musky by now, but he still had the challenging authority of trying to get these people to safety -- Rolling his thumb out against the jack hammer of his revolver, he paced over to a nearby turned over stall and stepped up onto it, aiming up to fire off a round from the revolver to get the cheering and anxious people’s attention abruptly.

“Everyone - Listen to me! We have to move now, St. Peter’s cathedral is just down the road, the German threat is not over yet! Leave all your belongings, we have to move, immediately!” he shouted out, looking over the heads of the people who stared at him. A few men came briskly walking forwards, rolling up their sleeves. “Okay, we’ll come with you. What about the wounded?”[/I] -- “There’s no time, gather the woman and children, we’ll be lucky to save ourselves!” they nodded reluctantly, but quickly ran back to their friends and family in the crowd, rounding them up. Captain Brentwood looked for his Sergeant quickly, as he holstered his revolver, but left the strap open. “Sergeant!” he called out, but then the whistling began again and Captain Brentwood worriedly looked up, before crying out. “DOWN, GET DOWN!”.

[Rhys Bevan]

Rhys nodded hurriedly as the Captain agreed with his decision. He bowed his head as Brentwood scolded him for his foolishness. The Staff Sergeant felt like a young child being told off by his father. His vague stab at "nobility" had almost got himself - and the Captain - killed.

"I won't disobey you again, sir," he said at last hesitantly with a formal salute. "You can trust me,"

"Sergeant, get one of those firemen’s whistles, we’ll be needing it…” said Brentwood, gesturing towards a couple of firemen a couple of feet away and helping the Staff Sergeant to his feet. Rhys nodded, saluted again, and darted off towards the two muscular figures near the gaping manhole in the middle of the street.

"Can I have one of your...one of your whistles..." bellowed Rhys, forced to shout to make himself heard.

"I'm a bit busy now, mate," snarled the first, as he wiped the persperation from his sweaty brow.

"I am Staff Sergeant Rhys Bevan of Her Majesty's Armed Forces," Rhys spat back at him, surprised at the vindictiveness of his voice. "And I order you to give you that whistle!"
"Fuck off," hissed the fireman, shoving Rhys aside. As he turned around to return to the task at hand, a huge explosion wracked the house beside him, shattering the glass and sending the three figures crashing to the floor, their rag-doll like bodies smashing to the floor limply.

Rhys blinked the burning from his eyes and took a deap breath. He let out a yell of pain at the realisation that every breath he took was agony for him. The Staff Sergeant rolled onto his back and breathed through his noise and the pain thankfully began to ebb away. It was still painful - agonisably so - but it was bearable. Just. Rhys stumbled to his feet and surveyed the street. It seemed that the first bomb to have been dropped had failed to incur any casualties, the huge stone building behind him having taken most of the impact. Rhys was just thankful that no one had been injured in the blast. Except for the firemen.

The Staff Sergeant looked down at his feet, where the first fireman lay, his mouth open in a silent scream. His skull had cracked on the concrete and a huge shard of glass was embedded in his portly stomach. Rhys had no idea which wound had killed him and neither did he much care. All he knew was that the man was dead and it would be futile to do anything about it.

The second fireman, the man who had, as of yet, not spoken, lay on the floor, twitching pathetically like a witless spider. His neck was broken. Rhys kneeled down, knowing that he would have to move, and move fast. He reached out a shaking hand to remove the whistle from around the dying man's neck and, with a sharp tug, it was loose. As he moved to withdraw his hand, the delirious fireman clutched his wrist in agony.

"Help me," he begged weakly. "Help me...."

"I can't," whispered Rhys, fighting back the urge to cry. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...I..."

The man let out a blood-curdling scream, a scream of utter hopelessness and futility and twitched one final time before falling still. He closed his eyes. For the last time.

Rhys rose to his feet, horrified at the deaths he had just witnessed, before pulling the whistle to his lips and blowing.

"Everybody!" he bellowed. "Follow me! Women and children first! Come on!"

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

BOOOOM![/b], a nearby building spattered out debris as it imploded and exploded from the German bomb, almost as if it sucked in the walls, before spitting them out in all directions. Captain Brentwood’s head flinched and tucked down into his left armpit, shielding his head as bricks and clumps of concrete came cascading into their general direction. A few hearty coughs erupted from the drifting dust and smog of smoke caused by the flames that’d erupted from the mass drop of flares…

Raising his head slowly, Captain Brentwood found himself huddled down against the ground, his body limp where he’d mercilessly thrown himself out of the general blast path of debris. “Jesus…” he said in a faint mumble, ducking down against instantly as another high pitch whistle in the short distance cut through the air, before another building succumbed to the devastating blast - the large tower block building down the end of the road merely collapsed into a heap across the road and high street, sending large plumes of thick grey smoke and dust upwards with it. “Get-Up… Get-Up” he chanted beneath his breath, building up enough esteem to ball his fists and push against the pavement to stagger to his feet, bawling out a cough as a lump of dust whirled into his gullet.

Squinting through the fog of rising smoke, be staggered over a couple of strewn bodies across his path, hardly able to see where he was going, until he reached a few steps out into the road. “Everyone okay!?” he shouted out, knowing fully well they weren’t. “Quick, get up, we have to move…” he weakly bellowed out, coughing again as he began to feel a little light headed from the lack of oxygen. Then the whistle blew and Staff Sergeant Bevan cried out for everyone to follow him; A small grin raised upon Captain Brentwood’s lips as he knew the Sergeant had it in him, the small smile turning into a broad one as he flagged his hand out towards the Sergeant a short distance away down the road, as if to say - Wait a moment, as he turned back to some civilians making their way out of the wreckage behind him.

“C’mon lads, girls… Follow that man, he’ll take you to --” but all of a sudden, without no forewarning of a whistle, a massive explosion erupted from the adjacent building across from Captain Brentwood a small group of people making their way out of the dirt and debris. “Argggh!” cried out Captain Brentwood, as he felt himself being sent sideways, along with the mangle of bodied civilians he was just talking too. A young girl, no older than twelve cried out in pain, perhaps the only noise from the small band of people that were standing about the Captain, ready to move. “Muuuummm! Muuuummm!”[/b] her cries petrifying the true reality, as just through a small clearing in the smoke, a young girl pushed at a limp woman on the floor… Her face blooded and dirty…

Captain Brentwood stirred a little as he felt a trickle of stones cascade across his face. His hair was strewn and mangled in dirt, as he laid against the ground, his Officer’s flat-cap rolling from out of the smouldering mist. Another sign of life erupted as one of the men coughed, before grumbling in pain as he pulled himself up, pushing back a couple of carcasses across his legs, knowing they were lifeless. As Captain Brentwood came around, he too coughed hard and attracted the attention of the bystander, almost ready to flee. “You okay… Sir?” the young man asked, crawling over towards Captain Brentwood, who had blood streaming down the side of his face from a cut, but didn’t look too shabby as he peered up, clearly awake and alive. “Y-Yeah…’ he said a little unsure, immediately patting down his body, relieved to feel his legs. “C’mon sir, let’s get you out of here” he said nervously, trying to reel an arm around the Captain’s shoulders to drag up, the dazed officer climbing to his feet numbly as he clutched against the young boy, hardly strong enough to support the heavier male…

[Rhys Bevan]

"Come on! Move it!" bellowed Rhys, urging his small group of havering companions forward. Even though his own legs felt as if they could give out beneath him at any moment, there could be no stopping. Not if they wanted to get out of the situation alive.

A German bomb spiralled down ferociously from the icy sky and, almost as if in slow motion, hurtled towards a sturdy brick house, ripping it apart as if had been made of wood. Rhys made to leap to the floor to avoid the inevtitable flying debris and to his horror discovered that he had landed on something soft. Turning his bruised face downwards, he stared straight into the unseeing eyes of a grisly looking corpse, lying eagle-like on the stony floor.

Repulsed, Rhys rolled himself off the dead woman and mentally mapped out the best route to make it to the cathedral. But every time he tried to think clearly, the grisly image of the mutated body staring back at him. This wasn't war - it was murder.

A young man, lying by his side, appeared to have chosen to stick to Rhys like a limpet had also seen the horrific sight. The expression on his face was even worse than the woman's herself; a look of utter terror mixed with a fair dash of hopelesness and defeat.

"I can't do this anymore," he mumbled. "I'm...I'm going home..."

"Come with us," whispered Rhys hoarsely. "I'll lead you to safety, I promise,"

"What and end up like her?" said the man, his lower lip wobbling as a tell-tale sign that he was not having the best of times. "No, no, I'm not going that way. My house is...is made of...is made of bricks and..."

"Listen, if you go back to your house, it'll end up as your coffin," snapped the Staff Sergeant, but the young man would not listen. Could not listen.

Without looking back, he scrambled to his feet and charged down the path, screaming hysterically. Rhys instinctively rose to his feet, ready to run after his foolish companion but hesitated. What was the use in both of them dying? But then...could he actually condemn him to death? Maybe Brentwood - who appeared to be picking up the rear - would discover the young man, sobbing in a puddle of his own urine, at some point and knock some sense into his head. One could only hope.

A sudden explosion ripped through the air like a knife, sending Rhys sprawling for cover, hitting his head painfully on a half-destroyed automobile. He gripped the car's bonnet and stumbled to his feet, substantially dazed before shaking his head firmly so as to be in control of his wits. From the screams he had heard, the blast had been a violent one; Rhys was lucky. If he had been just a few feet away...

As the smoke cleared and Rhys's sudden fit of coughing subsided, Rhys scoured the devestated street for sight of either Brentwood and his company or the reckless young man, who had practically charged head first into the path of the explosion but he could see nothing. If Brentwood was injured or worse still, dead, then...what would he do?

Rhys cleared his throat and drove the unwanted thoughts from his mind. Brentwood could look after himself, he was confident of that at least. And the group couldn't double back now to search for surviviors; they were perhaps a minute away from St. Paul's Cathedral and safety. If they ended up doing that, then they would surely be joining the fallen in littering the streets with fresh corpses. If Brentwood was still alive, he wouldn't want them to throw their lives away. Besides, he wasn't dead. He couldn't be.

Rhys suddenly remembered what his task was; the lives of his small company was what mattered. Where were they? Rhys frantically searched the apocalyptic street and, at last, located his companions. They were alive. Well, some of them at least.

The Staff Sergeant staggered back to where his group was cowering behind a parked jeep. Rhys counted them and saw to his sorrow that only five remained. It seemed that the young man who had fled in search of home had not been the only lost member of the group.

They looked up at Rhys pathetically, while one of the tiny group, a balding, middle-aged man rose to his feet and squared up to the Staff Sergeant.

"Sergeant," he began.

"Please, call me Rhys,"

"Rhys, then," said the middle-aged gentleman, glaring at him mutiniously. "My...my wife is back there. And my daughter. I...I think we should go back,"

"We can't go back, I've told you before," snarled Rhys. The man retreated nervously. Rhys hadn't meant to sound so bloody but...he didn't really have any choice.

"You don't have any family back there, I do," shouted the man forcefully, pushing away from his defensive position and squaring up to Rhys.

"What's your name, sir?" asked Rhys softly.

"Gareth Slater," answered the man with a touch of frost in his voice.

"Well, Mr Slater, I can assure you, Captain Brentwood will look after them," answered the Staff Sergeant over the sound of the unrelentless bombs, thankfully dropping nowhere near the small group.

"Yeah?" Slater snapped. "And what if he'd dead? What then, eh, Sergeant?"

Rhys opened his mouth to say something - anything - but no words came out. Slater smiled triumphantly and pushed past him.

"We need to get to the cathedral," Rhys said desperately.

"No, I need to get to my family!" Slater roared in answer. He checked whether the path was clear before gingerly stepping out into the open.

Unsure exactly what he was doing, Rhys withdrew his revolver and aimed it directly at the man's skull. He raised his arms in fear, visibly shaking.

"Come with me or I'll shoot you," he snarled. "I'm not bluffing. I'll shoot you,"

"You'd really kill an innocent man?" Slater whispered pathetically, his voice cracking in fear.

"If you go out there, you'll die anyway," replied Rhys stonily. "You can die by my hand or by the Germans. I'm not fussy,"

"You're not going to shoot me," hissed the middle-aged gentleman coldly. "You wouldn't kill a civilian. You haven't got the guts,"

Rhys knew that he was telling the truth and with a sigh, dropped his revolver to the rubble below, feeling drained at what he had almost done.

"Your wife's dead, Gareth," he said softly. "No one could have survived that blast. I'm sorry,"

Slater stared at Rhys disbelievingly as the Staff Sergeant returned his gaze sorrowfully. Without thinking, the middle-aged gentleman made a mad dash for the revolver on the floor and before Rhys could intervene, held it firmly to his own head.

"You're lying," he hissed, the revolver still placed squarely against his skull, his grimy hand quivering as he held it.

"No...I'm not..." answered Rhys wanly.

Slater opened his mouth to argue but it shut suddenly. He must have seen the truth in the Staff Sergeant's eyes. He stifled a sort of spluttering choke and turned a shade of pile that contrasted deeply with the blood splattered across his wary cheeks. He shived pathetically and murmured incoherently to himself.

"Bang," he whispered, his eyes half-mad in the evening light.

"Mr Slater..." said Rhys in a yell, suddenly realising that the man before him was genuinely going to end his own life.

The middle-aged man's finger hovered temporarily over the trigger before forcefully pressing down. The bullet ripped through his skull, and with an explosion of blood of a volcanic scale, he crashed backwards onto the harsh floor, his skull cracking on the rubble. The bullet had killed him instantly.

Rhys stared at the body of Mr Slater, unable to comprehend what he had just witnessed. He turned to the remaining four of the group - a family of three (made up of a mother, a father and a teenage son) as well as an elderly gentleman who suffered from horrendous injuries to the chest - nodded his head.

"Come on!" he roared. "Get moving!"

And with that. the four companions charged down the street. Rhys felt physically sick and not just as the brutal suicide of Gareth Slater. He had always believed that he would never leave a man behind, whatever the consequences. And now, he had advanced without his commanding officer. For all Rhys knew, he could be paralysed, screaming for help on the cold, London floor, answered only by the unstoppable barrage of bombs that relentlessly plummetted down from up above. But he had had no choice. That was what he would keep telling himself. He had had no choice...

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

Clutching against the Youngman’s clothing, Captain Brentwood staggered against the debris cascaded along the once peaceful road that laid beneath his feet; His body and mind unable to adapt so quickly to the torturing racket of bombs going off, screams of innocent people and the newfound earth beneath his feet, that was once the local newsagent’s or woman’s clothing store. Brickwork to a once flourishing society. No, everything seemed unreal and it almost felt like he was treading wearily down a road in hell; As things were at the moment, it could have been called just that.

The whistling of the Staff Sergeant’s mouthpiece erupted through the dense fog of smoke and drifting debris, causing Liam to try and squint a look through the gloom of the smoke to see the NCO; To no avail, he couldn’t see a damn thing! “Follow those shouts, follow that whistle!” Captain Brentwood demanded of the Youngman who helped him walk along, physically Captain Brentwood was okay, he had all limbs, fingers and toes, but the knock to the head had him slightly dazed and off balance. His face clearly showed the trauma of what had just hit him, as blood had ran down half of his entire face and neck, soaking up into the collar and shoulder board upon one side of his uniform.

Following the shouts and whistling in the mere distance, Liam soon tapped the Youngman helping him upon the shoulder, pointing down a nearby road to their right. “Take that road, it’ll get us…” but his breath soon ran short, as he coughed hard into his balled fist, choking against the element of dust and grit drifting into his airways. “Alright sir, hang in there” the young man said reassuringly, guessing what the rest of the sentence would have been, as he helped Captain Brentwood down a slope of hard debris into the narrow lane - which thankfully hadn’t collapsed in amongst it’s self just yet.

Thinking about the Staff Sergeant for a moment, Liam knew he was alright, by the whistling and shouting he’d called out to the innocents in the street to follow; He was thankful the young Sergeant had taken his advice on getting the people to safety, to stand up to the challenge and become their leader. One life over many, Captain Brentwood couldn’t help but think to himself, those were good odds and he would have done the same in the Sergeant’s position; Though, on a battlefield, with actual enemies on the ground, he wasn’t so sure he’d be able to leave a man behind to easily and hoped the Staff Sergeant wouldn’t be so eager next time…

Reaching the end of the road, the cathedral of St Pauls was glowing amongst the dim light of thunderous flashes erupting from nearby bombs dropping. A vague reminder of the war going on all around them. “Quick, get us to St Pauls!” Captain Brentwood demanded again, as he clasped against the Youngman’s shoulders, before looking around to notice the destruction surrounding the cathedral. It seemed as if the German bastards were looking to bomb this monument! The plan of seeking refuge in the building was beginning to turn into a daunting prospect; What if this was actually one of their targets!? As if by coincidence, a spitfire whizzed over top of them, sending the two men to the ground from the sheer buzzing noise of it being so low, before green and red flares were spat out from a contraption mounted to the belly of the fast moving spitfire, raining a multitude of fireworks onto the building and down the street.

Pushing against the ground, Captain Brentwood looked to the Youngman and eagerly grabbed at his shoulder to shake “It’s a blooming target! Did you hear--” but as the body slumped sideways from Liam’s shaking, he stared in horror to see the Youngman dead; He’d fallen on a shattered spear-end of iron fence, that’d punctured straight through his chest. Looking away, he shook his head and tried not to think of the corpse beside him, particularly as a band of firemen came running to the cathedral, hosing at the flares best they could… He had to help them… So Liam pushed against the debris with an almighty reserve of strength and staggered to his feet, slowly walking towards the general direction of St Peter’s, his body weakly and almost lazily, walked through the dirt mounds beneath his feet. He was dazed still and in no fit shape to be doing cartwheels.

[Rhys Bevan]

Rhys and the few survivors of the original party staggered through the rough streets as the stench of death filled the air. Hundreds of men must have died in the atack, thought Rhys, marshaling his thoughts long enough to actually be able to think fluidly without being interrupted by the blood-curdling screams that lay heavy in the air. Rhys turned back to his companions a second before a piece of shrapnel sliced into the skull of the elderly gentleman who was taking up the rear, slashing off half of his head and sending silvers of brain everywhere. The mutilated body fell forwards and for a moment there was silence, broken only by the screams of the middle-aged mother at her companion's grisly death. "Move it!" bellowed Rhys, ignoring the wave of sickness that passed over him and pushing forward towards the beacon that was the cathedral.

A spray of explosions around the monument forced Rhys to swerve away at the last minute. The mother was not so lucky and a second later, she lay dead, her skull ripped off her body and a piece of shrapnel embedded eternally into her clammy throat. Rhys breathed heavily, avoiding a cluster of falling rubble by a couple of inches and turned to the remainder of the group. A man and his teenage son stood, aghast at the death of their wife and mother respectively. The man, who could have been no younger than fifty, vomited violently onto the rough floor and collapsed onto the pavement semi-conscious.

"Run!" roared Rhys towards the teenage boy. "Get out of here! I'll get your father but run!" The boy didn't need telling twice. Without looking back, he charged through the streets away from the horror he had seen in search of safety. Safety that unfortunately he would never find.

Rhys moved gingerly over to where the man lay, spread down on the floor eagle-like as he blinked faintly, succumbed to the simple horror of the night. "Come on," whispered Rhys. "Come on; get up,"

But it was no use. The man was delirious and he could do nothing but lie there blinking and muttering to himself. A second later, a jarring explosion resounded from directly above the two figures. Rhys dived to the floor and rolled behind the shell of an almost annhilated car. He opened one eye and saw a single broken arm poking out from beneath a pile of rubble, fallen from the rooftop above. The man's body had been crushed brutally and Rhys knew he would lie buried beneath rubble for the rest of the night. Who knew what would kill him first? The rubble itself...or suffocating under its weight? Whatever the case, there was nothing Rhys could do about it now. He was alone and the bombs were still dropping unmercilessly. His course towards St. Paul's cathedral had been destroyed beyond recognition and there was nothing to do but push aimlessly on and try to survive.

And then the bombs stopped.

Rhys breathed a sigh of relief and slumped to the floor in exhaustion; he had never felt so tired. His hair was matted with blood, sweat and even the odd silver of brain and he was having trouble breathing. But he was alive. And that was all that mattered.

The Staff Sergeant staggered to his feet and, confident that the German enemy had left the scene, he pushed forwards in the bid of finding some survivors who he could maybe pull away from the gaping jaws of death. As he moved through the streets, he could at last take a proper look at the horros of the attack. Bodies - and bits of bodies - littered the entire area and mutilated corpses stared back at him everywhere he went. One such corpse was that of the teenage boy who he had bid farewell to but minutes earlier, staring unseeingly back at him, the top half of his body seperated from the bottom.m The Staff Sergeant stumbled on and, after a couple of minutes of walking gingerly through freezing streets, splattered with blood, he came across a figure he had thought never to see again. Captain Brentwood.

Rhys charged forward to the ill-looking CO and saluted him loyally as tears pricked his eyes. "Thank god you're alive, sir," he croaked. "Thank god,"

Behind the Captain seemed to be the remainder of his own party. A couple of metres behind him stood a wounded, well-dressed man, whose posh suit seemed less elaborate than it would have normally with blood splattered all over it. The only other survivor was a young girl, perhaps nine years old. Rhys felt a pang of horror fill his body. The girl was undoubtedly Gareth Slater's daughter; the resemblances were uncanny. He fell to his knees and looked her in the eyes.

"Hello," he said, his voice cracking. "What's your name?"

The girl stared back at him, her skin pale and her eyes bloodshot. "Rosemary Catherine Slater," she answered slowly, before collapsing into the Staff Sergeant's arms. She looked up at him. "Are you going to look after me?" she whispered. Rhys looked down at her sorowfully.

Her father was dead. Her mother was dead. She could have been no older than nine years old. Nine. So much horror had been subject to her in but one day. Rhys would do anything he could to look after her.

"Yes," he whispered back. "I'm going to look after you," The girl smiled wanly before swooning in Rhys' arms. Rhys held her tight for a few seconds, knowing full well that the girl would spend the rest of her childhood in an orphanage, a fate he would wish upon no one. Unless he could..truly...look after he. He layed her down on the floor and rose to his feet. "So, Captain," he said in hushed tones. "What's your stance on adoption?"

And with that, he crashed to the floor in a dead faint as the night's work took its toll.

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

Moderation Post:

The following CP has been issued:

Brentwood - 11CP

Rhys - 11CP

-JT