The shotgun rattles across the rough wooden floor as Pyotr reaches down to check the pulse of the Arab slumped against the wall, submachine gun pointed at the man’s head for good measure. There is no pulse in the Arab’s neck, but this is no surprise to the Ukrainian as blood pumps from the wound in the man’s throat, staining his denim work shirt a bright crimson. He looks to be in his late twenties, dressed like many of the farmhands that Pyotr has seen working the fields and orchards around Portemonte – his hands are brown and rough, a worker’s hands, something the former partisan knows well.
In the far corner the second man, dressed similarly to the first, continues to cower in the corner, pleading for his life. “Please don’t kill me!” he says, holding out his empty hands in supplication. “Please, I had nothing to do with this! Please!” Vidal moves toward him, the MAT-49 trained on the man’s heart. As he approaches, his thigh throbbing, the radioman sees another body, then another, lying between the bunks – blood stains the floorboards from their slashed throats as they lie as still as statues, their eyes wide and unmoving. “Get down on the floor, now!” orders Vidal. “Face down! Plus vite!” Trembling, the man sinks to his hands and knees, then prostrates himself of the floor, arms outstretched, still beseeching mercy from the paras.
David Nedjar appears at the door. “Are you both all right?” he asks. He looks at the dying man in the floor, then at Vidal and his prisoner, and then the bodies between the bunks, and shakes his head slightly.
Normand sees a shadow in the doorway of the farmhouse – Burhan Pamuk. His bushy eyebrows furrow slightly when he sees Normand on the floor. Sgt. Katsourianis looks up. “Anyone else hit?” he asks, clearing the blood away from Normand’s face with a dressing.
“Babaye. Doc is with him.” the Turk replies. He looks around at the destruction impassively, like he might read an advertisement in a bus depot. “Syrovy got one with a submachine gun. Out back.”
“We need to clear the rest of the house,” orders Sgt. Müller. “Pamuk, you’re with me. Kat, watch that landing upstairs.” With a tilt of his head, the German heads into the room where the gunner lies on the floor, Pamuk behind him.
As Normand sits on the floor, he has a chance to take stock of his injuries. Somewhere on his head there is a bloody gash, judging from the amount of blood in his eyes. There is a pain in his neck and shoulder – both are bloody but he’s able to move his arm and fingers. The motion brings a spasm of pain to his arm and side, however. He tastes dust and smoke in his mouth.
Glancing about the grenadier sees the torn and smoldering wallpaper exposed to the blast. Framed photos once hanging on the wall now lie in broken frames on the floor of the entryway, knocked loose by the concussion and metal fragments and the pieces of plaster generated by the two grenade blasts. At his feet is the maroon stain on the carpet that he noted on the way in. Normand: Please make an untrained Knowledge check – add your INT bonus to the roll and a +2 circumstance modifier as well.
Marcel hands the plasma bottle and IV tubing to Babaye and directs the wounded legionnaire to hold it up to keep it flowing, before grabbing his medic’s bag and heading for the house. Syrovy is crouched by the stone wall, rifle pointed toward the farmhouse. The medic reaches the wall, places a hand on the top, and vaults over – then finds himself face down on the ground on the other side, his beret falling off, his carbine barrel striking him in the back of his head. Recovering, he looks over toward Syrovy, sees the Hungarian shaking his head slightly, a smirk on his face. Marcel also sees a body, an Arab in work clothes, bloody and motionless, lying on the ground near a couple of fruit trees along the back wall. Gathering his gear, the Frenchman rises and makes his way carefully to the front of the house.
It’s a scene of considerable devastation – the entry of the once-tidy farmhouse is covered with pieces of wood and plaster and glass, and smoke and dust swirl through a series of shattered windows to the east. Inside he sees Normand seated on the floor amid the wreckage, covered in dust and blood, leaning against a piece of battered furniture placed across the hallway. Sgt. Katsourianis is next to him, his submachine gun pointed toward the stairs. “How’s Babaye, Doc?” the sergent asks.
