The stars mocked him as he awoke, his back slapping against the rough bark of the tree that his parachute had caught on during the landing. He looked around as he fumbled for his combat knife. His men were nowhere to be seen. A couple swipes were enough to cut himself free. He checked himself of injuries and thanked a silent God that he found none. It bothered him that such a rough landing would leave him with no scrapes or bruises. The instructors at Camp Toccoa told him to expect at least a bump or two, but even his old football injury uttered nary a peep as he got his legs under him.
“Either I’m lucky or I’m dead,” He muttered as he performed an equipment check in the dark. The musette bag attached to his combat suspenders D-Rings were secure, as well as his dispatch bag. His wrist compass glowed a dull green as he dug out his map and tried to check his position. Saint L’Zaire shouldn’t be more than a few miles from his position. Where was his men? It wasn’t unheard of to get blown off course, but to lose an entire platoon was something he was going to have a hard time living down when he regained contact.
He put the map away and unslung the Thompson. Men or not, his job was to make contact with The Resistance and Virgil McInerney was never late for an appointment. He flicked off the submachine gun’s safety and began walking.