>>41938391
Instead, you catch the quiet rumble of engines in the distance. Your voice is harsh when it interrupts the bickering Frenchmen, now arguing the merits of a Welshman or Scotsman over an Englishman, and they quiet.

“Engines, oui,” a corporal behind you confirms your worst fear.

“Probably a punishment patrol; one of them got grabby hands with a woman, or something,” the Lieutenant guesses, and you shrug. “The question is,” he continues, “do we stop them, or let them continue?” If you let them continue, you'll have to abort the mission, having slaughtered one weapons squad and taken their arms, and perhaps letting the other two begin to fear the night and the terrors it might hold. On the other, you only have two faustpatronnes for the one launcher, and if there's more than two vehicles, you'll have to let the MG-34s open up as the infantry dismount, if there are infantry. Decisions decisions, and only moments to choose, to gamble the lives of your men and brothers-in-arms.

[] Let them pass and head home.
[] Attack; you've got men with experience with you, and surely there's enough potato masher grenades to take anything the faustpatronnes don't get.
[] Wait and see.

>>41938401
>[] Wait and see

>>41938401
>[x] Attack; you've got men with experience with you, and surely there's enough potato masher grenades to take anything the faustpatronnes don't get.

We have the advantage of surprise. An ambush at night is damn hard to fight out of, even with the best training.

>>41938401
>[] Wait and see.

>>41938401
>[x] Wait and see.

>>41938401
>[] Attack; you've got men with experience with you, and surely there's enough potato masher grenades to take anything the faustpatronnes don't get.
Without question.

>>41938452
Sounds good.

>>41938401
>[] Attack; you've got men with experience with you, and surely there's enough potato masher grenades to take anything the faustpatronnes don't get.

Sorry about that delay, the puppy had an accident. Writing right now!

The silence of the night hangs heavy on you and your men, save for the damnable rumble of those engines. That's getting closer, and you glance over the armaments. Two MG-34s, one faustpatronne launcher, four total shots. A couple of MP-40s, and the rest are Kar98ks. The machine guns and rifles are set up in a short L-pattern across the road, with two of the MP-40s in the woods on the right side, ready to get anyone running. The faustpatronne, gleefully plucked from your arms by a swarthy Greek immigrant by the name of Kapodistrias, is the anchor of the L, separated from the machine guns by a couple of rifleman on each side.

The two bickerers picked back up while everyone sorted themselves into position, and they're still going at it. “Look,” one said. “Obviously the Scots are better; they were the pointy tip of England's spear during the Empire's expansion for a reason.”

“Of course,” said the other. “Your point has merit, oui. Was it not the Highlanders that trounced us during l'empereur's time? But I posit that truly it was the Welshmen and their rapaciousness that beat us.” Fucking history majors, you think, and ignore the conversation in favor of checking the men's spacing, ammunition, and morale. There's four drums for each of the machine guns. Not enough, for your taste, but you don't doubt that you'll be able to get more. With the guns' rate of fire, you're worried you'll blow through it all in the first few seconds of the engagement. Thankfully, the Lieutenant, whose name is Blanchfils, reassures you.

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“I've given the machine guns to our gunners from before the Fall,” he tells you. “They're good, steady men, and they won't break easily.”

“It's not them breaking I'm worried about,” you say, “so much as blowing through all of the ammo.”

“Well, yes, but if that happens they still have rifles, non?”

You shrug, and the bickerers quiet down as the engines roar closer, now, and come 'round the turn in the road. It's two Sd.Kfz.251s, and an Sd.Kfz.222 between them, turret tracking back and forth.

They halt, and one of the men dismounts from the lead APC, drops his trousers, and squats against the side. Over the now idling engines, you can hear talk.

“Hans, get off the fucking Skoda,” a displeased voice says. “You almost crashed it last time.”

“No, Sergeant, I totally won't fuck it up, I promise,” a younger sounding one sounds. You glance at the Lieutenant, then back to Greek. You kneel.

“Can you scream?” You ask. He looks at you like you're an idiot.

“Of course I can scream, I'm a Greek. What do you need?”

[] Infantryman calling for his mother. Get them to dismount, so you can fuck 'em with the MG fire.
[] Girl being accosted.
[] Other?

>>41939595
>[] Girl being accosted.

Infantryman seems to me like it'd make them nervous.

>>41939595
>[] Other?
Old man in need of help

>>41939595
>[x] Infantryman calling for his mother. Get them to dismount, so you can fuck 'em with the MG fire.
Lets see if we can take the vehicles intact.

>>41939595
>[] Infantryman calling for his mother. Get them to dismount, so you can fuck 'em with the MG fire.

>>41939595
>Girl being accosted.
A man screaming for help might make them prepare for a firefight. A woman screaming for help can make a man forget to prepare for a firefight.

>>41939595
>[] Girl being accosted.

>>41939595
>[X] Girl being accosted.
Let's do this and get those Kfzs to boot.

>>41940829
Where will you put them?

Also, sorry this is taking so long, the puppy is being rowdy.

>>41940986
Up Jerry's arse, tomorrow preferably.

The Greek screams. It sends chills down your spine, and for a moment you're almost convinced that there's a young girl here, being jumped by rapacious thugs. The German's head swivels to stare in this direction, and you nudge Kapodistrias with your boot. He replies by screaming again, and you surmise he used to be an actor of some sort. The APCs pull to the side of the road and start disgorging their cargo of infantry, and that's when Kapodistrias puts the first faustpatrone right in the side of the engine. It explodes with a WHUMP, sending shrapnel everywhere and splattering the closest German with shards of metal, causing him to scream. The machine guns open up and rip into the clumps of Germans, still trying to shake themselves into anti-ambush formations. They hadn't expected an ambush; this area had been largely pacified.

A long spurt of return fire rips from the APC nearest you, stitching bursts across the dirt around you, Kapodistrias, and Blanchfils. Your machine guns return the favor, rattling the compartment and infantry clustering around it for cover. Some of the Germans take cover on the opposite sides of the armor, while the 222 tries to get around the stalled cars. The riflemen open up, taking aimed shots, while the MP-40s, situated past the Germans in the woods, place bursts at the enemy.

(Sorry, guys. The dog needed played with again. Gimli is a little fucking monster if he's not played with.)

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The air reeks of death and spent bullets, and in the cool April night air, the barrels of the machine guns are smoking. Your ears are ringing, and then there's a CRUMP. A grenade's gone off at the long end of the L-, and it's probably taken out at least two of your men. Swearing, you shake your head to clear the ringing from your ears, and the Lieutenant stands next to you, pistol drawn. He moves forward, firing steadily, taking his time. You stand too, and try to grab him by the back of his coat. You miss, and he takes another step forward.

[] Tackle him. He's going to get himself killed, and you need his supposed authority over the rest of the Frenchies.
[] Let him do what he ants

>>41941540
>[] Tackle him. He's going to get himself killed, and you need his supposed authority over the rest of the Frenchies.

>>41941540
>[x] Tackle him. He's going to get himself killed, and you need his supposed authority over the rest of the Frenchies.

Save it for the rest of the Jerrys you stupid twat.

>>41941540
>[x] Tackle him. He's going to get himself killed, and you need his supposed authority over the rest of the Frenchies.

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You run forward, then throw yourself into a dive. Your shoulder connects squarely with Blanchfils' back, and you hear an absolutely sickening CRUNCH come from your side. Pain shoots up and down you, and you want to roll your eyes and shriek in pain. Instead, you wrap your arms around the Lieutenant's midriff and drag him to the ground, even as he turns and starts hitting you.

“Let me go, McSorvan,” he snarls. “They killed my fucking men!”

“It's a goddamn war, Lieutenant, and you still have soldiers to look out for!”

“I will take vengeance for all the sons France has lost!”

“We're fucking working on it, damn you,” you bellow, and a chattering MP-40 sending spurts of dirt up around your ears is the response. Another grenade goes off and you roll, trying to get away from the shrapnel.

“Lieutenant, Irishman,” the voice that argued for the Scots yells. “Crawl to the nearest APC! If you can go under it, you can take the Germans with your pistols from behind, we've got them trapped!” You let go of the Lieutenant and slam a fist into his head; that seems to bring him to his senses.

“C'mon,” you tell him. “There's work to be done, Frenchie.” You draw the Hi-Power from its holster at your hip and set the safety to off, starting the crawl forward. The road is slick mud, churned up by running men and bullets and blood, and you want to be sick again, but there's nothing to lose. Your machine guns open up again, slamming into the APC you're heading for, trying to keep the men behind it exactly there.

Your shoulder shrieks an alarm signal at you every time you move your arm, and crawling is Hell. There's another spurt from an MP-40, and the mud around you is kicked up some more, signifying that the Germans aren't going to give up so easily. Another grenade goes off behind you, and one of the machine guns falls silent. You pass a German body, and see that he's breathing. He's either wounded or young and trying to hide, scared to death.

[] The only good German is a dead German.
[] Two wrongs don't make a right. Slip him your canteen, at least.
[] Ignore him.

>>41942477
>[x] Two wrongs don't make a right. Slip him your canteen, at least.
Damnit.

>>41942477
>[x] The only good German is a dead German.
A survivor might compromise everything. Take the shots from a distance, make it look like he died not long after his brothers. Wrong side in the wrong war.

>>41942477
>[] The only good German is a dead German.

>>41942477
>[] The only good German is a dead German.
no witnesses

Something inside you wants to spare him, to be better than the savagery of this war, to not compromise morals for expediency. That something is the remnant of a young man that once believed in chivalry.

You're close enough to the Skoda to sprint the rest of the way there, so you force yourself off the ground and upright and go straight into a run. A shot whistles past your ear, but you pay it no mind. When you slam into the side of the APC, your grip on the pistol loosens from the shock and you drop it. You stoop and fumble in the mud for it, fingers scrabbling and searching, and finally you find it.

Blanchfils slams into the Skoda beside you, and he grimaces at you. You check him over, and notice the hand pressed against his side. “I took one from the burst that missed you,” he explains through pained gasps.

“Okay. Are you still good to go?”

“Oui,” he says, and grins at you. “I am always ready to go, be it love or war. I am a true son of France,” he explains, and you laugh.

“Okay. On three, then?” You ask, and he nods. “Okay. Here we go-”

“Wait! Count to three, or count backwards from three?”

“Jesus Christ,” you say exasperatedly. “NOW!” You round the corner of the APC, handgun up and firing, and the first shot takes a Sergeant, MP-40 slung on his back, trying to prep a grenade, in the chest. He staggers backwards, and your next shot takes him in the neck. One hand tries to clamp down on it, stem the flow of blood, spurting backwards as he falls, and you fight back the urge to vomit again.

Instead, you're moving on to the next target, and he goes down as well. Something takes you low and in the thigh, and you fall backwards, catching yourself on the Skoda's side mirror. There's another flurry of gunfire, sharp and short, and then nothing else. The Germans lie dead around you, and you're afraid to ask the butcher's bill. Instead, you limp back around to the other side of the car and stare down at the still struggling for life German. You know you can't take him back to your grandmother's home with you, and you know you can't save his life. So you kneel, and ask his name.

“Alek,” he breathes hoarsely, sucking chest wound keeping him from getting a good lungful of air.

“I'm Jack, Alek. It's all going to be okay, all right?” You tell him. Taking the knife from your boot, you slide it up to his chest slowly.

“Okay,” he says. You give him a sip from your canteen and he spills most of it, but gets some. You slide the helmet off his head and let him get a glimpse of the sky. “It's- it's a beautiful night, Jack,” he manages to get out.

“Definitely, Alek,” you say sympathetically. “Can you think of your family for me? Your mother and father?”

He nods weakly, and you wrap his hands around one of your own. Then you slip the knife into his heart, and let him finish dying in your arms.

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>>41943944

“Stop right there, pig,” a voice calls out and you whirl, still crouched beside Alek's body. It's a red-headed woman, fairly middling height, with an MP-40 slung low at her side, holding what looks like a Russian Tokarev.

Out of the forest around her appear five or six men, similarly armed, but their guns are leveled at you and your men. You swallow, and reach for your pistol. In response, she puts a shot into the mud at your feet. “Not so fast, scum,” she orders. “This equipment and all your arms are being appropriated by the People's Soviet of Eure-et-Loir, for the glorious struggle against Fascism and Capitalism.”

[] “Do you think we could talk this over like civilized people?”
[] “How about, hmmm.... No?”

>>41943944
Cold, but necessary.

>>41944169
[x] “Do you think we could talk this over like civilized people?”

hay gurl

>>41944169
>[] “How about, hmmm.... No?”

>>41944307
>>41944234
How about I split the difference, gents?

>>41944666
Works for me.

>>41944666
Works for me as well.

“Lemme think about it,” you say. You think for a moment. Building good relations with your resistance neighbors, even if they are filthy communists, would certainly help. Folding them into your organization would, as well. Killing them, not so much. You're here to kill Germans and piss in their cornflakes, too.

On the other hand, this was YOUR operation, your ad-hoc ambush when the opportunity presented itself, and your dead men.

“You know what? I don't think I will. Tonight's not the night to fight it out, communist,” you say easily. “We've bled for this victory, and we're not in the mood to go home empty-handed. Can we talk about it over tea and biscuits?”

“You English,” she says, and you flush angrily. Thankfully, she can't see it. “Always tea and biscuits time, with you. I fled Poland when Poland was raped, because you British promised help then never sent it. I came to France, and again, words, all words, no talk. All you English do is talk and talk and tal-”

“That's a load of bollocks,” you say quietly. “We didn't leave the fucking French to fight it out themselves. Does BEF ring a bell? British Expeditionary Force? We lost an entire goddamn battalion of Highlanders last year, before Dunkirk. Don't fucking talk to me about loss, Pole. I did my damnedest to fly as hard and as good as possible, to buy every man on that beach, French, Pole, or Brit, time to get to the ships. I've got shrapnel in my arm, from a Jerry ack-ack shooting at me.”

“And? Do your people cry out under the heel of Fascist oppression?”

“Oh for the love of- Look, do you want to talk it out like civilized human beings or do you want to fight it out here?”

“We can... Talk,” she finally allows. “I am staying in the cathedral in Chartres. The day after tomorrow, you will come. Alone. Unarmed. Ask the priest for me. He'll let me know.” She and her men melt back into the forest, and the Lieutenant scoffs from behind you.

“Goddamn Communists,” he says. “Almost as bad as the Germans, if what came out of Poland before they went at each other is to be believed.”

“Probably is,” you say. “The Russian's civil war was absolutely brutal.”

“A shame, that,” he tsks. “They make good vodka.”

All right guys, that's all for tonight, sorry. Had a couple of puppy related things pop up, unfortunately, and he's a rowdy little bugger, so that took quite a bit longer than I'd hoped for. To be frank, we didn't get quite as far as I'd wanted, but hopefully we can make that up. Next time will be Thursday night, depending on a couple of things. Keep an eye on the twitter, I guess. (Which is: https://twitter.com/LoverofTang by the way)

Thanks for playing!

>>41945793
Thanks for running

>>41945793
Thanks for keeping at it bruh.