Title: We Stand Alone Together

Summery: Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of Deathly Hallows were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

Rated: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

Brought to you by: Wesker888, the author behind such works as Just One Dance, For You I Will, and Crawling Under The Surface.

Disclaimer: I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

Author's Notes: Hey again, everyone!

So, I thought this story up when Crawling Under The Surfacewas still about half-way done. It's definitely a idea than you're all probably used to, but hey, the last three stories were met with a large, supporting audience, so why not this?

So it's a Muggle meets wizarding world fanfic. The British army versus the Death Eaters. Pretty much canon with Deathly Hallows, does not have any characters from the book (at least, I don't believe it will), and no plot line that you recognize. It'll be a good, not-so-clean fight.

Enjoy

The Calm Before The Storm

"In a true war story, if there's a moral at all, it's like the thread that makes cloth. You can't tease it out. You can't extract the meaning without unraveling the deeper meaning. And in the end, really, there's nothing much to say about a true war story, except maybe 'Oh.'

"True war stories do not generalize. They do not indulge in abstraction or analysis.

"For example: War is hell. As a moral declaration the old truism seems perfectly true, and yet because it abstracts, because it generalizes, I can't believe it with my stomach. Nothing turns inside.

"It comes down to gut instinct. A true war story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe."

The calm hum of the helicopters rang slowly from just behind the mountain tops. Long shadows zoomed over the landscape as they flew over head, sometimes over trees, other times over small villages, but always over sand. The sand was kicked up wherever they went, getting into the eyes of the people below, but above in the halos, the groups of soldiers were completely undisturbed by it, wearing goggles and gloves, listening to music, reading books, writing letters.

Behind the cockpit, one soldier sat with one leg hanging out the open door. He was a young man, with a Cru Cut of black hair, a big nose, in his own opinion, and he was tall and had a bit of a lanky appearance mixed in with his muscles. His M-4 carbine rested on his lap, the safety on so that it didn't accidentally go off and start a panic. He calmly chewed on a piece of gum, smacking it around in his jaw, his loud chewing drowned out by the helicopter humming, which was a good thing, because his chewing was known to drive fellow soldiers insane. They could never complain about it, however, for he outranked them by a good four or five ranks, and though he maintained a "strict but fair" attitude, he could still find it amusing to give them weekly latrine or Mess Hall duties, and not make it easy for them.

He was by no means the oldest soldier in their two hundred-man company, but neither was he the youngest. He was in his early thirties, with the oldest men being forty years old and the youngest- the "baby" of the company- was eighteen. He was a captain, recently promoted when his company commander had been transferred back to England. He had been a platoon leader before this, and had proved himself more than once on deployment, so no one doubted he would make a fine commanding officer when he took over the job. And, despite some nervousness at the beginning about being responsible for more lives, neither did he.

He had grown up in the highlands of Scotland, the land of Brigadoon and Braveheart, where Scotsmen were portrayed as either fierce, determined warriors or good-spirited partiers. If he had to pick one or the other, he would've gone with the warrior; how many times as a teen had he dreamed of pulling a William Wallace and charge the fields, ready to wage war on whoever his oppressors may be? Fake war had been all fun and games, but the real thing, he had come to discover, was far more serious than that. People died, and that was cold hard fact. He had lost some good men, but he had kept other good men alive, so that had to work with him somehow.

The helicopter was approaching the base. Below him, he saw his men, enjoying their every day activities. He looked at the men with him in the helicopter and started giving them hand signals. Move fast out the door, heads down, try not to trip over their supplies. They all nodded, acknowledging his commands. They had all been fully trained in how to execute and intercept commands without hesitation. They had all been trained in fire-arms, in medical care, in vehicles and radio maintenance, anything that could be thought of as useful for a soldier in the field, they were taught it. They were taught until their brains could hold no more, and their bodies were already at the peak of their physical performance, and yet still they managed to learn more, to train more, because anything they didn't learn or train for usually resulted in one of them in a plastic black bag with their name tagged to the opening.

It was only a few minutes later when the chopper finally arrived on the ground and hovered long enough for the twelve soldiers inside to hop out and run forward with their heads low so that the rotor blades didn't take their heads off or, at the very least, send their helmets flying into the desert. The other choppers landed as well and the soldiers in those aircraft mimicked their predecessors as they all rushed themselves off the airspace. Once all the soldiers were off the field, the pilots lowered their helicopters slowly, until their wheels hit the ground, then flipped the breaks and turned the engines off.

The captain reported towards his executive officer, one of the aforementioned oldest men in the company. A tall, well-built sturdy man with stone-gray eyes, his short hair already showing signs of gray in them, but stern and obedient he was. As his commander approached, he gave him a stern salute, which was haphazardly returned by the tired captain.

"Afternoon, Captain," the X.O. said in a deep British accent. "Nice weather, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aye, I would," replied the captain in his soft Scottish one. "Better than the nasty weather we had last week. Makes for a more enjoyable ride."

His assistant nodded with a smile and the two walked through their base, arms behind their backs, looking like the official soldiers that they were.

Their base housed, not counting the cooks and air personnel, one hundred and sixty members of a company of the British 16th Air Assault Brigade's Parachute Regiment, twenty men from the French Infanterie, sixteen soldiers from the Russian 4th Guards Tank Division, and a four-man sniper team from the German Kommando Spezialkräfte 5th platoon. Though the 16th was a British unit, the soldiers were a mix of British and Scottish and Irish as well. By now, they had all co-existed together for the better part of two years as a whole unit, as individual countries ranging from three or four years for the British to as long as thirteen for the Germans. Somehow, despite over a hundred or more years of distrust, war amongst the other, and many, many other conflicts between their countries, the four units managed to-for the most part- get along. They ate together, slept in the same rooms together, trained together, held contests and parties together, drank together, passed out together, and fought the enemy together. Occasionally, of course, they fought themselves- there was a nasty conflict between the Scots and the Irish during the first few days of their deployment, and by custom, the British and the French regarded each other wearily- but other than that, there were no major conflicts between the groups.

The base, codenamed Charlie Base, was the standard military operations base put into effect out in this desert. The center of the compound was a flat spot of dry sand in which the company met every morning for inspections, with chalk drawn in lines for if the lads wanted to play football. The barracks, long half-circle shaped buildings, went in rows of four and columns of five, with ten soldiers living in each one. The bunks, which were not bunks but thin cots with even thinner blankets, were arranged five down across from five down, and were separated in space no more than by the trunks at the foot of the cots. Personal space was defined by a line of black tape every man had placed around their bunk and trunk, with enough room to be able to get out of bed and their feet hit the floor without crossing over into the other man's space. Everyone respected each other's privacy, and did not cross over unless they received permission to do so.

At the north end of the compound was the helipad, where pilots, not officially signed in to the unit, brought them supplies and transported them to and from missions. On the south end was the motor pool, with the Humvees and trucks and medical buses and the likes. Next to that was the fuel depot, where the vehicles could be gassed up. At the east end were the three Russian tanks that the 4th Guards Division had loaned to them, along with the sixteen Russians that operated them. On the west end, under extremely heavy guard, was the ammunition dump for the rifle, shotgun, sniper rifle, machine-gun, sub-machine gun and pistol ammunition, as well as grenades, rockets and explosives.

There was an enlisted men's club, where the men gathered to watch television and play pool and clean weapons and gamble, located next to the center. Just north of that was the command post, the main headquarters for the company commander and platoon leaders. There was a firing range towards the west end of the compound, near the ammunition dump, and not far from that was an electronics building. The mess hall and medical bay were both located on opposite ends of the compound, which annoyed some of the men if they had to eat breakfast at one end and go to take some medication at the other. Despite the nuisances of everything being spread out, life on the compound was routine and predictable, and it was well welcomed to the men who knew how "interesting" things would get once they left the perimeter and went into the field.

The entire base was built on a small plateau surrounded by a riverbed. It was from this that the men got their water, after it had gone through many filters and had so many purified tablets added in that it removed any diseases. Even so, the men despised it, although they all drank it. There were two bridges built over the rivers leading them out, one to the north, and one to the south. A sentry tower stood at each bridge, with a lookout, usually a Frenchman by order of their commander, always positioned to watch for any unexpected incoming and send a warning to the other men to prepare the defenses.

The captain continued to look up towards the sky, at the blueness of it and the goldenness of the sun. Back home, as a child, whenever he was done with his make-believe war, he would lie back in the fields and stare up at the sky. Most times, it was cloudy- they usually got more rain than anything over there- but it was the really nice sunny days that he enjoyed the most. That brought him back to Scotland. Back to the life he missed with each hour that passed in this sand bowl.

"Thinking about home again?" his X.O. asked.

"Aye," he answered again. "Just wondering what they're doing right now."

"Your little girls' birthday's coming up, isn't it?"

"Next month."

"Will you be able to get home in time?"

"If me luck holds."

"Sir! Sir! Captain Wallace!"

Both officers stopped as another, younger British trooper ran up to them. He was a short kid, no taller than five foot five at the most. His beard was half-full, his eyes were beady behind his big square glasses, his hair was dirty-blonde, and his teeth were crooked and dirty. He was their company clerk, and he was one of the older (in time spent with the company) members of the unit, so much so that he was one of the most respected men in the company. He ran like a seven-year-old, with his desert-colored M-4 with M-203 grenade launcher clutched tightly in his hands, but he still managed to get up to his superiors with some breath left in him. He immediately snapped a quick salute and presented an envelope to Captain Wallace.

"This just came in, sir," he said in his soft British tone. "Sorry it took so long. Had to cut through a lot of red tape to get it."

Wallace grabbed the envelope and calmly opened it. His eyes scanned the small little note, his stern eyes savoring every syllable. His mouth curled into a large smile as he finished reading. He looked up at his clerk and nodded.

"Aye, thank you, Charlie," he said, nodding to his clerk. "This is exactly what I needed."

Charlie put on his grin- which made him appear as though he were five years old instead of three years from twenty-five-, nodded to him, then saluted the lieutenant and ran off again, to where was unknown. The boy had more energy in him than people working in a coffee shop. As he ran off, the lieutenant turned back to Wallace.

"Would that happen to be your luck holding for you?" he asked with a grin to rival the Cheshire Cat.

"Two weeks furlough in three weeks time, just in time to make her birthday," the captain said, giving the orders a giant kiss. "Her Majesty's Army, sometimes, you just gotta love it, Port."

Lieutenant Port nodded, happy that his friend was headed home for a couple of weeks. This was his first furlough since their deployment had begun over ten months ago. Platoon leading and then company commanding had demanded all of his time and effort, leaving nothing but letters and the occasional phone call to his wife of nine years and their almost two-year-old daughter.

Now, he was almost home-ward bound, just a few more weeks.

And nothing that could possibly go wrong.

The average rank in the company, more or less, was Private First Class. There were plenty of those, mainly amongst the younger soldiers. There were also several Corporals, at least one Sergeant for every squad and one Staff Sergeant for every platoon. Of officers, there were a few, beginning at Second Lieutenant and ending with Captain, and that was just for their British company. The highest rank for the French squad was Sous-Lieutenant, the equivelent to Lieutenant, and its men were Caporal-Chefs with one Sergent-Chef. The highest for the Russian tankers was a Senior Praporshchik, or Senior Warrant Officer, with the rest being Grefieter with two Junior Sergeants; which, to the Russians, meant they were Corporals. Finally, the highest rank for the German Special Forces team was Hauptfeldwebel, or a Sergeant First Class,joined by three other Feldwebels, or Staff Sergeants,though to them rank was little more than a means of figuring out who was most senior, nothing more. Rank meant nothing to them. To the French, it meant something, to the Russians, everything. To the British, however, rank was important, mainly to the officers and senior sergeants, but not as important as it would be elsewhere in the world, under a different commander.

For all one hundred and sixty English, Irish, and Scotsmen, the average age was, give or take, around twenty-six. Mainly the British sergeants, who had been together for as long as their company had been activated. The age difference went like this: the younger, fresher men went from eighteen to twenty-four, and the older men went from twenty-six to forty. In both the French and Russian units, their ages were in the early-to-mid thirties, and the Germans were in their late twenties/early thirties. Despite their age difference, the soldiers interacted with each other as though they were all the same age. In the example of Captain Wallace and Lieutenant Port, one was thirty-four while the other was forty. And yet, they were the best of friends, because they saw in each other something other than age, and that was their devotion to their duties and their company.

At twenty-five years of age, Private First Class Daniel Armstrong was neither amongst the "babies" of the company nor the "old men". He was in the middle, and that worked quite well for him, because he was too old for some things but too young to be a senior non-commissioned officer (NCO). He was old enough to be treated with respect, but not old enough to not be called by his age-old nickname of "Danny". He was a tall, slim-thin man in terrific physical shape and had a wide humorous appeal to him that everyone enjoyed. He could be seen as the "prankster" of the company, and also the jokester, and instead of being considered annoying, everyone, enlisted and officers alike, saw him as funny and amusing. Captain Wallace especially saw Danny as something like a son to him, which is why the private was closer to the C.O. than any of the other enlisted men were.

Danny was from Edinburgh, having grown up to a middle-class family that was always working. His dad worked a factory job, sometimes causing him to work late enough to miss tucking his children in to bed. His mother worked as a nurse in the city hospital, and she too was often gone nights or whole days, depending on what shift she had and how bad the patient's conditions were and which doctors were on site to check up and flirt with all the available nurses. When they became old enough, Danny and his two brothers worked every day after school, including weekends, and, when school ended, all three of them enlisted; with all the determination they had inherited through his family getting them to their destinations. For Danny, this meant the 16th. For his brothers, this meant the British Royal Navy. They had worked hard to get where they were, and all three of them had made it.

The company was gathered in the mess hall, stretched out by ten to fifteen very long tables for the men to sit and have enough room for more than just eating. Danny sat with his squad buddies, all eating and talking at the same time, which was, of course, the most disgusting thing to do at the table but safe from the restrictions at home, none of them cared.

"You gonna finish that?"

"Wait your sodding turn! Didn't you learn anything from Mum?"

"Yeah, how to make me bed and how to take the weeds out of the garden and how to fold me laundry-"

"-And how to wait your bleeding turn at the meals, now sit your arse down before I smack you upside the head."

This little argument came from the two Freedman Brothers. Spencer, 26, and Peter, 19, were both privates from London, and were everything you'd expect from a pair of siblings. Spencer, or "Sykes" as the men in their company called him, was their platoon's radio operator, a short man with slicked-up black hair and a pale face that looked as though it hardly ever saw sunlight, though he was probably outside more than others. "Pete" was his opposite in almost every way. Taller than his brother, he had short light brown, almost blonde hair, blue eyes, and a knack for getting into trouble. Sykes was the older and more responsible one. Pete was the younger, reckless one. Put them both together, it was mayhem for them, a comedy for the rest of the company.

Danny sat there, smirking at the show. At his side sat Sergeant Eddie Price, their squad leader. One of the oldest serving soldiers in the unit, he was a short man with a portly build, blue eyes, and a neat and bushy mustache perched right under his hooked nose. Price had been born in Bristol, and at thirty-eight, he was one of the "old men" of the company. He had been in the army for a good ten to fifteen years, having served in a Special Ops. unit a few years back before transferring down to their company. Strict, but fair, with a good nature, he was well-liked by the men in his squad.

Across from them sat Danny's best mate Private Kevin Matthews, their squad's SAW gunner. A tall, gangly twenty-year-old with blonde hair, Matthews came from the rich part of Nottingham, though he didn't act as much of a rich snob as people would imagine by his appearance. On the contrary, he was a rather friendly kid, who liked to surf (he had vacationed to the beach often as a lad) and loaf around with his buddies. He and Danny had met on their second week and basic and had hardly parted ways since.

Next up was Technical Corporal Archie Simmons, one of the medics in the company. A short, black soldier at thirty years of age, with a neatly trimmed mustache, Archie came from Liverpool, and was a jovial guy who could always be seen laughing heartedly at something, whatever it was being irrelevant. He was the ambulance/bus driver, which was a green bus painted with the medical symbol on it and the seats replaced with bunks for the critically wounded. It was a depressing kind of job, but somehow, Archie never let it dampen his spirits, and kept that millionaire-smile dance on his face.

Private Gavin Sullivan was next in the group. Of all the M-60 gunners in the company, he was the best man to hold one. A large man of thirty-three, he weighed a good 180-200 pounds of muscle, with slicked-back brown hair, a sharp, hooked nose, and a nickname "Sully" that suited him. Sully came from Gloucester, worked in the motor pool the majority of the time, and it showed through the grease and oil stains on his hands and face. But put behind the machine-gun, and there was no one who could rival him.

Save maybe one. Sitting next to him, eating away at his chicken, was "Finn", Private First Class James Finnegan, a twenty-nine-year-old SAW gunner from Bath. Also a big man, he had a small round face, and his shaved head was always covered by a green bandanna. Raised by a very religious family, he was a devout Catholic and said a prayer before everything he did. While most in the company accepted it, it strained relationships between him and Sully, who considered himself an atheist. But both were good with their respective machine-guns, and there were often competitions to see who was better.

Next to him was his best friend, Private Owen McIntyre. Also from Bath at twenty-eight, Owen was a large man with curly black hair and brown eyes, and though he was often silent, he was very friendly. He and Finn had grown up together, and it was by mere coincidence that they were both paired in the same unit. Serving as his assistant gunner, the two stuck together on most operations and bunked next to each other in the barracks.

Finally, there was the new guy, Private Henry "Tubbs" Robbins, the baby of the company at eighteen. A short, fat kid, he had just come in from Canterbury. As he was new, he was quiet, shy and reserved, but over the last couple weeks of his deployment, the older men had begun to crack him out of his shell, enough so that it wasn't difficult for him to engage in a conversation.

"Why you always pissin' on me? Mum's not here, is she? I'm on me own, and I can damn well do what I please, you twit," muttered Pete.

"Not while I'm here, you're not. You'll do as you're told," Sykes sternly told him. "Mum told me to look after you, and I'm not having you go home acting like a bloody idiot. Ergo, I'm watching you like a hawk."

"The hell you are."

"The hell I'm not."

"This is more amusin' than watchin' the telly on a Friday night," Sully stated as he chewed through his meat.

"Are they always like this?" Tubbs inquired.

"Oh this isn't even bad. You should see them when we're watching the footy," Archie laughed as he sipped his coffee. "It's madness."

"Aye, when the popcorn went flying and hit Mikey in the face, that was just priceless," chided in Matthews with a chuckle.

Owen smirked and bit into his cookie. Price sipped his tea lightly.

"Oye! Lads!"

Most of the men-including all of the Irishmen- looked up as a short thin man with messy dark hair and a wild look in his eyes came strutting into the Mess Hall. About half the men who looked up immediately groaned and went back down to their meals, while the other half- including all of the Irishmen- still remained up, listening to what he had to say.

"Oh God," Sully groaned, plucking at his potatoes. "Not again."

"Get out your sunscreen and beach towels, the Father says we're in for another week of beautiful weather!" he cried out, and was instantly met with cheers from his Irish comrades. Tubbs turned back to the other squad members, frowning.

"Father?" he asked. "Is he talking about the Almighty, or his dad back home?"

"Dunno, mate," Sykes mumbled. "Could be a wee bit of both."

"Hard to tell with that one," replied Pete, sipping his soup. "He's a strange one, he is."

"You have to take what he says into account, though," Finn stated. "If you think about it, about ninety percent of the things he comes up with actually turn out to be pretty accurate."

"Finn," Sully argued back, "I know you're probably one of the biggest God-nuts out there, but you honestly expect me to believe that nutter talks to the Big Man?"

"What I'm saying is, don't disregard it so quickly."

While the two argued over whether or not it was real, Danny looked over to where the man now sat off by himself, cheerfully eating his meal and seemingly without a care in the world.

They had been on the same tour for ten months, been in several firefights, gone on nine patrols and had spent countless hours on outpost (O.P.), and yet Danny still could not figure out Private First Class Patrick Marek for the life of him. The man came from County Cork, Ireland, born to an Irish mother and a Dutch father. He went to high school, decided to spend time as a missionary, and came back home a changed man. At twenty-five, the man was convinced he could actually talk to God. And while it was true that the majority of the things the "Father" told him did turn out dead-on, Danny had to seriously question if Marek was "all there" in the head.

The man was friendly, he could give him that. He was pleasant to talk to, always had something nice to say about everyone, and brushed off insults like one brushed off a mosquito in the summer time. Whenever someone didn't have enough food, he would share his. When someone got shot and he was close enough, he was known to use up his own First-Aid Kit to try to stop the bleeding. When someone had gotten a tough letter from home, and needed a word of advice, there Marek was, with a pat on the back and an old Irish saying his mother used to tell him as a child. Whenever he was needed- or wasn't needed- there he was.

But the man was strange; there was no point in denying it. And as much as he was friendly, Danny knew of many in the company who preferred to keep their distance.

"So there's a contest over at the target range after lunch," Sully piped up. "Who's in for a watch?"

"You know I am," Pete answered with a smirk.

"Aye, same here," Owen remarked.

"Danny, you gonna come?" Matthews asked his friend.

"Yeah, course. Count me in."

The contests were mainly only held between the other nationalities in the force, primarily the Germans- who loved to show themselves off without even realizing it as "showing off"- but most if not all the others loved to watch. It was the "cool" thing to do for them. Their way of enjoying their time out in the desert, when there was little to no T.V., absolutely no women, no beer halls, no anything.

It was their way of almost feeling normal.

The weapons the force had varied. Most were military-issued, but some were brought or sent from home as back-up weapons/guard duty weapons/sporting weapons. They ranged from MP-5s to M-16s to M-4s to CAR-15s to G-3s to G-36s to L85A1s to TAR-21s to M-468s to P90s to AK-74s to M-60s to M-249s to M-240s to PKs to Remington 870s to Benelli M4 Super 90s to Mossberg 500s to a double-barreled shotgun to L96A1s to HK-PSG1s to SIG-Sauer SSG 2000s to a customized WA2000 to Glock-39s to Heckler & Koch P-7s to Beretta 92Fs to Desert Eagles to a nickel-plated .45 to silenced pistols to LAW80s to RPGs to any other weapon fathomable. Every soldier was heavily trained with just about every one of these weapons and more, including the heavy .50 caliber machine guns and the Mark-19 grenade launchers mounted on their Humvees. All of them had some training as a machine-gunner, a sniper, or just an ordinary rifleman, in case one of theirs was killed or wounded and someone had to take over for them.

Danny and his squad arrived at the firing range just in time for the next competitor to be call up. Not to any surprise, the other three members of the motor pool crew had already called the best seats of the house, and were getting ready to watch the spectacle.

Staff Sergeant Dale Ryan was head of the motor pool maintenance, as well as the platoon sergeant for their 2nd platoon. A short, plump man of thirty-five, with a shaved head of gray hair and crooked teeth, Ryan came from Manchester and, like Price, had been in the Army for several years, serving on many frontline actions since as far back as the Panama War. Unlike Price, however, he was sterner with his command, especially when they were out in the field. He was known to push his men harder and faster than anyone else in the company, and it was because of this that most of his men liked to keep away from him on their off time. When it came to events like this, though, he usually set it aside to watch the game, and that was when he was most enjoyable to be around.

Private First Class Anthony "Tony" Smith was a thirty-one-year-old from Liverpool. Tall and well-built with a five o'clock shadow and slicked back black hair, Tony had spent most of his early years wrestling his four older brothers. He joined the high school wrestling team in his freshman year, and by senior year he was team captain and a leading contender in the ring. Now, in the army, he spent his time fixing up vehicles and manning the .50 cal on top of Ryan's Humvee, though he still held wrestling matches in his spare time.

Private First Class Aaron Murphy was the youngest of the trio at only nineteen, hailing from Chester. A short thin kid, with curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and two buck teeth, Murphy had been a good kid growing up. But then high school came, and soon he was hooked on almost every drug ever invented. By junior year, he was found passed out in the bathroom with his head in the toilet. Rehab and joining the army had all but cured the addiction, but the medics still had him on watch, and whenever it seemed like he was going to relapse, they would give him one pill that helped calmed his nerves. It actually seemed like he preferred those now. Murphy was normally quiet and preferred to stay back and let the others talk, and when he did talk, it was always in a quiet voice, and often times with stammered words.

Danny and his squad joined these three men as they watched the tournament begin. The sign over the range showed who the contenders were for the day; all three leaders of the non-British troops were competing today in a sport for minor profit. Stakes were forty to fifty dollars and a pass to see the symphony in Paris on their next furlough countryside.

"We miss much?" questioned Pete.

"You're just in time to see Web go up," answered Tony, popping some freshly-made popcorn into his mouth.

"Excellent," Danny sat down and grabbed a fistful of popcorn. "He's what makes this whole thing the best show ever."

Whatever conflicts the men might or might not have with the other nationalities, there was no doubt that the leaders of said nationalities had their total respects. To state correctly, it was total awe. And no one knew where this awe came from, only that it existed. Some of them even called it ridiculous, the way they worshipped them, but still the worship remained. These three men were calm and collected and lead their men without any hesitation, fear or regret. They trained harder and moved faster, and their attitudes towards doing it were-simply put- cool, by the terms of the younger men just out of school. They were the icing on the cake for the force, them and their men, and their stories and where they came from just made the British soldiers' heads raise in respect for what they had to say.

Most of the men, despite their grudges, could not deny that Sous-Lieutenant André Hirko had the complete respect of his men and their own. A short man, well muscled, with a bald head, Hirko was forty, had been born and raised in Carentan, France, and at only sixteen had served in the final years of Vietnam, where he had been wounded severely twice and still came back to fight with his men. This endurance, and his heroic actions during those battles the French fought, lead him to win the Légion d'honneur, the highest military decoration in France. He was now willingly volunteering to lead his twenty men on this assignment, when three other lieutenants had refused it. Any disputes between French and British soldiers was forgotten when seeing the lieutenant walking with his second-in-command, tall and proud, nodding his head in their direction. He was just cool that way.

Danny personally had favor for the red-headed leader of the Russian tankers, Senior Praporshchik Nicholai Bakunin. A tall man with a young face, he was thirty-one, and had lived in Kiev, Russia before coming here. Unlike Hirko, Bakunin had only been a soldier since Desert Storm, but the stories of him leading his tanks into the heaviest fighting with little casualties had made him legend amongst the Russians. It was said that he had God-like abilities with his armor, and he always seemed to know when there was a rocket or anti-tank weapon aimed for one of them. Danny had once seen him, when his tank was being peppered with machine-gun fire, throw open his hatch door, stand on top of the tank, and laugh at the rebels as they tried- and failed- to hit him. That was just something that made a man a god, and Bakunin had that aspect to him. He was totally and completely fearless.

But the coolest of all of them- and this belief was held by every soldier, regardless of age, rank, or nationality- was "Web." Hauptfeldwebel Dietrich Weber, the leader of the German Special Forces team. A tall, muscular man at thirty-eight, with sandy blonde hair tucked under a bandanna, Weber came from Aachen, Germany, and had been involved in almost four hundred covert op. missions over the last fifteen years. He was known to go off at days, sometimes even weeks at a time, and then slide back into base in the middle of the night, like a shadow. He was known to go into heavily-armed cities dressed as a civilian with nothing but a handgun and a knife; and sometimes not even those. He was known to have collected trophies from all over the world, but not once did he brag about them or about any other thing he had accomplished. Even his fellow German soldiers held the man with the same utmost awe and respect that the other soldiers had for him.

Danny and the other men sat besides Ryan and his men just as Weber stepped up to the stand. In his hands was the WA2000 that he had personally customized on and off for the last eight years. It was a bulky weapon that looked like a box with a scope on top, but it was very accurate, especially when placed in a specialist's hands like his. At the other end of the range were five cans, all neatly lined up in a row, each with a red-and-white bull's-eye painted on them. The distance had to be at least a hundred yards, maybe more, but every single soldier seated in the stands knew that would not stop Weber.

The German sniper calmly lifted the heavy weapon and brought the scope to his eye and smirked.

In no time, all five cans were off their perches and on the ground. There was a bullet hole in each one of them. The target master ran and checked each one, and held them all up, one after the other, for everyone to see the bullet hole that was in the center of each and every target.

The crowd, British and Frenchmen and Russians and Germans, all cheered wildly as the sniper lowered his rifle and took a theatrical bow. Most of them, even after seeing it hundreds of times, were still in awe. It had happened faster than lightening, the way he had taken down all five like they were flies. No one could beat Weber. It was a fool thing to even try.

"Looks like I'm headed to Paris, mates," said Tony with a smug grin. "I put twenty on Web getting them all without missing."

"Again?" Pete groaned. "You ALWAYS win, mate."

"That's because I always bet on the winner."

Weber hopped from the pit to greet Hirko and Bakunin as they prepared for their rounds. Despite the differences in their ranks, the three treated each other as equals, like friends who were on the practice range back home. They respected each other for the way each lead their men and handled everything in battle.

"Very nice shot, Dietrich," Hirko said in his polite French-accented voice.

"Think you can top that off, André?" Weber asked with a smirk, his German voice calm and soothing.

"Not I, mon ami, but Nicholai I'm sure could attempt it, wouldn't you say, monsieur?" the Sous-Lieutenant turned to the red-haired Russian.

"I am certainly ready to give it a shot," the gruff-voiced Bakunin replied, giving the German a daring smirk.

Danny, Matthews, Sykes, Pete, Price, Tubbs and Sully came down from the stands and went up to Weber, all the while remembering to keep their distance. It was not due to mistrust, or because of long-set grudges, but because the man was imposing. He stood an alarming six foot five, weighing two hundred and fifty-six pounds of all muscle. It was rumored that he could break a bear's skull just by punching it in the jaw. They were only rumors, but no one doubted the truth behind them. But Weber was also very polite and friendly, and his accent was good enough that he could have been English with some German language thrown in.

"Bloody nice shooting, Weber," said Price, probably the only British soldier who was on permanent speaking terms with the big German. The two had a long history of saving each others' asses, back when Price was Spec Ops. Captain Wallace saw Price as a sort of diplomat due to this relationship, and as such, used Price to relay requests to the German Special Forces team.

"Thank you kindly, Sergeant Price." Weber nodded to him and looked past him at the other soldiers. "And your men appreciated it, I would hope?"

"Yes, Sergeant," Matthews blurted out nervously. He always had the most problems around Weber; whether it be fear or just awe, he could never speak well around him.

"Good." Weber's eyes fell on Tubbs. "I am not familiar with you."

"This is Private Robbins, the new chap," Price explained to him. "Lads call him Tubbs."

"Hey Web," Sully called, placing his arm around Tubbs' shoulders, "Tubbs hasn't seen any of your trophies yet, y'think we might be able to give him a little lesson in the valuables of the world?"

Tubbs instantly perked up. He had been wanting to see the treasures in Weber's collection ever since he had first heard of them upon his arrival. He had long been interested in artifacts, either from past centuries or from other countries. When he had heard of Weber's vast inventory of relics, he had been dying to view them, though nervous to ask for the big German's permission.

Weber smirked. "Certainly. Follow me."

Weber's team slept in 7x10x8 foxholes on the edge of the compound, with canvas staked over them to make tents. The dugouts were remarkably comfortable, which baffled the other soldiers until they actually went in and discovered that they had outlined their holes with civilian comforters and blankets, either sent from home or taken from abandoned homes. He had built himself a sturdy wooden cupboard for his treasures, and a small table that he pulled out for his meals. His bed was not a bed, but a sleeping mat which he had lined with extra comforters and a pillow that was hard as a rock but was therapeutic for his neck and so he slept well on it.

Weber lead Danny, Price, Sully and Tubbs into the pit and opened up the cupboard. Inside were countless treasures, ranging on all four shelves from rings to knives to sabers and other odds and ends. Tubbs' eyes were shining in awe and wonder as he picked up one of the rings, one with red triangle-shaped jewels all around it..

"Cool..." he said, examining it.

"Ah, yes, this one," Weber explained. "That one came from a Somalian drug lord that was polluting the town's water supply. He had taken a U.N. ambassador hostage and my team was sent in to retrieve him. I cut it off his finger after I took him down with a single bullet to the back of his head."

"Seriously? Wow..."

"Oye, Web," said Sully, picking up a long saber. "Tell him about this one, I love the story to this."

"Aaaaah, yes," smiled Weber. "That one came from a rebel leader in Japan that was threatening to execute an entire village with plastic explosives. My team pursued him for three whole months before we caught up to him in a cave. He attacked me with his sword, and after some time of deflecting his blows with my rifle he appeared to have the upper hand, but I got the upper hand, got behind him, and snapped his neck. His sword was such a nice one, a shame to waste, so I 'liberated' it from him."

"How come you don't sell these things, Weber?" Price wanted to know. "You have so many of them, you could be a bloody millionaire."

"Sergeant Price, life should not be about making money," the German sergeant said amusedly. "Money comes and goes, but treasures and memories last a lifetime. I would rather have many memories than a few thousand pounds, would you not agree?"

Price smiled back. "Yes, I suppose I would."

"Hell, I'd keep the saber definitely," chimed in Sully. "But the ring'd sell for a ton of pounds, and it may be temporary, but damn if I couldn't pay off that mortgage for my house-"

"Hey Web, what's this one?"

Danny had picked up a small object, one that had not been in the cupboard but instead was placed near his pillow. At first glance, it looked like a child's top, much like the one he used to play with as a child. However, this one was made entirely of glass, and would probably break if he tried to use it now. In fact, upon closer examination and reflection, he doubted any youth-respecting toymaker would ever make a glass top for a young child who would most likely break it in one spin. This top was the most intriguing thing he had ever seen...and what did that say about him, he wondered, becoming incredibly mystified over a child's play thing?

Weber came over and took the top from his hands. He examined it, a curious frown on his face.

"Hmm...strange, I do not recall getting this one," he admitted to them.

"Really?" Price and Sully exchanged a glance. Weber had a great memory, and could recall the history of any and every item he had ever obtained. If he did not know what it was, that meant it had never officially made its way into his possession. So then where had it come from?

"What does it do?" asked Sully.

Let's find out." Weber placed it on the table, removed his knife, and brought it under the top of the instrument, preparing to cut the top off.

What happened next resulted in the shattering of ear drums as though they themselves were made of cheap glass. The top suddenly lit up in bright lights and a high-pitched siren sound emitted the moment the blade touched it. Weber immediately pulled back as he brought his hands to his ears, following the other soldiers who had plugged their holes even faster than he. Now the top was spinning on his own, the lights twirling like on display and that noise more irritating than a vulture's shriek.

"Bloody hell, turn it off!" Sully screamed over the noise.

Weber grabbed one of his boots and smacked it off the table. It hit the cupboard with a force that was sure to have broken it but surprisingly did not as it fell to the floor. The lights switched off and the noise screeched to a halt.

"What the fuck was that?" demanded Tubbs.

Weber took his entrenching tool and carefully scooped the object back up. This time, it did not move upon contact with an object. Danny had come close to pulling out his Glock on this thing, ready to shoot it if it happened to explode on them. It was very rare that someone booby-trapped them, but it did happen, but nothing like this odd little glass toy. He would never have imagined the rebels capable of such intriguing devices but then again, he was talking about the people that rigged chess sets so that they exploded. Maybe it was not all that uncommon after all.

"Never seen anything like this." Price echoed his exact thoughts in his own words.

"Never?"

"No, never. Never something this small. And especially that doesn't explode. Makes no sense."

"Let's take it to Mikey," Sully insisted, looking around at all of them. "He's the tech-nerd. He must have some idea what the hell this thing is."

"Guys, I have absolutely no idea what the hell this thing is."

"None at all?" Danny asked in a dismayed voice.

"If it's a bomb, it's not one that I know of," said Corporal Michael Stern as he looked up from his microscope. "And it's too sophisticated to be something that the rebels would cook up. Definitely doesn't LOOK homemade, at any rate."

Stern was from Dublin, Ireland, born to a pair of scientists that studied quantum physics. At twenty-nine, he was six foot two and one hundred and fifty-three pounds, making him one of the skinniest soldiers in the company, with bright blue eyes behind a pair of rectangle-shaped glasses and blonde hair. A "genius", as described by the other men, Stern attended Oxford University and graduated with a masters in physics and technology. He enlisted in the army to gain a new perspective on life for himself, and upon request to the higher-ups was given his own lab to live in and, when traveling, he was given the satellite truck, which monitored radar frequencies for when they were traveling and a miniature lab for his experiments. Stern was oftentimes impatient with other soldiers, especially since he liked to take his time and have everything neat and tidy in his lab, yet the men found him to be good company, and always went to him if they had a question on anything.

"So you guys found this in Weber's tent?" he asked.

"Yeah, right near his bed," Danny answered. "How'd they get pass security, we've got guards all around the perimeter."

"What did it do, exactly?"

"It just lit up and started being an annoying little shite," Sully chimed in with. "Then it started spinning. Then Web smacked it, but it didn't blow. So it doesn't seem like it's a bomb, does it?"

"It doesn't seem like it's a lot of things," admitted Stern. "Not a bomb, otherwise, it would have exploded when Weber hit it. Doesn't look like a personnel sensor because of how it reacted. In reality, it really wasn't anything until Weber tried to take the top off it."

"It freaked out when the knife touched," Danny remembered. "Could that mean something?"

"Theoretically, it would mean it reacts to touch, but you picked it up without a problem, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Then did it react to the knife...like it knew it was going to do something?"

"What, like it reacts to whenever someone's going to do something bad to it?"

"Bad, hostile...maybe untrustworthy, even?"

"How does it do that?" Price wanted to know. "How does an inanimate object know when something bad or hostile is going to happen to it?"

"I'm not sure." Stern shook his head as he took another glance into the microscope. "How could it be self-aware if it's not electronic? And an even better question, how can a non-electronic gizmo with no CPU unit move on its own? It just makes no sense..."

He rubbed his temple, lost in the mystery. The others were just as confused. Nothing Stern had said had made much sense, but what they knew was that he did not know, and that was a first for them.

CRASH!

Stern groaned.

"God damn it, François, how many times have I told you not to touch my equipment?"

He turned his head to the other end of his lab, where a six-foot-five, skinny, curly brown-haired man with oval-shaped glasses and a light circle beard had knocked over a set of Bunsen burners. He looked up at his Irish comrade and flashed him a crooked, somewhat dirty smile.

François Donatelle was the French tech-support guy. Born and raised in Nantes, France, to a rather poor family, he was also a brilliant computer technician. He had programmed several simulation programs for training, which he showed to the commanders, who in turn showed to their men to practice on maneuvers. He was nice and polite, but he was quiet and kept more to himself as well. His French companions got along well with him, but everyone else had a hard time understanding him, and for simple reasons.

François had been assigned to Stern's lab quarters with the Irishman so that they could help each other with the computers and electronic security. Their superiors believed that it would keep the peace between the races as well as make the French feel that they were contributing to their assignment- which they were, of course, and their contribution was greatly appreciated.

There was one small error with the match, however: François knew no English, and Stern knew no French. As a result, the two of them trying to communicate was as effective as the sun trying to communicate with the moon.

"Damn it," cursed Stern, walking over as François bent down to pick up the pieces. "Again, my laboratory, NOT a bloody fucking playground! If you're going to mess around, do it outside where you won't break something!"

The Frenchman began speaking in rapid French, presumably an apology. The Irishman just groaned.

"François, François," he interrupted. "How many times do I have to tell you? I don't, I don't speak French. None. Zero. So...speak English, please. I know you know some, every one else in your bloody unit knows SOME, so just...just cut it out and speak to me normally."

François looked at him for a moment, stared at him hard...and then opened his mouth and began throwing out French words. Stern just shook his head.

"Fine, whatever. Continue with the French. I give a shit, really," he told him, turning around and returning to his countrymen. "French. Only two things they're good for: surrendering, and kissing."

Danny and Price exchanged looks. Stern had a habit for speaking ill against their allies from across the Channel. Maybe it was his upbringing, or maybe it was just how he was programmed, but when it came to the French, he made his contempt well-known.

"Look, guys," Stern returned to the matter at hand, "I'll keep an analysis on this thing going, but honestly, I've never seen something of this design before. I think you may have found a new invention here."

"Sweet." Sully's head was buzzing with possible business ideas at the mere thought of it. Of course, they may have to change it around a bit; he doubted severely that any halfway sane human would want something that screamed louder than a man and a woman going at it as though the world were going to end.

"If it's a new invention, then who invented it?" Price wondered. His mind was spinning differently. Whoever had left this in Weber's tent had obviously done so for a reason, and he could not help but feel that that reason was not to meet under a white flag to sign the dotted line. But again, the rebels did not have that kind of technology...unless someone was dealing it to them under the table. Russia? Not all that unlikely, but the blokes they had with them were the best chaps ever, and they had never made any indication that relations would go south. So who? Ukraine? Somalia? Czech Republic? In reality it could be anyone, and it reality it could be no one.

"I'll run it through the scanners, see if I can find a cross-match anywhere, but it doesn't look likely," said Stern. "I can include it in the report to headquarters also. Seriously, though, if this IS a new invention, it definitely is a creative one. I'll see what I can find out about it. In the meantime, we may want to keep this under our helmets, so we don't cause a panic."

Night time on the base was as varied to one individual as to the next. Depending on if they were a senior noncom or officer, or if they were just a member of the company, the options that came with being off duty were as endless as their limited means of entertainment would allow. They would watch the game on the telly, they would shoot some pool, they would play some cards, and when they did not feel like doing any of that, they talked.

Talk was one of the main things they did. When they were on duty, on patrol, in a battle, on the toilet, in the mess hall, watching the shooting matches, or just loafing around the barracks, talk was the one thing they did constantly. As Danny liked to say, "bullets run empty, food runs out, shit runs up and down hill, but words run forever." It was a tired line, but some still laughed at it.

The men sat in chairs and placed crates or small tables in between them in order to play cards and, above all else, talk. They talked in pairs or in groups, and whatever the subject, wherever the place, the talk was constant.

Private First Class Jason Stacker was a twenty-seven-year-old from Dundee, Scotland with brown skin, a shaved head, and straight teeth stained yellow. He was a soldier of four years, and although he was lazy, he was dedicated and loyal to the men he fought with. He was notorious with his money, in that the night they all got paid, he would gamble as hard as he could, and when it was over, whatever he had left was placed in bank. Most times, there was little, but occasionally he got lucky. He had become lucky in knowing when to deal and when to fold, and lately, the wins- and the money- kept coming in.

Private First Class Tucker Ross was a twenty-one-year-old from Galway, Ireland, with messy brown hair and a pair of small rectangle-shaped glasses that rested upon a small nose. He was an older soldier despite his age, having been with them for over a year now. He was eager to learn and eager to help out in any way possible, but he was also jumpy and nervous, and tended to overreact to things. He liked talking to the older members of the company, and especially liked to hear the rumors of possible raids or attacks against the rebel faction.

Private First Class Terry Milburn was a twenty-three-year-old from Sheffield, England, with short but messy blonde hair and a boyish face. He was the company's foremost demolitions expert, and could handle everything from C-4 to nitroglycerin to nuclear devices. He was also a bit of a practical joker, and as such usually carried around with him a bag filled with firecrackers and tiny charges placed in peoples' cigarettes and coffee. He liked to believe that he knew how the world worked, and took everything in stride, not allowing himself to get surprised or startled by anything.

The three men were good friends with one another, although very competitive when it came to money and women. Where they always found the money, the other men were never quite sure, but somehow their wallets managed to find new bills to put into the pot. It became a fun thing to watch, those three wankers throw their money to the ground for the stupidest things. They were the laziest, most laid-back soldiers in the entire company, yet when things went downhill they could always be counted on for a laugh, whether it was intentional or not.

"I heard that an attack is being planned," Jason began the conversation, throwing two chips onto the crate they were playing on.

"Who? Us or them?" wondered Tucker.

"Us. Sometime soon."

"You're full of it," said Terry, placing his cards on the table, winning the hand.

"Am not. It's supposed to be within the next month, to put a real end to the rebel activities."

"Full of shite, mate. Full of shite."

"You seriously don't believe me?"

Terry lit up a cigarette and blew out the smoke before answering. "Captain would have told us if someone was planning a move. Unless some twat up in Division is speaking out of his ass, I don't believe anything serious is getting planned."

"Fine." Jason arched his head. "Charlie, get over here, will you?"

T/5 Charlie Booth glanced up from tuning his guitar. The sandy-haired company clerk from Manchester had a part-time acoustic band that played coffee joints back home, and he was always playing for the men or for himself, usually singing along with his playing, either old classics or his own tunes. Most people who sang with their guitars spoofed it and sounded terrible when doing it, which was okay sometimes if it were just for a joke but usually got scorned and thrown out for the night. But Charlie sang like a pro. As scratchy and low as his voice was normally, his tenor came out in his songs, light and fair.

"Yeah? What do you need?" He placed his guitar against the table he sat at and approached them.

"Well, we need to know something," Jason said, bringing the clerk down to his level and placing his arm around his shoulders. "You're in on the company briefings, right?"

"Aye."

"Aye, and you hear everything the captain plans with the rest of command?"

"Mostly, aye."

"So tell us, then; what's the deal with the attack."

Charlie paused, then smiled his crooked smile.

"I'm not really supposed to talk about it-"

"Ah, so there IS an attack being planned?" Jason winked at Tucker, who leaned in with curiosity. Terry hung back, smoking his cigarette, but definitely attentive.

"Well, I mean...you know, they really-"

"C'mon, Charlie," Terry finally said. "You know us; we won't tell anyone. Will we, guys?"

He glared at Tucker, whose head bobbled up and down like it was a fishing lure on the lake. Jason nodded quietly, not looking at him, still focused solely on the clerk.

Charlie fixed his glasses on his nose, then looked left and right as though he was in a back alley wearing a trench coat about to spill the secret to the plan of breaking in to fucking Buckingham Palace through the roof. Then he looked back and leaned in, requiring the other three to lean in as well.

"Captain Wallace and Commander Bakunin have been talking about the commander taking his tankers through the mountains, try and flush them out," he whispered to them. "He's not making anything official, but he's aiming at the end of the month."

"Serious?" Tucker's eyes bulged. Terry frowned.

"It's all just talk right now. But everyone's getting edgy. Especially since with what happened at Echo Base last week..."

Here, they all looked down the row to where Corporals Tom Morrison and William O'Malley were sitting and eating quietly, sullen expressions upon their faces.

They all knew what had happened at Echo Base- or, at least, they had heard of the state it was in when reinforcements got flown in. All the people at Charlie Base knew was that last week, they had heard explosions at least ten klicks away from them, where they knew Echo Base was. From their lookout tower, they could see red-and-green-colored explosions, frequent and in vast quantities. It was like a destructive Fourth of July. It lasted about an hour and then everything faded into silence.

Captain Wallace had ordered some reinforcements flown in to check on the base's status. When they got there, they found the base was out of commission. The buildings were burned down, the radios were torn apart, the weapons were smashed...and the bodies were everywhere. All their own; there were no signs of any enemy corpses. All the dog tags were mysteriously stripped from the corpses, but it did not matter. By the end of the day, all two hundred bodies were accounted for.

One of the bodies had been Morrison's brother.

Morrison was from Glasgow, Scotland, and at thirty-seven had shaggy black hair that was still above regulations and an unshaven circle beard. His hard brown eyes used to twinkle with laughter, but now they were dull and flat and full of sadness and rage. He was married with a six-year-old daughter and had been very close to his brother. Since the attack on Echo Base, he had said very little, but had been seen creating and carrying around a stick with a large rock that had been carefully cut down and smoothed out so that the tip of one side was sharp and the other side was flat, resembling some sort of battle hammer/axe/whatever-you-wished-it. No one knew why he made it, but rumor was going around that he was planning to use it on the one who killed his brother, if ever he met the person.

Charlie sighed. The base had seemingly been torn apart by forces outside of guns and rockets. However, there was no sign of anyone else having been there, no rebel bodies, no rebel weapons, not even a discarded turban. One soldier did report on his way out- and he was certain he must have either imagined it, or just been so shocked by the destruction that his eyes were seeing things- of a cloud that seemed to form a skull with a snake slithering out of its mouth, but that was considered irrelevant given the matter.

Across from Morrison, William, or "Will" as he preferred to be called, was trying to comfort his friend. A thirty-five-year-old from County Cork, Ireland, Will was a tall man with fiery red hair and a pale face dotted with freckles; much like most stereotypical Irishmen. He was thin and quiet, but a "real ass-kicker", as Pete stated. Will was trained in karate, taekwondo, tai-chi, kung fu, hand-to-hand, sambo, and kapap, was an experienced black belt in taekwondo and sambo, and was the senior hand-to-hand drill instructor on the compound.

"Hey, Charlie."

The four looked up to see Derek "Doc" Powers come up. Doc was a thirty-one-year-old from Bristol, with brown hair and a pale face with a long nose. He was the chief medic of the company and was the primary physician, had been a doctor for the last two years, and his patients would admit that some of his treatments were a bit odd. He would collect herbs, leeches, and any other medicinal remedies long since abandoned and not widely practiced with anymore, just for the sake of when his current medical supplies ran out and he needed something to fall back upon. He also kept all the pill medication, specifically Murphy's, though there were several other soldiers in the unit who needed theirs as well. Doc was quiet and kept mostly to himself, often not even showing up into the enlisted club, but he was always there for any man who needed him, either with a wound or for medication.

"I took care of that dog that you found and sent him on his way," he told the clerk. "He just needed food and a shot of penicillin. Should be chasing after license plates again in no time."

"Thanks Doc. I really appreciate it." Charlie had a soft spot for animals, especially dogs.

Doc nodded and continued walking. The medic was mostly a loner, but he allowed a few people to crack through his shell and be friendly, and Charlie was one of them.

Cheers from the center of the hall echoed off the walls. The four of them turned to the fifty-plus people gathered around a small television, watching the football match between England and France. Pete and Archie were right in front, as per usual, both wearing their Manchester United T-shirts and cheering like frat boys. Whenever England scored, the fifty-plus howled in cheers. Whenever France scored, the fifty-plus voices all booed in protest. None of their French associates watched the game with them, so it was their only chance to cuss and insult the French football players without causing a fight.

The life of the base was one they could all enjoy. Rarely were they called away to actively participate in a battle; the rare times they did, they had few casualties. True, the occasional mortar was hurled their way, but the once in a blue moon time that they did, they never hit a thing. It was boring, and yet it was exciting, just due to them being where they were doing what they were doing. Like summer camp, with guns.

As long as they did not use them often, that was fine with them.

Not everyone chose to go to the enlisted men's quarters. A good portion of the men also spent their leisure time in their own bunks. Mainly the squad leaders and platoon sergeants, who liked to keep some distance from the lower-class enlisted men so that they could maintain their authority. They reflected, tuned up their weapons, read books, and, of course, talked.

On one side of Barracks No. 3, Staff Sergeants John Carter and Greg Pratt were sitting on their bunks. Carter was busy cleaning his M-240 machine gun, while Pratt was writing a letter to his girlfriend.

The two were among the three platoon sergeants, considered the "real" leaders of the platoons. The officers held the command, but the sergeants, for the most part, held the respect. That did not mean that there were not some officers that were liked, but the sergeants were liked more, because of how close they were to the men and how they took command in battle. Officers, for the most part, sent men into battle; sergeants, for the most part, lead them.

Carter looked up for a moment at what his best friend was writing. He was a tall, thin thirty-two-year-old man, another one of the "rich blokes" from Nottingham, with black hair, blue eyes, and a sharp nose. He had been a History teacher before joining the army, and had previously been on a National Guard enlistment. When his four-year-contract had expired, he decided to re-enlist, only this time go for a better division and better pay. When it came to machine-guns, he preferred the M-240 due to its reliability, and was the only member of the company to wield one. He always thought his actions through before he went into a fight, and always made a plan. He was, however, often very hard-headed and stubborn, and tended to think too seriously upon matters, often considering what COULD go wrong in any situation.

He read a few words of the letter and sighed.

"Christ, Greg, I told you before," he said, returning to his gun. "It's spelled, "R-E-C-E-I-V-E-D, not R-E-C-I-E-V-E-D. And Maggie's name has TWO "G's" in it."

Pratt grinned. He was a twenty-nine-year-old, slick, black-skinned soldier from Surrey Heath, born and raised to parents who made just enough money to get him and his brothers through school, which he himself never really excelled in. He was brown-eyed, with a shaved head kept under a bandana, and a goatee on his chin. He was a SAW gunner, and while not one of the best, he could still hit six cans out of ten. Unlike his friend, who took things too seriously, Pratt rarely took ANYTHING seriously. He was always laid back, always in a good mood, and always had a smile on his face. He was a good platoon sergeant who kept his men in line, but his carefree attitude had been noted upon by higher officers. Regardless, the men loved him because of how relaxed he was, and he stuck with Carter all the time, sometimes leading to the other man's annoyance.

"Relax, mate," he insisted. "It's not like she can read that well anyway."

Across from them, Sergeant Franky Grimes smiled while cleaning his CAR-15. The short, broad-shouldered sergeant was from Belfast, Ireland, with red hair, a red beard to support it, and blue eyes. He was a ten-year veteran at thirty, and had been with the company since its formation. Grimes had the patience and calm superiority of an officer, but the young, fun-loving charisma of an enlisted soldier, and it was this reason that kept him as a sergeant. He was a crack shot, and always managed to hit every target he saw, though he was still behind Weber in regards to best marksman of the unit.

"You keep this up, mate, Captain's going to insist you get sent back to school." Carter spit on the barrel and swiped it clean. "You're almost thirty, and you can't even spell your girlfriend's bloody name right."

Pratt just laughed. Carter shook his head. It was like trying to have a discussion with a nine-year-old.

"John, you're the teacher," Grimes reminded him. "Why don't you teach him?"

"I tried. You ever try to get him to learn about King Louis XVI? It's like trying to teach a three-year-old math, he just refuses to learn it."

The sergeants spent their nights fixing up their weapons so that they were always in top condition. The weapons used by the soldiers were always kept in the armory, along with the rest of the munitions, but the men were allowed to take them out for maintenance. They were constantly cleaning their weapons, because they never knew when they would need to use them.

There were six other men in the barracks with them, and these were the members of Sergeant Shane Keaney's squad. This was their main "A" squad, their recon-and-assault team, and the one they relied on the most in battle but the least in downtime. They were made up of the sergeant himself, his second-in-command known as Anwar Hussein; Doug Redfield, the big, thick-nosed weapons specialist; Jack Coupland, the tall, pointy-nosed medic; Frank McCoy, the baby-faced marksman; and Sam Mathenson, their balding, edgy point man. In battle, they always covered the men with suppressing fire, but on the base, they always stuck together, and stuck to themselves.

Keaney was a thirty-nine-year-old man from Bristol, the oldest member of a team of thirty-six, thirty five, and one thirty-two-year-old men. He had brown hair that was beginning to show signs of gray, cold gray eyes that some said could see through the dark as though they were high-beams, and a cold smile that made anyone wishing to be his friend turn away quick. He and his men were well-built, due to pushing themselves through calisthenics and weights faster and harder than anyone else. They were also the sneakiest men in the whole company; they could be in and out of anywhere, like a squad of ghosts.

No one knew the story behind Keaney and his mates. Some say they came down from a Special Ops. team and wanted to work in a less-demanding job. Others believed they had been mercenaries, hired guns, used to perform jobs for the government officials for money. Some thought they were simply fugitives, looking to join up to escape a life of crime. No one knew, and no one felt like going up to them during tea time and asking them. They did their thing, and everyone else did theirs.

As close as the men were, there were things in life that some would rather just forget. Although the majority of them had lived rather dull, uneventful lives, some had seen things they would rather forget. Occasionally- and this was usually when the men decided to have a drinking night- they would break the shells open and talk about some of these things. Other times, they clammed up.

It was this silence that went universally respected by all. Every man was entitled to their secrets, and they were no exceptions.

Captain Wallace stepped into the headquarters and immediately ripped his hat off and stuffed it in his back pocket. The other officers and the first sergeant looked up briefly as he entered and then went back to their business.

"Is she patched in?"

"Aye, Captain, she'll be in soon," answered Lieutenant Port, typing on one of the laptops and then stepping back to let his superior get on.

William Port had come from an affluent family in London and had been a professor of English at a small college before he was persuaded to join by an associate. He was convinced that his time would involve better benefits for when he got out; maybe even get promoted to head of the English Department. As mentioned before, he was obedient to command, and was a stern leader to the troops, but he was not one who really stood out among the leaders. He was present and respected, but he never did much to really stand out as a real commander. He was Captain Wallace's friend and X.O., and that was all he was viewed at.

The other two officers, Chris Winters and Richard Hunter, were other stories. They were the north and south ends of the officer pool; one was well-loved, the other, well-hated. They both came from different ends of society, different backgrounds, and had different ways of interacting and leading their men.

Lieutenant Hunter was from York, thirty-seven years old, tall and beefy with a shaved head and brown eyes. He came from an extremely wealthy family, enough to own several businesses and his own law firm, and had gone to a wealthy college with exceptional grades. He had been a lawyer back home, and an extremely successful one, but his experience as a platoon leader was as limited as they came. Not only did he not know how to properly lead, he was not hard-pressed to learn. He fought the captain on the decisions he made, he failed to listen to his sergeants, and he did not come up with a single concrete plan of his own. No one knew why he had wanted to join the army, let alone be an officer, and quite frankly, none of them cared to know.

If Hunter was the Mr. Hyde of the officer pool, then Lieutenant Winters was his Jekyll. A twenty-eight-year-old from Glasgow, with dark brown-red hair, green eyes, and freckles on his nose, Winters came from a family-run farm that most years could not afford to make the yearly taxes. He had come from a community college, had done well in classes, but had to leave when he could no longer afford tuition. Determined to find a way for himself, he had enrolled in a officers training school to become a platoon leader. It was here that he finally succeeded; he was loved by his men, he was able to think for himself, and he obeyed an order without question unless he saw it was too risky to send men into.

When it came down to it, with the exception of maybe First Sergeant Peter Evansmann, Lieutenant Hunter was disliked by everyone. When it came down to it, with the exception of maybe First Sergeant Evansmann, Lieutenant Winters was loved by everyone.

Scott Wallace came from Stirling, Scotland; the very town where William Wallace and Andrew Moray had turned themselves into legends by defending the Stirling Bridge, so many years ago. As a junior officer he had been well-liked by his men, a good leader, able to think on his feet and keep everyone calm. But when he became company commander, something changed in the relationship between him and his men. It was like he had transcended to the rank of God. When he walked by, they stopped what they were doing and stood at attention. When he spoke, they shut their mouths and listened. Nothing was official in their world unless it came from his mouth, and this decree came not from him, but from them.

No one understood the amount of dedication they gave to him, not even themselves. And none of them questioned why they did it. It was an unwritten rule; he was in charge, so listen to him. The power he held over them was one in which he would order them to hurl themselves off a cliff and they would be pushing themselves to be first in line. It was a mix of kindergarten students admiring the well-liked teacher and schoolgirls admiring a handsome celebrity. He was on his way to being a company legend, and the men did not want it any other way.

"Signal's in, Captain. She's all yours," Lieutenant Winters called over with a grin.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," the captain replied, smiling back.

Wallace had met his wife at the University for the Creative Arts in Farnham during their freshman year. Back then, he had been studying to be a writer, and Lisa Wallace- who back then had been Lisa Hanson- had been from Dundee, studying to be a teacher. Their meeting was chance; he had been out with a friend and visiting a friend of his friend, who happened to be with his "harem" as he liked to call it, one of whom had been his future wife. They met and hit it off instantly. A week later, he took her to the movies on their first date, and things had been running smoothly ever since then. Now, fifteen years later, she was teaching Creative Arts at Cumbernauld College, and he was in the army to find inspiration, and also be able to have further career opportunities to be able to support himself, his wife, and his soon-to-be-one-year-old daughter.

Another thing that made Wallace a hero to his men was his passion for his family. He was the classic family man, a wife and a daughter, a nice cottage in the highlands. It was the kind of scenario that some of the men already had, and what most of the men wanted to have. They were envious of that, most had only dreamed of such a life, but the captain lived it and cherished every day of it.

"Camera on in three...two...and we're patched."

The camera flicked on, revealing the two women that somewhere to the north were looking into their own camera at him. One of them was thirty-three, short and skinny, with light brown hair and beautiful brown eyes. She was pretty, not the kind of pretty that would bring saliva from the mouth, but the kind of pretty that would keep a man captivated for twenty minutes straight, where he would get lost in looking at her without even realizing it. It was not the kind of pretty that made a man get hard at the thought of a one-nighter in bed, but the kind of pretty that would open a jar of butterflies into a man's open mouth only to have them flutter around in his stomach. She was book smart and kind and sweet and everything one wanted in a wife, despite her sometimes clumsiness and her lack of knowledge involving the Star Wars trilogy.

The other one was a baby girl, not yet one year old. On her egg-shaped head was a tiny puff of her father's dark hair, thin now but soon to be thick like her old man's. She had her mother's brown eyes that looked innocent even when she had knocked over a cookie jar and it shattered on the floor. She had pudgy little fingers that had a tight grip when squeezed around someone else's finger, and she was not yet teething, although they expected her to start soon. Her round face knew nothing of the conflicts of the world and would remain oblivious for three or four more years, longer if Scott Wallace had something to say about it.

"There are my girls," said Wallace with a smile.

"Hey!" Lisa Wallace exclaimed with excitement in her fair Scottish accent, a huge smile showing her neat white teeth. "How are you?"

"Other than I miss my women and it's very hot here, I'm fine. I'm thinking more of how you're doing."

"We miss her daddy." Lisa looked down at her child. "Can you say hi to Daddy? Say hi, Daddy!"

"Hey, Little Lady!" He waved to his little girl, who smiled and giggled playfully. "Lisa, love, she's gotten so big. What are you feeding her?"

"She's starting to feed herself a little bit now. She tried eating apple sauce all by herself, although I think more landed on her shirt than in her mouth."

He laughed. Lieutenants Port and Winters gave each other looks. Wallace was three different men. Out of combat, he was calm, mellow, and collected, having civil and intelligent conversations all the while looking more like a general than a captain. In combat, he was fierce and motivated, barking orders left and right, leading the charges, taking the first shots, lobbing grenades and making sure his men were alright and doing what they were supposed to be doing. And then when his wife called, he was yet another man entirely. He was almost like a giant teddy bear; soft, voice raised slightly higher, speaking in kid speak. For a few moments, he got to be a dad instead of a captain.

"Guess what?"

"What?"

"She crawled yesterday."

His widened. "She did not."

"She did! She crawled down the hall from her bedroom into the kitchen. I videotaped some of it."

"That a girl," he said, tapping her face on the monitor. "You'll be running with the rest of us before long."

"It's a bit too soon for that, don't you think?"

"Nonsense. She's a Wallace. Very determined men and women in this family." He looked up at his wife and smiled tenderly. "She's beautiful. Just like her mother."

She smiled just as lovingly back at him. They worked well together- he helped keep her calm and mellow, and she supported him even when he felt like a failure. There was an understanding between them, an attraction that could not really be explained no matter how hard one tried. They just worked; it was one of those one-in-a-million things that just clicked so well and had no explanation for it, nor needed one.

As bad as war was- and no one would ever see it as good- there were some things that could make life in the desert better for the men. A letter from home would brighten up someone's day. A package would make somebody's week. And a phone call, one simple minute of hearing a loved one's voice, would make somebody ecstatic for two whole months. A married man's wife would up it to six.

Sometimes, with a simple letter and a voice, a man's life in Hell would turn into five minutes in Heaven.

Tubbs stepped out of the latrine and zipped up his fly. He looked up at the night sky, at the stars that dotted all over like thousands of little diamonds, and whistled to himself.

What a night. Back home he had never appreciated star gazing, but since his arrival here six weeks ago, he had become fascinated with finding constellations. One time, he had seen a shooting star, and had even gone so far as to make a wish; something he had not done since he was five.

Being out here was like being on recess. Aside from morning inspection and when they headed out to the city, life here was as casual as a skate park. The men all treated each other as equals, except for the officers who (for the most part) they treated like gods. The food...could be better, but it was edible. The showers...ran out of hot water after every ten showers, but he had made a point to get up at the crack of dawn so that he was the first in at the beginning of the day. Cable was limited to the sports games and the news, both of which he could do without but since his arrival he had started reading more so that took place of the television times.

He sighed, as he walked calmly around the compound, hoping to find all of Orion instead of just his belt. Back home he had always been the fat kid that everyone picked on. Joining the army had cut him down twenty pounds, but he had his nickname for a reason, and the reason was the gut that sometimes hung over his pants like a bad smell. Guys like Danny and the Freedman brothers were going to start putting him through some exercises to help slim him down some more, and he was optimistic. Hopefully when he went back home to his mother, she would faint at the sight of how skinny he had become.

His only real issue was death. That either he killed someone or one of his friends...or him, died. So far, although he'd only been out three times, he'd been lucky. No deaths, no wounds. And he had not killed anyone, as far as he knew, unless a bullet somehow ricocheted and went off and hit a rebel behind cover, which seemed physically impossible to him. He knew that he would have to draw fire on someone some day, but the innocent feeling of being new to war was a feeling he did not quite feel like letting go of yet.

He walked around, stopping once or twice to try to pinpoint a correct constellation, when he reached the generator towards the edge of the camp. There, he was surprised to find that he was not out alone this night. There were three men gathered in a small circle next to the generator, either not talking or talking so low that he could not hear them. Figuring that it would be nice to have some company, Tubbs placed his hands in his pockets and walked off towards them.

As he got closer, he began to notice something odd about them. They were not wearing green, or anything resembling normal clothing, or at least, as normal as army T-shirt and cargo pants went. They were not wearing civilian clothing either, not even the desert garb of the locals. No, these people were wearing black robes, pitch black, the tops pointed up as though they were in a cult. He frowned. He had not known the guys had a Dungeons and Dragons thing going.

"Hey, what's going on over here?" he called out as he got to the generator.

They all turned to him. His eyes widened.

These men were tall, and their faces were covered in skull-shaped masks that covered all of their face with the exception of their mouths, which were twisted into evil snarls. Whoever they were, they were not their own men.

They raised their arms, each hand holding what looked like an ordinary stick. Tubbs panicked and hastily whipped out his M92F handgun. He pointed it at the one closest and tried to make himself pull the trigger, half prepared and half mortified that the moment had come at last and he had to pull the trigger in order to save his own li-

"Avada Kedavra!"

Tubbs never saw it coming. The attacker had come from the side, out of his peripheral vision. A bright green light flew at him and struck him in the side of the head. His body flew backwards and out of sight behind the generator. His handgun flew out of his hands and slammed against the generator and then to the ground.

The three men lowered their wands as their leader came forward from where he had been hiding, his wand pointed at where the Mudblood had been standing. He lowered his wand and stared up at the night sky.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with combed back dirty-blonde hair, cold gray eyes, and a blonde patch of hair on his chin. His was the only face not covered by a mask, and his hood was pushed backwards. His wand was thirteen inches and made of oak, with dragon heartstring as its core. He was a man of honor, and though he made it his mission to exterminate the Mudblood filth, it was not below him to allow an honorable fight between him and his opponent, one last attempt to make a good use of its pathetic life before it was snuffed out. To his men, he showed compassion, if only from time to time. To his enemies, he showed an undying loathing.

"Have the dementors circle above the camp," he said in a low, gruff voice that was deep enough to be the Devil's. "Do not have them attack. Our armies will commence the attack when I give the order."

The three men bowed and then suddenly disappeared as if they had never even been there.

He looked around at the brightly lit buildings and could not suppress his smirk. The Mudbloods had no idea of what was going on. He preferred it that way; the quicker this was done, the easier it was for him and his men.

He looked at the generator, aimed his wand at it, and with a simple flick and swish, the base was thrown into darkness.

I hope you guys know what the opening passage is from.

If you regularly read my stuff, I really really hope you guys know.

This chapter actually took about two years to write. No, I doubt the rest of the chapters will take that long.

As you can most likely tell, I put a lot of work into this. Did my research, prayed to God it was accurate, yada yada yada. I don't want any of you saying I'm not dedicated to my work, however, if you know of anything I got wrong, i.e., ranking, units, weapons, etc., please let me know.

Just don't be assholes about it.

That's all I ask.

So yeah, this is my new story. I know it's very...different, from other Harry Potter fanfiction, but that's me. I like to break the barrier and attempt the previously-thought-un-attemptable. I like to test myself. And I hope the audience enjoys what I put out there.

This is definitely a character-driven story. I've never attempted a war story of this magnitude before, and so I want to make sure I get everything right. As such, the battles will be epic, the suspense will be terrific, the humor will be pitch-black and hopefully funny, but most of all, I want the characters to be likable. That is my goal this time around; for the readers to love the characters.

So let me know what you think in the reviews, favorite and subscribe if you dare, praise or criticize if you will, and I'll see you all next time.

Peace.