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Lutansia (OWoD)

)O( Hytegia )O(

New Member
arg-fallbackName=")O( Hytegia )O("/>
Act I - Arnhem Knights

It was a cold September evening - 1944.

Given the fact that sitting in a crunched plane, headed to what was sure to be your deathbed was one thing - but it was absolutely another thing to be doing it with total strangers. It almost seemed like a shitty bar joke:
Two American GIs and 21 British Airborne are flying above a warzone in a plane -
(but, for the life of you, you couldn't develop a punch-line to this whole ordeal. Regardless, it's probably about to play out anyways).

Due to the fact that the other American plane had to stow two special new radios, it turns out that the British had two open seats on their plane for the two unfortunate Yanks who drew the short straws. Welcome to the British 1st Airborne - for a moment, at least.

It was crammed on the plane, and the noise of a flying chunk of metal and propellers slicing through the turbulent winds left an eerie silence throughout the plane that was unmatched by the simple fact that you all were about to be jumping in on one of the heavier-guarded cities in this entire operation. Earlier, in the briefing, it was explained that this plane's orders were to locate some operative that would give them the slip into the city, therefore giving them the unique chance to raise some hell and cause confusion amongst the Krauts.

It was one of those missions that they gave your parents your medals for you.

Oh well - orders are orders. Nobody can argue with that.

Another thing that couldn't be argued was the fact that this plane was just given two of the best GIs to set foot in this theater. One, a strapping leader straight out of boot with the words that could make Lincoln consider lying an option. Another, a world-class shooter with renown for shooting the burning tip off of his CO's cigar for calling him an incompetent shot.

The plane made a shuddering noise again, another gust of wind moving the plane slightly. Around the two Americans were several faces. Some of them scared, some of them apathetic. But two men in particular stuck out to you both - the only people you could see clearly (because, well, they were sitting in front of you) were a pair of the most odd-sighted fellows you would ever see. One of them was tall, and had a mustache that you could hang a coat on. He had brown hair, short trimmed. The other was smaller than the average man, making him a shrimp compared two the giant that towered over himself - he had blonde hair, with a bit of blonde 5 o'clock shadow creeping on his face that was barely visible. They both wore blue berets, with meaning that was completely lost to the Americans. They were talking, with a bit of laughter on the sides.

(You may interact with the rest of the plane, and each other.)


For Liam Schipper, (or Liam Schleisser as the people around town call him), he was a bit on-edge tonight... The last several months had been spent in underhanded work, and in possibly the most risky situation that could be said of anyone. Over half a year ago, he was dispatched by His Majesty's finest with the task of infiltrating the heavily-fortified and heavily-trafficked city in order to gather information, cause mayhem, disrupt communications, and so on and so forth by any means possible in preparation for the imminent strike that was to come from Allied forces.

As much progress as he has made, however, the strapping young man still had quite the bit of work to do. He had set up an information network within the city by several disgruntled locals, utilized the non-indoctrinated youth to help snag several weapons from the German forces and prepared them mentally for the coming "revolution" - and even had made progress in terms of preparing for the unit he was supposed to be herding into the city...
But, Liam was bright enough to realize that even the best laid plans never survive a boot hitting the battlefield. The second that the Germans would realize that they were being attacked, the defenses would shift and it would be nearly impossible to predict the best point of entree for the troops that were being sent. Needless to say, the quiet day was about to get plenty rough for the seeming-bar tender.

Liam was cleaning a glass behind a counter, hat canted on his head and a towel on his shoulder. Around him was the enemy (aside from a few of the broads that liked to make some coin here and there - and a waitress) all sitting around and relaxing, laughing to music and having their shares of drinks. Liam was one of the few people with the correct papers to be out after curfew, and the streets outside the window were dead empty compared to what they were in the daytime, except for the occasional wandering sentry that passed by the window.

Everything was ready for the young Brit to get up and go - his rubbish car parked in the back, always ready to roll if it decided to get moving.
But here is where a problem arises:
Liam is the only one tending the bar tonight. His absence would be noticed, and considered highly suspicious if he just got up and left right now... The bar was packed to the brim, like most other nights. It's closing would also be noticed.

(you may now interact with any NPCs via myself, and roll out any actions to be taken.)
[showmore=Hint]If your first move isn't obvious, you need to find a reason to close shop for the night.[/showmore]
Don tries to give the appearance of being comfortable, trying not to think about what's about to come. After lighting up a smoke, he leans in towards the tall, mustached man and nudges him with the back of his hand to grab his attention.
"Hey! Tommy!" He shouts over the noise of the plane, "How's it goin? What's with the hat?"
As if the man might not understand English, Don pinches the edge of his helmet and wiggles it to indicate hat as he says it.
Luke did his best to hide a scowl. This was not what he had been drafted for; riding herd on a bunch of damn Limeys though some pisspot occupied town. Momma Wilson's boy would do what he was ordered to, for God and country, but damn if he was gonna like it one lick.

He had a thought, then grinned and pulled up his map. One thing about being in charge ("Running a platoon's just like running a football team, soldier, Oo-ahh!") was that he didn't have to be the one rattling around like a loose rock in this rattletrap. "Hey, blondie," he beckoned to the smaller man across from him. Time enough to learn names on the ground. "Go around to the men, make sure they know the meet-up point." He had marked it on his map; the boss told him not to, but no point in even going if he was just gonna wander around occupied territory. "Any man gets hisself lost or hurt, they dump their gear in a building, blow it, and hole up. Kraut'sll think that was what the plane was fer. 'Mericans will pick 'em up when they roll through. Say it back, soldier."
arg-fallbackName=")O( Hytegia )O("/>
The tall man and the short, blonde man broke their conversation to look over at the pair of Americans, and each began engaging in their own conversations. The tall man adjusted his beret, a signet of a dagger on it. He looked back to his shorter companion a quick glance, laughed, and looked over to the pair.
"Special Air Service!" He said, as calmly as can be said on the ambient noise the plane was making. "How about that clunker of a helmet you're wearing?!"

The Blonde man looked back up to the Sargent, standing up and holding onto the "Oh Shit!" bar, looking down to the map. "Aye. Remind the men of the meet-up coordinates, and if they get caught in a bind dump their gear in a building and blow it with charge packs."
He looked about as happy to taking orders from a Yank as Luke probably felt about being crammed in this unfortunate situation of being crammed in the flying tin-can with a bunch of Brits... But he did as he was told, moving about the plane, talking to each one of the men and reminding them of their rally point once they hit boots-on-ground.
Well, at least they can take orders. Telling them to ditch their gear might at least keep them from getting stupid and winding up shot while stumbling around the countryside playing at being a lone commando.

Luke considered any more orders he wanted to give; but, ah, hell, no point it riling up the men any more right now. These "Airborne" fellas probably knew just as much about jumping out of a perfectly good airplane as he did, and whatever else was left could be sorted out on the nice firm dirt. Luke gave his own gear one more quick check, then settled back to his map.

One sure thing, this platoon was staying the hell away from that meat grinder of a bridge. Holding the ball is fun, but not if you can't move and the other team started piling on top of you. Maybe they could hit an ammo dump if the spy knew where it was; maybe get Don close enough to put a bullet through the left nostril of the Kraut commander. Blocking up the roads would be harder, but it would take the pressure off the bridge for the unlucky saps who actually went there. Most important, get some transport and scoot out of there before the bullets started flying. If the mission succeeded, he would be forgiven; if the mission failed, it wouldn't matter too much anyway.
Don nodded, putting on a grin. "101st Airborn," he answered and held out one hand. "Don Riley. Looks like we're gonna be saddled together for this one." He took a long draw off his cigarette, silently hoping that it wouldn't be his last, and savoring it in case it was. At least he could keep his nerves under control, even if he felt like he was riding a wild horse into a burning stable.
arg-fallbackName=")O( Hytegia )O("/>
The mustached man shook his hand, grinning. "You look like you're enjoying them a little too much, aren't ya? Is them Lucky Strikes?"

Just as he was toiling about in conversation, the blonde man returned from his rounds and looked to Luke with a professional notion in his eyes. "Orders distributed." Blondie sat back down, trying to return to his somewhat-relaxed position as before, now having to readjust to the seat after his movements about the plane.
"So," he remarked, leaning foreward, talking over plane noise. "This operative on the ground - how do you think he's going to find us in the mess that's about to break out?! As soon as they realize that people are falling from the sky, them Krauts will be scrambling around, firing the flack cannons, and generally let Hell loose! Not the most ideal situation for finding someone!"

The question was more a pre-cursory than anything. Unless the Sargent had something that they didn't get during the briefing they received, it wasn't really listed how they would exactly meet this operative in any fashion. It was one of those things that you know is going to be
Liam (Schleisser) looked around the room. The air felt heavy with the smell of beer and the semi-comfortable heat coming from the blackened-iron home-made stove stood in the centre of the common room. A German orchestra could be heard from the gramophone, resounding against the oaken wall panels. The floorboards were - too - loudly tapped by German feet in German boots of German soldiers. Dutch beer had made them merry, and the girl sat on each of the soldiers' laps only heightened their spirits. Kim, the local barmaid, occasionally suffered the touch of a soldier's hand to her legs, or to her arse. To all outward appearances, she took it with dignity. Liam knew she'd be fuming inside, though, but one gets used to even the worst kind of treatment over time.

Sadly he couldn't leave the bar to Kim alone. She was hardly fit to do much more than bringing customers their drinks, and Liam didn't like the thought of having to leave her alone with this crowd. Not that all German soldiers were bastards, though. Enemies, yes, but not all of them as evil as he had thought before being sent here. However little sympathy would be spared if this group of belching 'Moffen' - the Dutch cuss word for Germans - should they inadvertently stand in the path of a travelling bullet.
Yet not tonight. Tonight he was still that bartender they could trust not to spit in their beers, and with whom they could simply slur away in German about those 'Sà¼sse Madchen" that worked here. That this wasn't QUITE all of the truth was lost on them and, sadly, also on Kim and a number of the hookers. There were two 'nightly ladies' whose trust Liam had managed to get and who had come through for him more than once. But they weren't ready to risk their lives for every next thing Liam planned.

Tonight, though, he had different things to worry about. If he was stuck here he'd have no way of continuing his preparations. Over time he'd managed to get Resistance to clear out three buildings and spread some of the weaponry and other equipment out over them. He'd promised he'd check with the people left in charge of each of the places tonight, but that would take some social acrobatics.
Getting German soldiers to leave, however, especially with a lady to take care of them, was a task close to insurmountable. He'd have to think of a way to make them WANT to leave for the night. The only thing that came to mind, though, was setting the place on fire. Now THAT would surely gather attention. And attention was something he definitely wasn't looking for. Besides, even if he'd manage to covertly cause the stove to fall and.... wait a minute!
[showmore=Out Of Character, OOC]Liam's plan is this: The stove being the only source of heat, what with rations and all, making it go "broke" might just cause the Soldiers to give up for the night![/showmore]

"Kim! Wash these glasses for me while I get some more wood for the stove."
[showmore=OOC]Liam's idea is go actually get some wood from the shed out back, where he might have an old broken tire standing. If he can cut off a few strips of that and "accidentally" add some/ have some added to the fire, the place would be clogging with black smoke in no time. He can then toss it on "broken stove" and promise to fix it by the next day.[/showmore]
Hell if Luke new how this cockamamie operation was supposed to work, but no point in admitting that to an audience. "I'll track 'em by smell. Got the nose of a bloodhound, I do." A gnarled finger tapped at a rather thin nose. "How I kept track of my pigs, I tell you. Only failed me once. I had this pig, boy, the cleanest you ever did see. Why, if I left him alone in the waller he'd wash up all the mud before I got back. So one day I seen there was a loose board and he done wandered off. So I says to pa, pa, I gotta catch me a pig, so ..." Luke spun the yarn easily, borrowing pieces of the whoppers his uncles had told him growing up. A man who was scoffing is disbelief wasn't going to be busy worrying, after all.
Don glanced down at his cigarette. "We'll see how Lucky they are, hey? Want one?" He proffered the pack, and turned to listen to Luke's story. As Luke wrapped up, Don lept in, "Oh what a load of horseshit. Can you believe this guy?" He tossed a grin to the mustached man. "You know, back in Hanover, they say pigs is smarter than people. Actually, it's usually the city folk what point that out though. See, now, there's something to that. I was out huntin in the woods one day, and one of our sow got loose." He leaped into as tall a story as could be told, though not nearly with the style that Luke could put on it. It was a good distraction from what was going on around him, and he needed that.
arg-fallbackName=")O( Hytegia )O("/>
[showmore=OoC to All]Since we're doing OWoD, we can just use UmbralEchoes Dice roller combined with a screen cap in a separate tag as evidence of the roll's authenticity. You can just add it to the action in parenthesis with italics (ex. 17 successes) - also note if you've used any Willpower to the action's use.
It's got a wee bit more of a simplistic air to it's use than the other site.[/showmore]

In Arnhem -
[showmore=OoC to Noth]I'll allow it - when performing the action, roll Performance + Manipulation with standard difficulty.[/showmore]

The girl smiled, waving at him:
"Alright, Liam!" she said, walking up to the bar. She almost tripped over a stair over a single elevated part of the bar floor, but she made it quite well considering the crowded nature that came with a military bar.
At that moment, the men began singing songs around one of the less-wasted men on piano, making them break out into a drawl of drunken chorus that was unmatched by any flock of dying geese in the world. It's quite alright, though - once Liam made it out back, the noise became almost an echo out a door as he left, finding an older tire quite easily.


Meanwhile, in the Sky -

The two Brits let out a laugh. Just low enough to not be audible over the plane's engine, but just enough to be visible that they were enjoying the dick-measuring contest between the two yanks. But they did seem to be enjoying it, sitting there listening to the back and forth about catching pigs.

Were they possibly fulfilling a nice stereotype for the Brits? Definitely.

But no matter. Everyone was distracted, which was good for the moment.

Once the stories were told and the racket died down, the taller man looked to the two Americans.
"Me name's Joseph Halden! Corporal!" he said, and then gestured to Blondie. "And he's Corporal Kelso. I'm not quite sure about chasing pigs, but we just got back from Africa. You need to keep an eye on the horizon for any Panzers - they have a hell of a firing range, and you might as well be hiding behind tissue paper if they're firing at you!"
The Blondie, formally known as Kelso, laughed and adjusted his beret whilst injecting:
"But on their own, they're sitting ducks. In Africa, we destroyed a few by dodging their fire up close and shoving a grenade down that little blast nozzle while they were reloading -"
Halden rolled his eyes, interrupting him. "This bastard here decides to get separated from the rest of the rest of his group, and comes back with a damned war story! He fucking charges the front of a tank, and it fires it's payload at him near-damned point blank. He fucking trips over a rock, misses being cut in half by a Panzer round, then hops up like some damned monkey on a pipe, stuffing in a grenade.
I wouldn't suggest that you two employ the same logic in your lives."

Halden and Kelso looked to each other, staring down - but eventually both ended up breaking in their own laughter.
After collecting a few decent chunks for the fire Liam knelt down by the tire, still fitted around a rusty old wheel that was beyond repair. The tire itself might have been useful for something else, but you know what they say about desperate times.
Out from his brown leather combat boots he magicked a German combat knife and cut off a few decent strips. These he carefully places in between the logs and wood chips, which he then picked up again and carried inside.

Inside the men had luckily switched over to singing slightly more bearable songs, and Liam's smile was reasonably genuine as he nodded to three of the soldiers howling "mehr Bier bitte!" while tapping their empty jugs on the table. The man's 'please' came across empty. Force of habit enforcing the quasi-polite.
"Kim! Drie bier voor de beste heren!" (3 beer for the fine gentlemen) Liam shot in the barmaid's direction. He then went to kneel by the fireplace just so, so that the majority of soldiers couldn't see exactly what he was putting in the stove. Not that they were paying him much attention currently, as the piano man had picked up another song, which soon, accompanied by the ramshackle choir of half-drunk or worse Germans, drowned out the gramophone's classical tunes.

Placing the logs just so, Liam managed to add in the strips of rubber. Satisfied, he closed the small door and took place behind the counter again, drying a handful of wet glasses. To keep himself occupied, as soon as Kim returned with some empty jugs Liam took it onto himself to show her some draught beer pouring techniques. It wasn't long before one of the ladies gave a small shriek.

"Liam! De kachel!" (Liam, the stove)
[showmore=Manipulation + Perormance]2011-10-29 16:38:22 Noth rolls 5 dice to Man + Perform (soldiers) 8,5,3,6,1 (1 success)
For some reason my print screen button doesn't work/ no clue where it is saved if it did work :S[/showmore]
(1 success)
"Sheisse!" Liam shouted as he turned round to face the first puffs of black smoke leaking through the stove's crevasses. Within no time the area immediately around the old stove was laden with streams of black smoke. One of the men took his jacket and flapped it up and down to get rid of the smoke, making it worse in the process. Liam silently thanked him for it.
With a fast pace (not too fast) Liam rushed to the stove and turned the small valves to close off the air supply. Unfortunately (not so much for Liam) the thing wasn't exactly built for extreme safety, and several cracks and holes still remained through which the smoke still steadily crept. Oh the fire would go out soon enough, but not before the room was beginning to clog up with smoke.
After 'fixing' the thing Liam stood, placed his hands on his hips and sighed, shaking his head. After a good cough - not needing to act that, as he inhaled a good bit of smoke - he turned to face the men and hookers, who were stayed in their merriment for the moment.

"Good sirs, and ladies of course!" Liam began to address the men in polite German. He could feel his nerves. If this backfired he might be stuck her for the rest of the night, and anything else happening that might cause him to close shop would be extra suspicious.
"I don't know what is the matter with that old rust bucket of a heater, but I'm afraid I can't vouch for your comfort, or your safety, any more tonight. The very best I can do is let her cool down now and promise you a refill of beer tomorrow evening. I promise I'll have it fixed by then, but I don't want to risk a fire by cleaning out the hot wood and stuff." Trying on a sincere face tinged with annoyance (part of the annoyance was real, but not because of the stove) Liam hoped his ruse would work, or that the men were at least drunken enough to accept it, for now.
arg-fallbackName=")O( Hytegia )O("/>
There were several sighs and groans as the depressed men left the shop - luckily, they were too drunk to realize the stink of burning rubber emitting from the stove that gave the nice little pub warmth. With a choking gasp, several of them tumbled out the door and staggered on towards their housing areas respectively leaving only the stench of booze and the occasional puddle of vomit alongside the street.

Now there was a terrible stench emitting from the stove and black smoke filling the room quite terribly. Hell, even Kim was beginning to vacate from the putrid stench and the smoke filling the room -

But the bar was cleared.
Don raised his eyebrows, exaggerating his sizing up of Kelso. "You," he said, "charged a tank head on and didn't get blown apart? What possessed you to charge in rather than sneak around it? Or is he pullin my leg?" All things considered, that's not the craziest story he'd heard, or even seen, in this war. Some guys were just born lucky.

He glanced to the rear door of the plane, his thoughts running over luck. With luck, he'd make it to the ground in one piece. With luck, there wouldn't be any krauts watching his position as he fell. So much rode on luck. He looked down at the little Bull's Eye logo of his Lucky Strike and barely kept himself from cringing at the omen. Best not to jinx himself. Why couldn't he be back home, carousing with his friends? This was what was expected of him though, this was what he was supposed to do. He took a deep breath, put on a plastic smile, and turned back to the rest of the crew.

"He's shittin me, right?"
"Donnie boy," Luke clasped a hand on the gullible sniper's shoulder, "you better stick with me or else you'll be owing 'em yer payslip and yer socks. Everyone knows you stay low and go for the treads. A tank with broke treads is just an oven or an icebox dependin' on the weather. And I do fancy me some pickled Kraut!" He grinned widely at his own lame pun, then limbered up to his feet as best he could.

The low ceiling meant he had to stoop just about double to get through the non-too-luxurious passenger compartment. Clambering it up to a window, he saw a ribbon of blue on the ground that may or may not be the Rhine. Good enough for the moment. "Allright, lads, enough flappin' for now. LTs inspection. All gear secured and tied up; the crew of this bird's liable to chuck us out the moment the guns open up, and we WILL be ready. Any man bungles his jump has gotta climb back up and try again." He moved from man to man to check parachute and ruck straps, and if his securing tugs were a bit indelicate, they were thorough. Lousy Limeys they were, but no man was gonna die on account of something he overlooked.
[showmore=OOC]I assumed everyone, including the barmaid, had left the bar by now. If not, presume that I sent home Kim just before this and made sure none of the hookers stuck around "offering a hand" or whatever :p[/showmore]

"Well fuck me sideways," Liam silently cursed as he wrapped a kitchen towel round his mouth to keep from gagging. The smell was horrific, but at least it had had the desired result. Now it was time for some quick damage control before he could finally go out for more important things. First order of business was ridding the stove of those nasty bits of rubber. The place would probably stink the rest of the night at least, but Liam didn't want to risk anyone having the bright idea to go check out the stove for themselves and finding evidence of foul play. He grabbed the thongs that lay on the ash tray beneath the stove while trying to waft away some of the smog to see the door clearly. One by one he picked out the burning pieces of rubber and placed them on the tray, before shutting the small door again and bringing the rubber outside, where he dumped them round a corner and threw some loose dirt on them.
After that part was done he made sure that the bar was left as it should be (not that he expected a burglary any time soon though); cash drawer was brought to the safe and doors locked. He did leave two small windows open though, just to air the room a bit.

Outside he decided against taking the car, as he wanted to spare the engine for now so it might come in handy when all hell broke loose, and took the old bicycle instead. Its tires were patched up so often that riding it felt like traversing over rocky terrain even on well-paved roads. It had a characteristic squeak every other turn of the wheel and the dynamo was too rusty to function properly. But it worked. And so he set off to the first safe house, taking a slight diversion to avoid the main roads where nightly patrols frequented more often. Yes, he did have the papers, but he didn't want to have to lie about where he was going too often.
arg-fallbackName=")O( Hytegia )O("/>

The city was quiet that night, and the bike ride was pretty much uneventful as far as things went. It was a path well-traveled, seeing as it's not unusual to travel through the alleyways (which by all rights, could be considered roads if people were idiotic enough to drive on them). But, an Arnhem night with the curfew in effect left the usually bustling sidewalks and alleys of the quite-large city bare and quiet, echoed by the chill that accompanies these months.
At least it wasn't in a state of eternal fog and gloom of London. In fact, it was a mostly-clear night.

You pull up your bike to a back-side ghetto cul-de-sac, with several houses nearly crammed together side-by-side. Your residence, of course, looked the same as the rest of them. 2 Stories. Brown wooden exteriors. Green shutters on the windows and the doors. Your eyes gaze up to the second story, not seeing the usual red scarf hanging out the window (the missus that lived there that he was splitting payments with was regarded as one of the finer and "cleaner" whores in Arnhem). The missus lived on the second story - the last several months of your life was spent laying on the less-than-glorious sofa on the first floor, paying half the rent every now and then.

Plus side to it, however, was that the entire bottom floor was yours to utilize as you pleased. You could remember it now -
beneath a loose floorboard in the dining area were all the documents and intel he had been passing back and forth that were still relevant to him (as per good practice, irrelevant and important things were quickly stuffed in the burner). Names, locations, contacts, inventory, prominent locations, routes, and so on were stored in that single spot.
In the main area, behind the dish cabinet was an indent caused by the shape of the cabinet itself that would never be noticed to the casual eye - there was stored several German firearms(Gewehr 41 (Semi/Bolt Action), MP 40 (Full-Auto)) tied in the cave behind it. If one was to pull out the bottom-most drawer and look on the floor of the cabinet there would be about 3 clips of ammunition for both weapons in the cabinet, a spare for the pistol he currently possessed, a box of shotgun shells, and 3 stick grenades.
So, where was the shotgun? It was in the sofa. Double Barrel boom stick, double action. It was here long before Liam had made this place home, though...

Whores need job security too.

As Liam's eyes trailed down from the second floor to the front door, a sight appeared that made him want to break his bike in half. A letter sticking out of the door itself -
It was most likely a message from Paul, the charismatic moron that Liam had gleaned with bright eyes about the Resistance and fighting the good fight. Great leader, but had the tactical sense of a pile of rocks.
For example, leaving critical messages on paper instead of face-to-face exchanges.
[showmore=Message Summary]It was a report that the Resistance was ready for anything - with a few statistics. It wasn't long.
Fucking idiot couldn't have just sent a messenger to tell this to him in person.[/showmore]


The Plane

Each man was standing - everyone checking everybody's gear after Luke had been through the group. Kelso and Halden's joking echoed a laugh from everyone, but also the situation. The stray remark everyone caught was:
"Nothing says 'desperately out of ideas' like telling several hundred men to jump out of a perfectly good aircraft, eh?"

Everything was good, all were ready to go...
10 minutes, and you'd all be waist-deep in Kraut shit.
[showmore=OOC]I did some digging around but couldn't find anything to confirm this. I seem to recall that they would jump from the back door of the plane, and pretty much line up and go once the signal is given, is that right? Also, I'd been imagining (I don't know if it was explicitly stated, can't find where it was if so) that we were at the back of the plane, last two seats as it were, which would also put us right at the front of the line to jump. This is based on that assumption, if I'm incorrect I don't mind changing it up as needed.

Also assuming Kelso and Halden don't turn down Don helping to double check their gear.[/showmore]

Having ensured his own gear is secured, and checking those nearest him (Luke, Kelso, and Halden), Don took a steadying breath and stepped into position, preparing to throw himself into enemy sights. He offered his best laugh to comment about leaping from a perfectly good aircraft, but ground his teeth as he turned away to face the door. He reached up to touch his sidearm, a luger he had won off one of his first kills, and focused on the thought that he'd be able to return fire, able to respond quickly if he landed amid enemies. He took one last draw from his Lucky before striking it out on his boot. Taking point, he glanced back over his shoulder, watching for the jump signal.
arg-fallbackName=")O( Hytegia )O("/>
[showmore=OOC]Jumping from the back of a back-loadng cargo planes are a recent innovation - by "recent" I mean post-WWII. Simply jump-out-of-the-plane maneuvers were done out this side like modern day skydivers tend to do... Except if you got jelly-knee'd you would be given a nice motivational shove to get you going.
Your post will still work, just noting that he will be facing the other way towards the doors at front.[/showmore]
[showmore=OOC]Usually there's a jumpmaster who stays on the plane, taps people to go, and chucks out any extra equipment after the soldiers jump. I'm just going to assume that our jumpmaster is a nameless NPC.[/showmore]

If this were a serial back home, this would be the time for the hero to turn around and give some big speech about honor and glory.

Damned if Luke could remember one. Oh well, better say something. He cranked his voice up high as it would go and addressed the men.

"Ya'll know what yer supposed to do. But remember, your mamas'd rather see you home then your medals. Keep yer wits about you, stay low, and stick together. We'll get through this somehow."

The door of the plane moved open and cut off any further talking. From this height the ground didn't even look real, just some kind of mirage off in the distance. Too high to see what the hell was going on, or what they might land on. Oh well - couldn't ride the plane back, couldn't shoot the pilot and land it himself. Only one way to go now.

The jump light barely flickered green before Luke hurled himself out the door frame, clearing the edges neat as passing through a hole in a defensive line.
[showmore=Disembarking]2011-11-05 23:37:39 ArthurWilborn rolls 5 dice to dex (enc) + athletics 6,9,4,10,6 (4 successes)[/showmore]

(4 successes)

He pulled his chute quick and started staring at the ground intently. It was real, sure enough, real as the next mountain over, and it would come up harder then Luke cared for. Don't miss don't miss don't miss don't miss don't miss don't you goddamn miss the damn ground.
[showmore=Landing]2011-11-05 23:40:30 ArthurWilborn rolls 3 dice to stamina (used willpower) 9,5,2 (2 successes)[/showmore]

2 successes, used willpower