Blackjack Attacks!
It's hard to feel like a super hero right now.
Your usually pristine uniform is speckled with scrapes and tears all across your doublet. The usually vibrant reds that decorate you and dignify you are so blasted with sand they've almost turned maroon. Even with your incredible luck, you're sporting a gash across your thigh that you find just severe enough to stay constantly irritating. You're not sure who is in worse temperament; you, or the scrawny horse you found upon arriving in Dunkirk.
It's been close to half an hour now since the last of the Luftwaffe strafed the beach, with a diligent RAF pilot got on his tail. You had pleaded with your superiors to let you fly in this battle. You were, and still are, sure that from a cockpit you could have done more from a cockpit than on the beach. But command felt that it was better for moral to have you here waiting with the evacuees. That they would feel safer if they had a super hero in amongst them. You hope that's true. That would at least be something.
You ride back across the beach to your designated plot where the six man squad you're embedded with is camped awaiting the relief ships. Curiously, you only see five of the six men present. And they are searching the crowd madly and screaming the name "O'CONNOR!" at the top of their lungs. That's the name of a Corporal in the squad with you, and evidently, your missing sixth man.
