Fian
Well-Known Member
Italy, Monte Cassino, 14th February 1944, 0745 Hours
As a person with horrible flashback issues, 1st Lieutenant Fian Vel Steyr remembered clearly every scene of his life since beginning his military career, China, being first introduced to the 1st Special Operations and Reconnaissance Team, and arriving at the frontline of Monte Cassino but yet something felt strange. In this ad-hoc briefing room inside a secure underground bunker only just occupied by German and Italian Social Republic troops mere hours ago was a plywood board which a German map of the local area was still pinned on it, one table immediately to the front of it, on which he was seated behind, and a whole lot of chairs facing him of which most of the new and some of the old members of the 1st SORT was seated, noisily waiting for the briefing to start on 0800 sharp.
It was immediately after Sicily that Allied Command initiated reorganization of NECO and non-NECO assets among the various SORTs. Fian had lost most notably Sergeant April and Corporal Roberts, two of his most senior and ranking NECO and non-NECO respectively, he imagined that they would become the experienced nucleus in which a new SORT team would form around. So by right he shouldn't be too familiar with the scene before him today, but yet it felt like he was here before, with a regular all male team and a laughing less jaded Van Steyr.
It could have been an alternate reality where the NECO program did not exist. The superhuman abilities of the NECO, of which the research papers and other trinkets recovered in the now destroyed secret Japanese research lab in China could barely explain or account for, was changing the course of history. Fian knew through his own intelligence circle that there was at least three SORT teams in operation at this point, which was a relatively small amount compared to the 10 million soldiers deployed by America alone, and so at this point only had a relatively small effect. But if the brains at Allied Command made sense of those papers, then theoretically an unlimited amount of NECOs could be produced over time. The path that history would take then would be completely alien.
The transmitted vibration and muffled noise from a German artillery barrage impacting the ground 20 feet above the ceiling shook him awake. The reinforced concrete and rammed earth roof of the bunker held and shrugged it off. Fian realized he had just been staring at the group all this time while his mind wandered, he stood up, slightly embarrassed. "I'm going to what passes as a washroom here, the briefing will begin in 10 minutes." and left.
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Meanwhile, further south...
A convoy of four American trucks, a jeep and a British Universal Carrier made its way through the central Italian countryside at medium pace. At this point the soft ground could provide smooth passage to the trucks, but barely. Dark clouds threatened to pour on a rain that would flow down the surrounding mountains and turn the road into a swamp. The Air Force had called off operations for today, but the express had to go on. If it really did rain then the units at the new Allied frontline at Monte Cassino would be hard pressed for supplies but not the 1st SORT, the all-terrain UC had separate and specific instructions to deliver itself, its two passengers and its tarpaulin covered cargo to the LT's group at all costs, it was merely coincidence that it was smack bang in the middle of the convoy and traveling in the same direction.
The huge Scotsman driving the UC and the obviously female NECO seated next to him looked like an odd couple. It would be a threesome if the third person who had the same orders to deliver himself to the 1st SORT could comfortably sit in the space occupied by the tarpaulin pile, but was instead seated shotgun in the truck cab behind the UC. The driver of the truck was a semi-Irish Brooklyn boy, closer to a man, who had probably learned his driving skill in dubious circumstances and for dubious purposes. His peripheral vision must be pretty good because all this time he was staring at the character out of the Wild West seated next to him.
The driver of the truck infront of the UC had a rude question, which he yelled leaning his head out of the window and craning backwards. "HEY LIMEY? DID THEY RUN OUT OF TRUCKS YOUR SIZE?"
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Meanwhile, back at the frontline, above ground...
The shelling had stopped for now.
A thin rain was falling upon the trenches. Beyond them in no man's land at least three Allied men were crawling in the light mud, radio in one hand and binoculars in another. The terrain was pockmarked with tank traps, barbed wires and craters laid and made by both Allied and Axis forces. There were also the occasional wrecked vehicle or tank but those were undeniably caused by Allied planes the day before. Each man carefully and quietly crawled between these terrain features and the cover they offered, trying to get as far ahead as they dared in the opaque light of a clouded sun. At last they each picked a suitable vantage point some distance between each other while keeping note of the nearest safe spot to relocate to.
"Sam here, I have eyes on left field." One spoke into the radio, lying down with one shoulder pressed up against a stump of a tree.
"This is Richard in the center, feeling comfy." The second one reported, the only sign of him was a small antenna poking above a hollow wreck of a Panzer IV.
"Paulson, covering right." He was practically invisible somewhere, but there was a low sound of sloshing mud over the radio.
Further behind these men, further behind the first line of trenches where most of the troops gathered with their heads down and further behind the second trench where the Allies had kept their supplies, vehicles, guns and tanks hopefully safe from Axis artillery was a small bushy hill overlooking the defences. It would be hard pressed for a normal marksman to see and much less shoot that far into no-man's land from here, but then again NECOs were not normal marksmen. "Snipers, do you copy, over?" A radio crackled here.
As a person with horrible flashback issues, 1st Lieutenant Fian Vel Steyr remembered clearly every scene of his life since beginning his military career, China, being first introduced to the 1st Special Operations and Reconnaissance Team, and arriving at the frontline of Monte Cassino but yet something felt strange. In this ad-hoc briefing room inside a secure underground bunker only just occupied by German and Italian Social Republic troops mere hours ago was a plywood board which a German map of the local area was still pinned on it, one table immediately to the front of it, on which he was seated behind, and a whole lot of chairs facing him of which most of the new and some of the old members of the 1st SORT was seated, noisily waiting for the briefing to start on 0800 sharp.
It was immediately after Sicily that Allied Command initiated reorganization of NECO and non-NECO assets among the various SORTs. Fian had lost most notably Sergeant April and Corporal Roberts, two of his most senior and ranking NECO and non-NECO respectively, he imagined that they would become the experienced nucleus in which a new SORT team would form around. So by right he shouldn't be too familiar with the scene before him today, but yet it felt like he was here before, with a regular all male team and a laughing less jaded Van Steyr.
It could have been an alternate reality where the NECO program did not exist. The superhuman abilities of the NECO, of which the research papers and other trinkets recovered in the now destroyed secret Japanese research lab in China could barely explain or account for, was changing the course of history. Fian knew through his own intelligence circle that there was at least three SORT teams in operation at this point, which was a relatively small amount compared to the 10 million soldiers deployed by America alone, and so at this point only had a relatively small effect. But if the brains at Allied Command made sense of those papers, then theoretically an unlimited amount of NECOs could be produced over time. The path that history would take then would be completely alien.
The transmitted vibration and muffled noise from a German artillery barrage impacting the ground 20 feet above the ceiling shook him awake. The reinforced concrete and rammed earth roof of the bunker held and shrugged it off. Fian realized he had just been staring at the group all this time while his mind wandered, he stood up, slightly embarrassed. "I'm going to what passes as a washroom here, the briefing will begin in 10 minutes." and left.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, further south...
A convoy of four American trucks, a jeep and a British Universal Carrier made its way through the central Italian countryside at medium pace. At this point the soft ground could provide smooth passage to the trucks, but barely. Dark clouds threatened to pour on a rain that would flow down the surrounding mountains and turn the road into a swamp. The Air Force had called off operations for today, but the express had to go on. If it really did rain then the units at the new Allied frontline at Monte Cassino would be hard pressed for supplies but not the 1st SORT, the all-terrain UC had separate and specific instructions to deliver itself, its two passengers and its tarpaulin covered cargo to the LT's group at all costs, it was merely coincidence that it was smack bang in the middle of the convoy and traveling in the same direction.
The huge Scotsman driving the UC and the obviously female NECO seated next to him looked like an odd couple. It would be a threesome if the third person who had the same orders to deliver himself to the 1st SORT could comfortably sit in the space occupied by the tarpaulin pile, but was instead seated shotgun in the truck cab behind the UC. The driver of the truck was a semi-Irish Brooklyn boy, closer to a man, who had probably learned his driving skill in dubious circumstances and for dubious purposes. His peripheral vision must be pretty good because all this time he was staring at the character out of the Wild West seated next to him.
The driver of the truck infront of the UC had a rude question, which he yelled leaning his head out of the window and craning backwards. "HEY LIMEY? DID THEY RUN OUT OF TRUCKS YOUR SIZE?"
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, back at the frontline, above ground...
The shelling had stopped for now.
A thin rain was falling upon the trenches. Beyond them in no man's land at least three Allied men were crawling in the light mud, radio in one hand and binoculars in another. The terrain was pockmarked with tank traps, barbed wires and craters laid and made by both Allied and Axis forces. There were also the occasional wrecked vehicle or tank but those were undeniably caused by Allied planes the day before. Each man carefully and quietly crawled between these terrain features and the cover they offered, trying to get as far ahead as they dared in the opaque light of a clouded sun. At last they each picked a suitable vantage point some distance between each other while keeping note of the nearest safe spot to relocate to.
"Sam here, I have eyes on left field." One spoke into the radio, lying down with one shoulder pressed up against a stump of a tree.
"This is Richard in the center, feeling comfy." The second one reported, the only sign of him was a small antenna poking above a hollow wreck of a Panzer IV.
"Paulson, covering right." He was practically invisible somewhere, but there was a low sound of sloshing mud over the radio.
Further behind these men, further behind the first line of trenches where most of the troops gathered with their heads down and further behind the second trench where the Allies had kept their supplies, vehicles, guns and tanks hopefully safe from Axis artillery was a small bushy hill overlooking the defences. It would be hard pressed for a normal marksman to see and much less shoot that far into no-man's land from here, but then again NECOs were not normal marksmen. "Snipers, do you copy, over?" A radio crackled here.
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