Chronicle:Popping in the night

"We're going to hang up the washing on the Cyning line, have you any dirty washing mother dear-"

A man wearing a olive green blazer with a clipboard under his right arm would raise it as a weapon and slap the man singing hard on the back, leaving a red mark, with a face as red as a tomato in a fit of anger.

"How many times have I had to tell you to shut the fuck up Dalsmið?"

The man with a red mark on his back would turn around revealing a half buttoned shirt and a hairy chest, on his head was a garrison cover cocked to the right, he was sitting not far from an anti-air gun he should have been manning, and the rest of the men there, also undressed for the summer months would stand to attention the minute they heard the crack of the clipboard, slowly turning around they would all eventually see the mustached face of their superior, fully clad in his formal uniform, with no specks, or undone collars, they would look in amazement at him, and one man, with a blank face and absolutely no worries would ask, in a deep voice.

"How the fuck are you not sweating your balls off Lieutenant?"

The officer would turn to the man, taking a drill cane out from under his left arm and bringing it to his right, tossing the clipboard aside, he would walk over to the man who said that, who would raise his arms to cover his face, the Officer would raise the cane, but would relent as a group of two other men with a case of rounds would march over and place it down, one of the men would sarcastically call out in a sing songy voice.

Hold the fort, for we are coming!

Upon reaching the logs set out to serve as chairs, the two men would plop their asses down, with one of them reaching into his gas mask pack, pulling a pack of cigarettes' before grabbing one and popping it into his mouth as the man next to him bummed one off of him, popping it into his mouth before lighting it up. The two men would look up at the officer with a look of confusion at his hate filled gaze, one of them would raise his arms and shrug, bringing the cigarette out of his mouth just to give a word,

"Sir, it is un-officerly to look at your men like a piece of meat."

"And it is un-soldierly to talk to an officer like a smart-ass, Aeldwin, what fucking tone!"

The lieutenant would grab his cane before bringing it down onto his shoulder, causing the soldier to yelp, before pulling out the cigarette, standing up and stomping it out. The lieutenant would take his seat and order the two men back up.

"Okay Clowns, it is time for all of us to man our posts, I have seen about 4 planes fly over... oh also, Francis let me bum a smoke off of you..."

The men would have been up, all of them with a bit of red on their backs and sweat covering their bodies, Dalsmið was on the gun, holding at the controls and sitting at its seat, carefully watching the skies at friendly planes passed, the lights in the skies began to show as the day turned to dark, and it swiftly began to get colder, some of the other men had began to grab their jumpers, but he was still there, letting his sweat go cold as he awaited the sounds of passing planes, the rush, ahead, Lieutenant Friar was watching the sky with binoculars, as loaders, and riflemen sat on the sides, prepared for paratroopers, while some were simply getting ready for the march ahead.

Friar would break the silence with a call "Dalsmið, 42 north, elevation..." he would slowly call it out while Dalsmið took a tight grip, taking aim he would begin firing while the others would make sure there was constant ammunition's, the cluck and chuck of the gun would sound, Dalsmið would notice some slight symbols on the plane as he lit it up, above them a sky battle was ensuing, but he had a single target, that being the now-obvious foreign plane that he was firing upon, he kept firing, leading his shot, and this infantryman and factory dweller would do pretty damn well sending it to the floor, and after only a few shots it would have hit the ground, however, the plane changed its direction and let off a few rounds at just the point it needed, stray bullets were flying towards the position and the entire platoon of men had to take cover, and a round would quickly find its way into Friars body, who stumbled and fell as the foreign plane turned down, Dalsmið was far to overjoyed with his victory and gave a shout of "Long Live the Sultan now, Huh, you are shit!" before being yoinked down off of the gun, with a tight tearing grip and dragged to nearby ditch by Corporal Aeldwin who would slap him as soon as he was fully in the ditch.

"Æthalstan, shut the fuck up!"

Aeldwin would look the man right in the eyes, his own were wide and and flared with hate as he reached for his bayonet and pulled it out, he would hold Æthalstan to the ground with one arm and bring his knife to Æthalstan's cheek, and he slowly brought it down a bit, cutting it a slight bit, before slapping him again, and whispering

"Next time you pull some bullshit like that, it won't be your fucking cheek!"

Æthalstan would lay there for a bit just as Aeldwin climbed off of him and grabbed his rifle, reaching and tearing at Æthalstan's collar before dragging him to the other side of the ditch, limp in shock before kicking him sending him onto his stomach where he would be able to push himself off of the ground and into a crouching position looking out over a road and facing the slowly rising sun, his eyes were glazed over but they were not much of a worry right now, right now his only worry was that he was going to get so much shit thrown at him for the situation that he would drown, and not at the problem that he may get some shrapnel stuck in his back from a loose bomb or round.

Fire. Fire. Mayday, Mayday. That's all he could see and all he could remember as he woke up in the cockpit of a crashed ship stuck in between a tree and a rock, burning at the back but not yet exploded. He must have been out for 1 maybe 2 minutes? He had inhaled a lot of smoke and was feeling awful, but any of the senses he could pull together gave one good idea and conclusion. He had to get out.

He looked up at the windshield and he began to kick it, kicking at it over and over again until it popped out, with a fantastic leap he would push the glass out, carrying it with him as he fell out, rolling onto his side he would slowly climb up, all around him there was fire in the woods, but it wasn't traditional, the fire burnt in many different ways and colors, taking up trees, bushes, and oil, colored red, orange, white, and some burning hot enough to make blue as if coming off of a burner on an oven, he would try to breath in but found it difficult, as he stumbled away from the plane which he assumed could not be far from burning further until it exploded, and as soon as he felt himself to be a safe distance away, nearly at the road, with all of his energy rent and tore as his blinks began to last longer and his steps began to hurt more, he would fall to the ground, landing in soft Grenedeneish grass.

He would try to sit up, and got into a pushup position, rolling a bit before pushing himself up with his elbows he finally got a good view of his plane, its colors fine, its emblem black in white, an eagle which was shot from the sky found itself seconds away from its ultimate destruction, and just as he began to hear gas and pressure and just as his elbows gave in and he began to fall to sleep, he heard a pop,

and a Bang.