The Alternate World War One

[Baby Boomer]

This is my first shot at writing in The Guild, so I hope you like it. This story is what I have been pickling in my mind. A lot of different things happening in WWI, which changed its outcome. I hope you like it! I tried to make it like WiC, the diffrent outcome, dissaster. I shall make edits where the plot is needed, and will inform you so if done. Please enjoy, and remmebered the sacrafices these soldiers actually DID make.

MONS, 1914

The whole ground shook, the sky seemed to fall from its place. A massive crack, an outbreak of screams and cries. Soot covered soldiers ran backwards towards the welcoming cover of buildings. A soot covered British soldier fell backwards, shooting at an unseen enemy. More British soldiers ran past him, all covered in dirt and smeared with mud. All with the crack of rifles in their ears. The man who fell was crying, he was exhausted, the Germans outnumbered them easily.
"Preußen" roared a mustached German soldier, spit flying from his mouth to embed itself in his moustache. The British soldier fired his rifle, and the German flung himself out of its flames. He then lunged at the British soldier with a long knife. The British soldier swung once, twice, and then withdrew silently to leave the dead body to rot. More Germans were coming; bullets flew past his head, chipped stone around him, and the stone of small white cottages. There was a united crack from behind him and the man flung himself to the ground as the air gave way above him. The Germans chasing seemed to be pulled back by ropes, and fell lifeless. One live one kneeled and fired once and a British soldier screamed and clutched his throat with bulging eyes. The sound of battle echoed distantly from far off. The British fired again and again and again until men’s eardrums burst bloodily open. One man screamed as it went past his ears and to his brain, driving him mad as he writhed on the rocky floor. Soldiers were swiped backwards as a shell hit a nearby building which crumpled onto the ground. The Germans fell as if on a shooting range, more jumped forward, only to fly backwards. The blocks of bodies stopped the Germans paths, and were handy cover for them. Dead men piled six bodies high. More came, more died. The German shells flew overhead to shudder beneath them, as if groaning it missed. A whistle sounded from within the town.
“Retreat!” yelled a British Officer, and they yelled and fired off another round at the charging Germans, who all died mercilessly. A couple of Germans weakly followed, but after several bullets whizzed by they gave up to sniping. The British sprinted towards the City Centre, and entered into a main highway where hundreds more were running back as well followed closely by a victorious Officer, mounted. He was blowing a whistle. More gunshots from behind and soon the British were filing outwards from Mons, while the Germans climbed over rows upon rows of dead German bodies. They’d lost more then 1 000 men this day. German officers gathered, loss for them, though they gained the town. This would take days to recover, precious time wasted. Friends of the dead shook their heads as they buried their friends, and the war had started.

WHAT IF THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN….




The whole ground shook, the sky seemed to fall from its place. A massive crack, an outbreak of screams and cries. Soot covered soldiers ran backwards towards the welcoming cover of buildings. A soot covered British soldier fell backwards, shooting at an unseen enemy. More British soldiers ran past him, all covered in dirt and smeared with mud. All with the crack of rifles in their ears. The man who fell was crying, he was exhausted, the Germans outnumbered them easily.
"Preußen" roared a mustached German soldier, spit flying from his mouth to embed itself in his moustache. The British soldier fired his rifle, and the German flung himself out of its flames. He then lunged at the British soldier with a long knife. The British soldier screamed horribly then choked upon his dieing breath. Prussian bullets whizzed past the Germans ear, and British soldiers flicked backwards to slam into the buildings behind them. A shell flew overhead, and then another as fires raged in the town. British bodies littered the ground, blood ran through the gutters. The war in trenches started here, trenches of dead, British, bodies. Their European Empire was falling. The Germans ran through the streets while the British sprinted towards the highway. One man hit a wall, bounced off and kept running, as a soldier next to him fell forwards and hit the floor, bounced, then smashed into the all which blew up moments later in a rain of brick and plaster. The running soldier ducked to avoid splinters and kept running now covered in white. A man next to him tripped, and disappeared into the white cloud behind them, and then screamed to the heavens. Another shell blew the cottage sky high, and the man sprinted onwards as bricks hurtled towards the ground. A bullet flew past his head, German voices behind him. Another two soldiers were just behind him. Minutes later, they disappeared, as though had suddenly turned invisible. The man broke from the alleyway into a running screaming mass of British soldiers. A whistle 0sounded from the cloud of plaster. A bugle sounded from outside the city. Triumphitant or defeated unable to recognize. The man shoved his way through the crowd, as shells landed behind them into the mass. A man mounted waved his arm to urge them onwards as thousands of British soldiers struggled out of the city from the victorious Germans. The men kicked open a door to find a absurdly normal cottage. A wooden table in front with a vase of flowers, and stairs ahead. He ran up the stairs, and found himself in a bedroom where a balcony stood. The man slowly approached the balcony, and then ripped out into the air. It was hard to breath; the air was thick with plaster and dark smoke. He gasped for shocked breath, his mind toppled over. A scene was painted before him never seen before.

The whole eastern part of the town was on fire. Dark smoke rose quickly into sky to make it seem as if a hailstorm came. There was thousands of screaming, roaring voices, whistles and trumpets echoed wistfully into the air. Every now and then a small black dot would smash into the city, with the result that building and man alike flew higher then a three storey building. The western part was calm, the highway was packed with soldiers and villagers packed with carts. Beneath the man was a wide highway, which was packed with British soldiers. Some pressed, breathless, against the wall. It was a situation impossible to depict, one he had never read of. It was comparable to Waterloo, comparable to Vienna. It was ranked upon those battles of lasting fame. Infamous, it was as if the devil had decided to give the living earth a page out of his private book. The man ran from the building into the crowd where was carried along for some 200 meters without touching the ground. Voices babbled around him, gunshots and the drawn out call of falling shells. He was then gracefully pushed into the open field of mud as soldiers urged past him in a panic. He looked eastwards, and quickly jumped behind a large bush. A group of some 400 German Cuirassiers were galloping towards the retreating mass, lances aimed downwards and pendants fluttering in the breeze. The soldiers saw them and flung themselves into the mud filled banks, and some drew rifles. The charging Prussians seemed to falter, then roared a cry and broke upon the British. The man watched a lance embed itself in a man’s eye, who screamed a long drawn out cry. Another mans head seemed to explode as it was hit. The man turned around the jumped in the foliage. He jumped over roots, brushed away hanging branches and wiped off leaves. He could not relieve himself of the images he just witnessed, and kept tripping in exhaustion. 56 hours of no sleep. He broke from the forests. The highway was still there, with much less people now. The cowards who ran before. To the east rose heavy, black smoke. The tongue of a blazing fire was seen on the horizon and the occasional break of shell was heard. The man sank to his knees crying from hunger, exhaustion and loss. The mud crept slowly up to his stomach where it slopped peacefully. British soldiers trudged past, flinging away their useless rifles and heading for the shore. The war had started, on the wrong tune.

[Baby Boomer]

Well? Did anyone like it? Did anyone hate its guts? What was bad about it? What was good? Please, I want feedback!

[Meldarion]

Ah, the good old alternate history, used by Westwood in their command & conquer series whereby Einstein goes back in time and assassinates Hitler, a timeless classic to be sure.

As for your own variation, I honestly think its OK, but it needs some polishing. There are quite a few places where you have used the same words very close together. It can also get a bit confusing since its such an impersonal account, have you ever considered writing it from two soldiers view points? One English the other German that may work better.

Over all however, it has a certain feel to it, its quite gory which I like and there are plenty of dead, in fact by the end you're piling them up. I will certainly read the next part if you're up for the task. I'm not certain it can hold my interest long term though so try to surprise me.

[Warmaster Horus]

More, please!

[Baby Boomer]

Chapter II

London was awash with a furious rainstorm, as the sky constantly crashed and roared. It was the worst weather in a hundred years, and not being enjoyed. In the empty streets a single coach trundled down the cobbled laneway. The curtains were drawn and the driver had protection as the rain pelted the screens, he constantly shielded his face with his hand and reached out of the seat to wipe it down. The coach inside was leather, and very warm. A skinny man with brown hair sat inside it, and was dozing quietly. The coach jolted as its wheel disappeared into a pothole full of water. Either side of the coach rose high dark buildings, water galloping from its gutters. Most houses leant over the street, making it dark and full of moss. The rain let down when they went under one, and then sped up as the rain hit it full force. The coach stopped momentarily then trudged on harder. The man startled in his sleep, and then slept on. His clothes were worn out, the top part being khaki color and his trousers white. He had the slight traces of a moustache. His legs dripped lazily over the leathered seats. It was obvious he was a solider, a medal hung from his shirt and a Webley pistol in his hand. He let rip a loud snore, then slept quietly, while the weather screamed its supremacy.




“Uh…” groaned a voice, sounding strangled and hurt.
“Quiet, they might hear you!” came a furious whisper. The vices came from a line of bushes alongside a wrecked and ruined road. Helmets and rifles lay strewn across the road, which was shadowed by tall trees. Four men mounted upon black steeds were slowly travelling up the road, while on the horizon the figures if their comrades slowly disappeared. In the bushes, a rifle and a pair of eyes slowly watched the innocent men. They were talking loudly and all laughed suddenly, the sound ringing through the valley. Three men were in the bush, one had no helmet and was cradling a bruised and battered knee. The other had his rifle slung over his shoulder and had a army cap on, and wore a medic pouch. Another wore stripes on hi shoulder to indicate he was a Captain. They were men quickly drawn together after the battle. The Captain looked around and motioned to the medic to come closer so he could say something.
“Listen up, you take Jack and head straight over there-“ He pointed into the forest “- and keep running ‘till you reach the road, then hide and wait for me.” Whispered the man, the horsemen were silent but the clapping of the horse’s hooves sounded loud. The man called Jack let out a small groan, the medic spared him a look then whispered to the Captain;
“And what are you doing?” he asked, eyebrows raised. The Captain shouldered his rifle grimly,
“I am going to distract them. Now go, before there gone! Oh and-“ the medic turned around worriedly,
“- I probably won’t make this, get this to my family in Southhampton.” He said, handing the medic a sealed letter. He nodded and then picked up Jack, who groaned louder, and then ran into the forest, disappearing in a shower of leaves. German voices sounded from the road, and the clapping of hooves stopped. The Captain edged around the shrubs, in position so he could see a short man, who wore the traditional German uniform of grey and a pike pointed helmet push away the bushes where the Captain had been hiding. He turned around and yelled at the other three horsemen. The Captain edged ever more quietly, his heart basically leaping from his throat, and the blood rushing in his ears, and he quickly sprung from the bushes to the opposite side of the pathway, into more shrubs. He rolled down a hill for a few more seconds, then let-out a sigh of relief as he heard the German horsemen continue their journey. He rose quickly, as if a guerrilla fighter, and jumped up to the high bank. The horsemen were advancing around a bend now, once again laughing at a unheard joke. He put his heavy Enfield rifle to his shoulder and looked down its sights. The man blond hair stood out, if shot he would slump over his friend. His finger moved slowly towards the trigger, as the men slapped another hard on the back laughing. He went to pulled the trigger-
A hand tugged him from behind, grabbing him around the neck and pulling him to the ground, meanwhile choking him of breath.
“Get off me!” he gasped, slowly turning purple, and uselessly scratching at the hand. The German must’ve snuck up behind him. But he noticed the hands were bloody and the choker weak. He detached himself from the hand and massaging his throat grabbed his Enfield, which had fired a shot, and turned around. His scream was drowned by the scuffling of the German horsemen, who were firing into the bushes and setting them alight. The Captain retreated slowly and tripped over.

A clap of lightening sounded, and a loud knocking noise. The man in the coach twitched and jumped in his sleep. Slowly his ears came to sense and there was the sound of heavy rain. The sky outside, shown only by a small spot left by the red curtains, was illuminated by a flash of lightening, followed by the approaching sound of thunder. Another loud knock sound and a voice,
“Mr Hamburg? Mr Hamburg!” these last words were accompanied by a loud knock which made the door rattle on its hinge. The man in the cabin jumped so his head hit the roof. He massaged his head in the time of one more knock, then pulled the long handle. He was blown back into his chair as a mixture of strong winds and rain the strength of golf balls pummeled him and washed into the cabin. Part of it was eclipsed as a large black umbrella blocked his view, holding it the Coach’s driver.
“Mr Hamburg, sorry to wake you.” He yelled over the noise. Mr Hamburg turned this over in his head, the man was wasting time on manners in the middle of a violent storm?
“No problem, I was having a rather horrid dream anyway” He roared, but wasn’t sure the man heard him; he was half deaf even when it wasn’t raining this hard.
“We have to stop by for a horse changeover, and a change of wheels. It might be best if you accompany me!” The driver roared, Mr Hamburg nodded to show his agreement and stepped down onto the platform, then onto the ground which was covered in rocks. The coach tipped over dangerously then fell no its wheels. A door slammed shut behind him and the driver grabbed his arm and steered him towards a building Mr Hamburg hadn’t noticed before. It was leaning and tall and had words ,which were ready to fall off, sprayed across it:
The Horned Pig
Mr Hamburg read it in disbelief, thinking what a strange name it was, then was promptly steered into a door. As it slammed behind him a warming light was showered across the room, with a roaring fire going and a set of comfory seaths next to it. A bar stood in the other side of the room with two tables in front of it, and it was magnificently clean. The driver was already at the counter enquiring for the replacements, and the lady at the counter was chatting back. Mr Hamburg shuffled over to the seats and then, with a hesitate, seated himself next to the fire. After staring at it for some time picked up a paper.

Heroes Return from Belgium
Earlier this week in London a collection of men arrived upon a magnificent boat. They were dressed in the finest clothes and accompanied by the finest men. They marched finely, under the roaring command of their officer, into the London docks where they were greeted by family and patriotic people. The King informed the country that these fine soldiers would be receiving a medal to remember there efforts in Belgium, and a parade to remember them for the efforts of Mons…

The man threw the paper down onto the desk, wishing he could throw it into the fire. What utter rubbish he thought with hatred. Him a some hundred men, the remainder of a force numbering in its thousands, had arrived in a Belgian ferry, which had begun to sink and did so as they landed. The had then crawled onto a empty dock from where a alert sailor found them. Mr Hamburg stroked the medal hanging from his chest, the papers were making Mons seem like some heroic victory. Tears filled in his eyes, if only soldiers could write what really happened. The windows rattled, as did the roof, and it sounded as though one of the letter on the sign outside had finally been ripped off by the lusting wind. Just as he had been ripped off by his country…
“Veteran are you?” said a voice from behind him. The bartender was standing there, he nodded wearily.
“Mons, Boer? What are you?” She asked,
“Mons” She shook her head sadly,
“I lost my father in Africa, or so they said.” She commented, bowing her head so ger long brown hair covered her face.
“Who said so?” asked Mr Hamburg, not looking up but thinking of how he could get out of there.
“ My adoptive parents, they never said ‘bout my mother.” She added blandly, the inn shook again and she looked at the roof as the door banged open. The driver crashed in with a wave of water, and he fell upon the floor, then kicked the door shut. He stood as if blown away, water dripping from his grey beard and hair. He looked quite comical, but destroyed that image as he let out a string of swear words.
“Horses are ready to go, as are the wheels, I just have to attach them. With all respect Captain, but I think we should rest here for the night.” He said this to Mr Hamburg. Mr Hamburg thought this over then said suddenly;
“Tonight” the driver nodded then motioned to the door,
“The horses are ready, the wheel just needs attachig. Good luck madame.” He added to the bartender the tapped his soaked hat then opened the door. Mr Hamburg bowed then left quickly, the door slamming quickly behind him. After some time involing both the driver and Mr Hamburg getting grazed elbows, knees and faces, and both getting muddy and wet and after having a shower in the Horned Pig, they left. Mr Hamburg sat for some time as the coach trundled out of deep puddles full of murky water, he fell asleep quickly, exhausted but happy.


A bloody mass was there, unrecognizable. The person’s whole body was covered in gashes, and a bullet hole was in his leg, a turban around his head to cover the wound there. The wounded man vomited then weakly keeled over, his breathing stopped. A German voice sounded close to the hedge, and in horror, the Captain kneeled and ran quickly as two hands emerged from the hedge. He quickly looked from the hedge and saw two German’s looking around the area where he had fired, and the other with his rifle raised. The Captain crossed himself and prepared to fire. A wind blew past the group, whistling loudly, and he fired. The wind smoothed the sound, and the other Germans’ didn’t notice the other drop with a thud to the floor. The Germans argued then one motioned to the hedge. After some time, one fell through and immediately caught sight of the dead body. He staggered backwards then vomited to the floor. The other saw it, and with a stronger will, threw a match onto the body which was in flames in seconds. The two Germans watched the body burn, and even drew closer to get warmth from the flames, one turned to motion to his friend, who was dead. The Captain fired once, and one soldier dropped into the flames, and he started screaming. The scream ripped through the landscape, certain to wake everything up, and call everything there. The other man whipped around and in wild west fashion pulled up his Luger pistol rapidly aiming at the Captain. The German fired but the Captain jumped into the hedge firing off three bullets, one which successfully thudded into the mans leg. The German dropped to his knee and let a gasp of pain before his head was thrown back by another bullet from the Captain. The Captain pulled himself up and brushed leaves from his tunic as the heat of the flames washed over him. A single German voice rang out, followed by two gunshots. He looked down the road, they had heard them. He sprinted down the road and around the bend leaving the scene behind. He tripped but held himself and kept running, the end in no sight and his sides covered by hedges. An engine sounded behind him, and more German voices, and he threw himself into the hedge. He fell down the hill again but was lightly stopped.
“Finally Captain, we could hear gunshots and screaming.” Said a voice, the Captain sighed as he saw the medic standing over him with his foot stopping his fall. Jack was lying against the trunk and weakly grinned. The medic scrambled up the slope while the Captain collapsed next to jack.
“Going alright?” he asked, Jack grinned.
“Bloody fool you are, running around like a chicken with no head.” He joked; they both laughed but abruptly stopped when the medic rolled down the slope. The medic kneeled and put a finger to his lips and motioned for them to run. He picked up Jack and sprinted away, the Captain in close pursuit. The forest was half dead, but he still had to brush away the hanging branches. The medic stopped in the middle of the forest and the Captain barely missed running into him. They couldn’t hear anything but a strange bird cry, and the sizzling sound of bugs. The medic kneeled and listened more closely as the Captain tried to remember what bird was making that noise, and Jack simply held onto a tree. The medic slowly stood then raised his hands.
“We’re surrounded.” He whispered, the Captain looked at him, and then behind the medic saw the camouflaged soldiers. He swore loudly and a German came up to him and grabbed his wrist tightly, making him drop his gun.
“You never, Brit, outsmart the Stormtrooper.” The Captain looked the man in the face and recognized the German insignia of Major. There was muttering from the German Stormtrooper’s around them. Jack fell to the base of the tree, and the Major went to kick him. Jack drew a pistol from his belt and shot at the Major who jumped from its path and crashed into the Captain, both fell to the floor. A Stormtrooper dropped dead but the rest raised their rifles, the medic picked up the Enfield on the floor and shot four dead.
“KILL HIM!” roared the Major holding the Captain by the neck. There was a quick burst of gunfire, and the medic dropped limply to the floor, from there the Stormtrooper continued to shoot him until his magazine ran out, giving the body a strange appearance that I was moving. The Major kicked the smoking, dead body,
“British scum. Now MOVE!” He roared, the body of troops moved away, and the Major and his prisoners did as well. They trenched over dead leaves for some time, leaving the Captain wondering what was going to happen. They climb a short hill and found themselves in a open field. The German Major swore and pulls out a crinkled map.
“The bloody road should be right here…” he says, observing the map for any trace of their location. One of the Stormtrooper starts talking in a panic pointing at the other side of the field. There is a group of British soldiers trudging towards them, covered in mud and blood. The one leading the disorganized group raises his Enfield and shoots a German dead. The Captain beams at them as the man hits the ground.
“Infantry Firepower positions!” roars the Major as another bullet fizzes past the Stormtrooper group. A rough hand grabs the Captain by the shirt and throws him to the ground,
“Move and I’ll shoot you dead.” Rasps the voice. The Captain looks back and sees the Stormtrooper squad deployed in the forest.
“Fire!” yells the Major, emptying his rifle magazine. The whole group fires and several British soldiers drop dead, while the others hit the ground. The Captain startles as a sub machine gun fires in his ear, with a vicious looking man wielding it. It stops,
“Every Platoon concentrate on one target!” yells a different voice.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” Bullet after bullet flings itself at the rag tag group of soldiers. The man with the sub machine guns yells at a soldier then jumps into different position. A Stormtrooper crouches and runs to the Captain. A bullet finds its mark between his ear and eyebrow, and the man lies back into a tree where he slides down it to its roots. The Captain looks around wildly as a bullet embeds itself into the tree next to him. He spots Jack near a trooper. He motions to Jack from behind the group, and he understands. His foot nimbly reaches out and the trooper falls forward, and with a stroke of luck, a bullet thuds into his heart. The Captain helps Jack up then they limp around the squad and into the plains. A German voices yells and several bullets hit the surrounding ground. Jack looks over his shoulder, then forward.
“Come back here Brit, or we will shoot!” roars the Major. The Captains pauses, and fires two shoots from his hip, then limps on.
“Fire!” The Captain pulls himself and Jack to the ground and the bullet uselessly fly overhead, he thens rises and they run on.
“Fire god damn it!” He yells in a strangled voice at the British survivors. They all fire at once with a deafening crash. He throws Jack into the group then collapses to the ground clutching his foot.
“You all right?” asks an Irish voice, the Captain looks up, blood on his fingers.
“I could be better, where to now?” he asks, as a medic rushes over to him and gently takes off his boots and puttee.
“To the coast, its not that far, unbelievably, it feels like years since Mons, and from there back to London. There I expect we will get a cold shoulder.” The man adds miserably, the Captain nods as the Medic offers him a needle to soothe the pain.

Mr Hamburg’s head hits the roof again as they speed over a bump, he rubs the head and looks outside. The rain as only sprinkling a rainbow had cast itself over the sleepy farms etched across the countryside. He moved to the other seat and opened the panel used to communicate with the driver.
“Anything you want, Captain?” the driver asks absently, swerving to avoid a deep puddle.
“Hell no, thanks, just checking up. How far to go?” asks Mr Hamburg, scratching his chin.
“About twenty minutes sir, I’d advise you to get yourself ready.” Mr Hamburg offers his thanks and shuts the panel and turns around to pack. After some time involving him finding all his gear, including his Colt pistol, he feels the Coach slow down. Mar Hamburg draws back the curtains to be greeted by a overcast day, and buildings lining themselves either side. People walked on the pavement, and other coach’s raced past with various names engraved on them. The city was dry, as it had draining for the cobbles. They passed numerous shops all selling different thing, and once they passed a marching column of soldiers, all wearing army cap’s and followed by impatient coaches. They veered into a side street away from this town and found themselves looking out to a sea which had no ends. Sailors in white uniforms ran around the port, as numerous jetties trailed from the shore, and hundreds of ships lined the bay. There was a tiny rowing boat, and then a massive wooden two-Decker. Mr Hamburg laughed at the sight of it, then turns to the other side of the coach. People in rags, and some half naked, lined the walls, some disabled and with wounds. They all begged for money from sailors and merchants passing them, all who ignore the beggars. Mr Hamburg watches them, and then looks through the panel. The coach was slowly approaching a small two storey building, which was clean and in good condition. He slowly unwound the window, then leant from it and let the sea breeze wash over him like water. The coach dangerously wheeled around to face the cottage, and the coach door banged open. The driver was standing there,
“Where here Captain” Mr Hamburg dropped from the coach to the platform and hanging from the bar there, stared out into the ocean. He then moved onto the cobbles, where he slipped and had to grab the coach for support. A loud bang came from inside the coach; the driver was removing the luggage. He went to help him, but he heard two words screamed;
“My darling!” He looked around and saw his mother shuffling towards him, she hugged him as a suitcase of luggage crashed to the ground next to him.
“All going well?” asked Mr Hamburg. She nodded, wiping tears from her eyes.
“We thought you were dead!” as the final piece of his luggage fell behind him. The driver was waiting patiently, Mr Hamburg walked up to him and sprinkled some coins and notes into his hand. The driver pulled himself up into the seat, tipped his hat and sped off into the main lane where various other coaches barely missed him. His mother beamed at him and they both walked off into the house;
“Where is father?” asked Mr Hamburg, looking at his mother. She waved a hand,
“Oh somewhere in the docks fixing some ship!” she commented, she opened the door and once again smiled at him.
“Welcome home!”


A buzzing noise filled his ear, and a hand quickly slapped him across the head. A soldier in khaki, and his Enfield rifle slung over his back, walked in front of him. A swishing noise behind him told him that someone was coming from behind. The group of soldiers who had rescued the Captain and Jack were fighting to get through a thick swamp of water, infested with mosquitoes. The man in front of the Captain literally punched himself in the head, and was left to rub the spot where he’d punched. The sound of rifles came from behind him. The Captain held a Webley hand gun in both hands and was scanning around him, and the whole group seem to startle when a bang sounded from behind them.
“Grenades.” Muttered someone as the water floated around them, and large weeds gripped them. The swamp was surrounded by a forest, and was covered by a heavy fog. Dead bodies occupied some lonely spots, as the Captain found when he stumbled and found himself lieing to a decayed body. He quickly scrambled up out of the hole and joined the group. They all saw light flash out of the shadows ahead, and the leader looked at it hopefully and pulled out a hand gun. Another grabbed his arm,
“Don’t, they might hear you” He said, and the man regretfully lowered the gun into its holster. More bangs and gunshots erupted from behind, and as the Captain looked back he saw people gradually filling into the swamp.
“Over there, there coming!” He said, the group looked back as a bang sounded and light temporarily flashed behind them, then he looked over. Other groups of British soldiers were opposite them, on either side, and trailing them.
“Over there, you British?” asked the leader, an answer came back and he nodded, they were. A bank rose ahead of them, made of thick weeds. As the leader climbed, it gave the Captain opportunity to look behind them. Hundreds of British soldiers were walking through the weeds, while on the banks next to them hundreds more were fighting to get up the bank. He watched the troops in the swamp make there way, and then it happened. A single figure came out from the woods, raised its gun and fire a shot, and the Captain watched as a soldier dropped dead. More came, and more until they lined the forest. And they fired,
“Bloody hell!” cursed the Captain,
“GO! GO! GO! IT’S A BLOODY MASSACRE!” roared someone, and yells started to erupt from the group. The Captain turned and jumped up onto the hill, his eyes following the progress of the soldier in front. He could hear crying and yell behind him, screams as men were bayoneted. A man swore behind him, and a bullet chipped the soil where he his hand had been moments before. The man in front staggered and then screamed as a bullet punctured his lungs, and the Captain skidded sideways to avoid the stream of blood. A hand pushed him up and he was climbing over the dead body. A crack and then a flame went into the air, shot from a gun. He watched it but had to jump to not be bowled over by a falling body. A man was bawling on the ground near by, and another one cracked his nails as he scratched the road, dieing. The whole group was flung down as a grenade blew up nearby and they ran on as a man cried over the loss of his leg, which lay in a pool of blood some metres away. A man next to him, the one who had helped him, groaned as a bullet hit his leg, and the next soldier jumped over him. The Captain grabbed the mans arm and pulled him to his knees,
“Help me!” He asked rudely to the next soldier, the other man pulled up his arm and the three staggered up to the top of the hill. A bullet made his hat and heart flutter, and he dropped the wounded man (Who screamed in pain) as a flame seemed to erupt in his thigh. They were over the hill.
The Captain gasped as he saw lines of Belgian ships docked up against the beach. Already many ships were chugging away to the British coast. He felt shells crackling like pork fat under him, and other soldiers were rushing past while looking behind them. There was screaming and bangs coming from behind, and the Captain looked behind. The water was red and hundreds of bodies floated around. He stared determinedly at the beach and the three of them ran, or hopped, their way to a boat. There were flames everyway, soldiers running past them as bullets gradually took them. A grenade clunked nearby and a soldier went to kick it, they all ducked as it blew up, and the Captain looked away as he saw only half of the men there, his insides hanging out. They raced to a boat, a Belgian man stood there, fear in his eyes.
“Which one man?” Asked the Captain, the Belgian looked at him, and steered him towards a boat which was basically full. The Captain could feel him shaking, and then he screamed as a bullet thudded into his shoulder, which had dislodged. The Captain spared him a glance, as the man lay in the water, as they hopped onto the boat. A doar shut and then;
“Full steam away!” roared a voice from the front, and the whole lot of them fell backwards as the boat suddenly pounded away from the shore. The Captain wiped his head, and felt his shaking hand.
“We made it.” He said weakly to his cupped hands, tears in his eyes.
“Thank you.” Muttered a voice, the Captain looked, it was the wounded soldier,
“You saved my life back there.” He continued, the Captain muttered something about ‘duty’. A twinge sounded from the steel post next to him and he looked at it curiously. More etched themselves across the steel railings. Him and the wounded man were the ones on the very edge, including two others, and the water was rapidly swelling behind the boat. On the shore the ones not lucky to get onto a boat were slowly raising there hands in surrender as hundreds of ferry’s carried the rest to Britain. The Captain watched a car stop near the shore, and what was behind it. A cannon. It unraveled while a machine gun was deployed and the Germans prepared to fire. Flame and smoke engulfed the cannon and they heard it disappear and then come back to earth with a cry like a banshee. The water next to them exploded as if a giant hand had come from beneath the waves. There was a rattling as if sweets against a cup. The water skipped like pebbles were being thrown at it, the Captain threw himself to the floor as the dead body of a soldier fell over the boat and into the waves. The Captain looked over to the ferry next to them, the shielded his eyes as it exploded in a burst of oil and flames, the flames seemed to be scratching the sky. The boat was slowly engulfed by the sea, and it rapidly disappeared as a single burnt body floated by. There was more sounds of incoming shells, and another landed just behind the boat, spraying them with water. The man behind the Captain fell and as he choked on blood grasped the side uselessly before letting out a final choking breath of blood and froth.
The shore was disappearing, and then the whole fleet of ferry’s seemed to burst their foghorns as it split the skies. The crew and soldiers cheered until heir throats were hoarse tears gushed from their eyes. They’d made it from hell, they’d made it through Mons. The Captain watched as the British coastline approached, he watched as the last few weeks dreams of a bed, a meal and to be healthy came at them, and he could imagine the feeling.
Home.


He sprang from the bed and fell to the floor in a tangle of sheets and pillows, clutching his face as tears fell from it. I made it, I made it, I made it He kept thinking over and over again. He found the strong base of the bed and pulled himself onto it, with his sheets, and fell asleep again. He never noticed the presence of hi father in the doorway, watching he whole thing and thinking how he destroyed such a life. Then bowed his head and walked from the room, closing the door gently behind him. He had, the day he had sent his son to the local Army station, already killed his son.

[Baby Boomer]

What did everyone think of it? I would like to know the good bits and faults for the CHapters. Please always leave comments!

[WarMachine187]

i hope you continue.Ive enjoyed each chapter so far.

[Baby Boomer]

Chapter VI

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Chapter VI



Everyone had stopped. Andrew looked at the sky, and waited. Nothing. His head raced in complete ignorance. What was happening? A soldier rushed past, then another, and another, and then followed by a tide of soldiers. Soon people were running and rushing everywhere. Andrew ran forward, racing for the trenches. Soldiers soon followed him, sprinting, grabbing rifles, ammunition, officers called out for their regiments, battalions or company’s. The whole Army was racing for the trenches.
“Get down there!”
“Hurry!” roared and yelled voices to Andrews left and right, and in front and behind him. German soldiers were lining up, and guns were pointing at them. And one fired just as Andrew fell into the trench. He sprang up as a shell blasted away a cottage above them. Everyone paused as they saw the large flaming fireball skid behind into the city where it fell with a boom. Everyone started running again as people started screaming. Andrew saw Colonel Whitby and seemed to fly to his side as people raced past them.
“Get to your Company, Captain!” roared the Colonel over the yelling of the crowd. Andrew raced to his Company and stood in behind it. He drew his Enfield and waited. Soon, it was once again silence. One German gun fired, and a second, and then a third. Then, all at once, the whole line of guns seemed to blast the muzzle of their guns apart. Andrew cowered, as did those around him, and covered their ears. It was like an Irish banshee screaming. Sharps intakes of metal, it whistled supernaturally. Then the air seemed to split as the hundreds of shells flew into Salamanca. Andrew watched as flames burnt the clouds, people screamed to God. The thickest smoke he’d ever seen plumed upwards as whistles sounded. Hundreds of whistles blew into the steaming air and a large yell ran forward, echoed everywhere along the German line.
“Laden!” And the Germans roared back,
“Preuben!” The grey uniformed mass put their rifles to their waist and ran. Dirt kicked up but they didn’t care. They ran like the Devil was at their backs with a fiery whip, they ran like their loved ones beckoned them home.
They ran like their life depended on it.
“Present!” Andrew stepped forward onto the firing step, as did several beside him from his and the other Company.
“Fire fifteen!”
“Fire fifteen!” roared Andrew. Hundreds of Germans simply disappeared as they were swept away. Andrew reloaded as the next row came.
“Fire fifteen!”
“Fire fifteen!” Fifteen more rounds, thousands dead. Andrew breathed in excitement. This was easy, simple. It certainly wasn’t coming to him, but it wasn’t hard. He noticed a strange cloud behind the Germans and noted to tell Fred when he saw him again, if ever, as he fired another fifteen rounds. It was then he realised.
They were mortar rounds.
“Mortars!” warned Andrew loudly, looking back at the Colonel.
“Take cover!!” the Colonel roared, flinging himself into a hole. The whole Regiment threw themselves into better protection, commonly the ground, as the first smashed into a nearby Regiment.
“Bloody hell!” swore Andrew.
“Fire fifteen!” Andrew hurriedly loaded the gun and jolted as he saw the alarming gains the Germans had made. He fired fifteen none the less, just as another mortar round smashed too close for comfort.
“Machine guns, fire damnit!” spat the Colonel, the gunners poured rounds into their Maxim machine gun. A pause in time before it screamed its defiance as over 600 bullets a second poured from the muzzle. It shuddered in their hands, it smoked as men poured water over it, and it spat out used rounds like a bee hive full of bees. Germans fell backwards like they had just flew into a wall, which they basically had, though full of metal and lead. Andrew screamed a scream he’d never screamed before as the machine gun post blew up. The gun and its gunners were completely destroyed, as were several around it. Andrew hit a wall screamed as a piece of shrapnel thudded into the wall next to him. A mans head tipped back unnaturally and splattered blood across Andrew’s face, as mud also splashed from the ground. Smoke was everywhere, meaning he couldn’t see anything but a few mere centiremetres.
“Laden.” Came a blood freezing cry from beyond the smoke. Andrew stumbled forward, feeling his way. A rifle fired from in front of him, and he tripped over a dead body. He felt his way and finally spotted Whitby’s dead aide lying on the floor. Whitby lay next to him, a cut leg in font of him. He was praying.
“Sir? What should we do?” asked Andrew loudly, his ears unadjusted. Rifles fired everywhere, guns fired from somewhere. Whitby’s eyes focused on him.
“What's the situation…? Captain?” he asked weakly. Andrew scurried off and passed several dead bodies before finding the fire step. The smoke was now floating high into the air. The Germans were very close now. He hurried back to Whitby who was massaging his wounded leg.
“They’re very, very close, sir.”
“Order the retreat at once, Captain Blair. Get the boys back into proper safety.” Andrew nodded and turned, grabbing a living aide.
“Sound the retreat; tell them to run, sprint, for safety.” He ordered. The aide nodded, and noted the trumpeter who pumped out the notes on his trumpet. Andrew smiled in relief as trumpets echoed along the trenches and voices of the commander’s rose into the air.
“Get back to the city!” Was repeated everywhere. People rushed past Andrew. A frightened soldier stumbled past as if drunk and another was dragged by his fellow soldiers. An officer fired a flare into the air before collapsing as a bullet smashed between his eyes. The slopes of Salamanca were covered with thousands of British soldiers in their khaki uniform. Shots were everywhere, hell was loose.
“Preuben!” came the German cry. Andrew ran, sprinted out of the trench as the Germans split into it. Andrew’s heart wanted to jump from his mouth. He needed to vomit; his face was covered with dry blood, as was his legs and arms. Smoke was everywhere and dead bodies formed a pathway to Salamanca, or heaven it seemed. The city stood in front of them with its menacing defenders. Bullets plowed up dirt like a tractor and the man in front of Andrew fell backwards, Andrew narrowly missing him by jumping. The ground shook as a shell landed just up ahead and waves of dirt and mud showered Andrew who merely covered his face and ran uphill. He pulled out a Webley with a whimper of fright as men disappeared in a pool of blood. A single leg thumped into him, splashing blood onto his mud covered uniform as his fellow comrades sprinted his same journey. More shells, more dirt. A trumpet and more German cries of triumphant. They had lost the trenches, damnit. It was like losing a leg in this siege. They still had the towering defenses of the city, but they had lost, the Trenches.
And by the sounds of it.
Half their army.
~
Richeaul pulled up Fred from his knees, and Fred puffed in exhaustion. He wiped sweat from his brow and followed Richeaul to their apartment with no words between them. They entered silently and Fred collapsed on the bed. Richeaul turned on him like a vulture;
“What the hell happened?” he asked angrily.
“A spot of trouble.”
“A spot…. A spot…. Of trouble.Frederickson, you really zave no idea what zappened do you?” he asked incredously.
“Yes. I know that I just ran a bloody 100 miles from some Agent and those Germans. I was shot at, and then accused of being some dumb bloke with no idea of what's happening around him.” He replied determinedly.
“Non, non, non. Because of ze slight mishaps of zis afternoon, ze have to move out sooner. Because you ran off and got yourself found, ze have to move fast.” Said Richeaul, his voice rising.
“Its not might fault-!”
“Zen who’s is it, ami, who’s is it?”
“It was that damned agent….” Said Fred bitterly, he was stopped by a look from Richeaul.
“Agent, Frederickson? What sort of agent?”
“The one who pulls a gun and tries to kill you.” Fred mocked.
“German, British, French…?”
“British by the way he was talking. Accusing me of the charges and things…”
“Obviously British, zen.” Said Richeaul coldly, “How did ze find uz?” worried Richeaul, now pacing in deep thought. Fred thought back. They’d been running, that poor Spanish family… They’d then come into that alley… Fred suddenly remembered.
“He was the one who followed us in Badajoz!” declared Fred loudly. He was taken aback when Richeaul stared absently at him.
“You must be exhausted… ze shot those two, ami, remember?” he reminded Fred, who was now thrown into more memory. Fred made a motion regarding his stomach.
“He had a thick bandage around his waist. That was probably where we shot him.”
“Okay, zo we’ve figured zat out zen. Zo ze got you into zis mess?” Fred nodded to this.
“But really… getting caught by zem…” he mumbled.
“Who's’ ‘them’?”
“The Stromtroopers, ami, ze best troops in ze world!” This gunned Fred down. The Stormtroopers… here? They couldn’t be stormtroopers, though he had seen them before. What led him to that? They did jog something in his mind…
“In… Madrid? Mere coincidence?” asked Fred.
“Coincidence? You believe that crap, ami? In war; nothing, I underline, nothing is coincidence. Its luck, if you ask me.” His words rung true.
"They should be in Salamanca!" Richeaul said in a wondering tone.
"Maybe- Maybe they've won there?" asked Fred, voicing something he'd been worrying about. Richeaul shook his head determinedly.
"No, those troops who fired at the Germans…they were Spanish. They wouldn't be fighting if they war was over, ami." Sounded fair to Fred except-
"If we lose at Salamanca, the war is not over." He said in a strong, believing voice, "Anyway, we won't lose. Haig won't give in that quick."
"Of course not, Frederickson, of course not." Replied Richeaul quickly, turning way and placing his pistol on the bed.
"Pack. We're leaving tomorrow morning."

They had their trunks and back packs packed and guns ready. Fred loved his new Steyr, and was impressed by the finesse of it as he shined it the last morning. Richeaul laughed,
"You bought that, ami?" he asked incredously.
"Yes." Replied Fred defensively, looking up with a frown
"Being zuch a patriot as you are I thought you'd buy a Webley. Ah well…"
Fred puffed his chest proudly. They quickly scanned the room for anything left, and proceeded to the lobby. A sleepy Spanish manager was there. She was resting her head on her hand and had a bored expression. As they crossed the room she yelled out something in Spanish. They both ignored it and left. They stuffed their things in a newly bought car and chugged away down the streets. Everything was quiet due to the earliness of the morning and the putting of their car could be heard for some distance. Fred worriedly chewed at his fingernails as they passed a German patrol. To his surprise they got out easily.
"And now, ami, north." Said Richeaul in relief.
They lazily dawdled past farms, farmers, Spanish families on the road, and once even a German patrol who ignored them due to presumed status. Richeaul laughed after this.
"You see,ami, what money can buy you in ze world? Anything. If you are ze richest man in the world, you materially own it." He told Fred wisely. They passed through small villages where people stared at them on their way to work. Factories poured out black fumes and once a train ran parraell with them. After three of such villages were past they were on open road. They saw nothing but native wildlife for miles and saw no one until the next village. As they passed tall mountains to the north Richeaul decided to give him a geography lesson.
"The Sierra de Guadarrama. Quite popular in Madrid. So much some Amigos mountain society as taken to climbing it weekly. Waste of time when they could be killing Germans instead." As he talked Fred was watching a small caterpillar wiggle along the side of the car. It was small and looked quite harmless. As Richeaul droned on he extended a finger to pet it.
"Don't touch it monsieur." Warned Richeaul quietly, and very sudden. Fred felt like touching just to disobey Richeaul's orders, but asked just in case.
"Why not?" Richeaul didn't answer but took out his Mars pistol, cocked and aimed it at Fred. Fred ducked as he pulled the trigger and felt the bullet whistle overhead.
"What the hell!?" roared Fred in a panic, drawing his Steyer and cocking it.
"Frederickson, calm down, I was shooting the caterpillar." Said Richeaul in a soothing voice. Fred swore at him.
"Didn't have to shave my bloody head for it. Trying to shoot my bloody head off, you-you…" Fred shook his head and took a deep breath. He looked where the caterpillar had been and laughed when he saw a scorch mark.
"Hate to see what happened if a bee got you." Richeaul grinned, pocketing the Mars.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

That afternoon they reached the small village of Medinaceli. Fred got his tongue caught up trying to say it, but Richeaul could in perfect Spanish and French. As he taught Fred how to say so in three languages, and Fred was stoutly annoyed at being tutored so, they didn't notice the gray car obscurely following them. Fred jolted as he saw it.
"Richeaul! Behin-!" He was cut short by Richeaul.
"Damn it! Already?" he swore looking quickly," Act normal." Fred chose the moment to burp loudly and earned a disgusted look from Richeaul.
"What? You told me to act normal!" said Fred, a note of humor ringing in his voice.
"I guess you are British…" commented Richeaul quietly as they turned around the corner. He stopped in a dark alleyway and got out.
"Wait here." And so Fred did. He came back 30 minutes later followed by a car with two men. It was like looking in a mirror. They wore the same clothes, had the same car and looked somewhat, from a distance, similar. Richeaul got in.
"They're driving north to Logrono, near Don Sebastian. We're going north east towards Zaragoza and then we're taking a mountain road." Explained Richeaul as they backed out and drove quickly out of town. The other car went first at a high speed and was quickly followed by the German car. Richeaul laughed.
"Just like throwing a stone in the opposite direction." He laughed.
No one could deny it; they were driving with much more haste now. Fred was scared now. For some reason he felt betrayed; like a new born child left on the steps of a orphanage. His country, the country he loved with its green rolling hills and peaceful countryside, had dumped him here in the middle of Spain. He was scared what would happen if the Germans caught them, maybe even using there famous tortures stories. No Britain could save him. No believing in his King and country could make him better off… it had left him, most had left him. A sudden feeling was spreading over him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it… was it…. Disbelief? Did he not trust his country anymore? That was definite but he felt now as if he could trust nothing…. With a glance at Richeaul, Fred felt he was the only one protecting him now. He was the hand holding the lantern, helping him crawl to the end of the tunnel. His country hadn't abandoned him… Britain had certainly left France to deal with the Germans and for that matter everyone else who helped them. What had Prime Minister Asquith been thinking? Just leaving his Army in Leon and Portugal, and watch Spain be executed in such a way. Fred stared at the Spanish countryside… his life was not controlled by Britain or his King… it was his to deal with.
And from that day forth.
Britain had lost a faithful servant.
~
Andrew was sitting in the street, leaning in a tired manner on the stone wall behind him. He had a large bottle of wine in his hand and occasionally took sips of it. A pool of vomit was next to him and he was coated in mud and blood so he looked like a human chocolate bar. He wasn't the only one in a bad manner. Soldiers were in a similar way al around him, and there was crying and yelling and screaming around the city, half of which was destroyed or in flames. It was as if the Devil had decided to drop one of his flames onto mortal earth, so much so that many Catholic priests were kneeing around, and many people and soldiers, with their hands to the air and asking to the heavens an God himself;
"Why!? Why such death and destruction in the eyes of good will?" And many among them turn away from religion, sickened by the sights and sounds of war. They all ask:
"Why?"
The first thing Andrew did when he was sound and secure was vomit. He vomited so much that all his stomach acids had been vomited up so much that he could not vomit anymore. His Enfield was lying across his knees and his hand weakly held his Webley, his head lolling around in disbelief. The Sergeant Major had said he would find the will to command in battle. He had, he comforted, found some sort of leadership. But any man could do so! He had found only fear and wonder. How could any man let his fellows experience such? Andrew rose slowly, picked up his weapons and took one step at a time very slow feeling very drunk. He was going to find the villas he was staying at. He hardly noticed the hand on his shoulder until it gripped him much more firmly. Andrew turned to find two Colonel Whitby's before he focused much more.
"Want some wine?" he asked in a weak, stumbling voice. He noticed the white bandage wrapped tightly around Whitby's left leg and the walking stick which wa supporting him. Whitby eye were looking him up and down and a slight frown of disappointment appeared on his face.
"Get yourself together." He muttered to Andrew. He pulled a bucket of water from a passing soldier and threw it upon Andrew. Andrew stepped backwards as he received a mouthful of water. His spirit rose, and with him now dripping wet and somewhat shivering, Whitby tugged the bottle of wine from his hand and smashed it at his feet.
"You're a Captain, and don't forget it man!" told the Colonel, taking Andrew's shirt and steering him to his quarters. The Spanish people were all but happy to clean Andrew up and they did so, cleaning him. Half an hour later he was as clean as a daisy and so Whitby told Andrew as they sat opposite each other.
"Captain, we had quite the bad day today." Said Whitby in damning tones, looking outside as a shell crashed somewhere in Salamanca.
"Two dead Captains and a critically injured RSM." He said sadly looking back at Andrew. Andrew bowed his head with the due respect for the dead, but looked up quickly. The Colonel continued,
"You did a damn fine job today. If I could, I'd promote you to RSM, but I can't do that yet… I can give you medals though." He said, a slight smile appearing on his face. Andrew grinned weakly, his sprits now soaring.
"Thank you, sir."
"No, Captain, thank you. You saved my damned life out there, and probably the Regiment's as well. If I can, I will get you a Victoria's Cross, but otherwise a Bravery Medal is what you get. Keep up the standards, Captain, and maybe soon you'll be the one giving away medals. Dismissed." He finished now positively smiling at Andrew who stood with a salute.
"I hope your leg gets better, sir." Well wished Andrew, leaving. He didn't hear Whitby's last words though:
"I hope your life gets better, Captain."

~

Richeaul and Fred were standing beside their car, miles south of Zaragoza, apparently waiting for something. Fred had no clue what they were waiting for though, and he told Richeaul this at once.
"Midnight." He replied simply staring at the sky. A while later, apparently midnight, Richeaul spoke.
"Lets go." And he pulled out the guns and put them anywhere he could, and pulled along his trunk. Fred did so in a similar manner and they walked away from their car into… the middle of nowhere.
"Where are we going exactly?" asked Fred uncertainly.
"Zere is a mountain road up ahead which straight past Zaragoza and away from zany German roads. It goes onto a small village called Jaca, where we zan proceed north into France." Richeaul revealed, telling Fred of his plan.
"So we're not going past Don Sebastian?"
"No, ami, we are not. A source has told me it is crawling with pro German forces. The mountains will be as well, but if needed we can take refuge in Pamplona." He said confidently. Fred believed him, and they were soon rewarded with the mountain pass. It didn't look like a real road, bu it was obvious enough to be a road since it was clear of most things such as trees or rocks.

For several more days they climbed hills and mountains, and trees to observe the environment. They wondered aloud about what was happening and started to get fed up with each other so more and more the trip turned deadly silent. This helped in several ways: More time to think and hear for incoming sounds. They didn't run out of food thankfully and water was plentiful as the whole way they were walking beside a stream. Fred often wondered why they didn't just buy a boat and sail down it. He asked this of Richeaul in the rare moments of conversation;
"Too much." Richeaul replied shortly, trudging on without another word. Too much what? Risk? Money? The nights were getting colder with each passing day. As Fred warmed himself one day Richeaul came crashing backwards.
"A boat- a boat coming down the river." He panted. Fred looked wildly down the river before his mind clicked.
"This way." Whispered Fred in a strong, commanding tone. Richeaul followed like a lamb, giving the batton of power to Fred for the moment. They moved quietly through the undergrowth and found a good observation spot where they could not be seen but could see. A three man fishing boat came slipping lightly down the river with the current. One man was asleep, in view, while a net trailed behind. It floated past and then beyond, leaving them peaceful.
"You were worried about a fishing boat?" grumbled Fred later as they walked on in silence.

After days of traveling they reached the main road, which was also deserted. They didn't dare rest and passed it quickly so no one would see them. Shortly after this they found a slight problem in a river blocking their way.
"Go around it?" suggested Fred as Richeaul wondered how they'd get pass it.
"No; this is the Ebro. It stretches from the sea to Vitoria far north in Leon." Fred thought about it then went back.
"Where are you going, Frederickson?" asked Richeaul. Fred returned with a thick long.
"Build za raft?" asked Richeaul in disbelief. Fred shook his head and jumped straight into the river. Richeaul stepped forward in shock, waiting or Fred to surface, who did so soon. He was grinning and swum to the other side with ease.
"My father is a Captain of a ship; I grew up in the water basically." Explained Fred from the other side, Richeaul nodded,
"But how do I get across?" Fred kneeled and held out the log across the river.
"Grab it and I'll pull you in." Fred offered. Richeaul did so and soon he was swiftly pulled across. And minutes later they were walking along, shaking water from themselves like dogs.

After several days walk they were stunned when they found a small village. It was shadowed by small mountains but had fertile plains. Fred noticed it first and pointed it out and they slowly entered to staring eyes. The people, aware of the German occupation of their land, were watchful but lucky. No German patrol wanted to go out into the wilderness. Out of the several English speaking people of the town they were able to tell Richeaul and Fred the name of the place: Ejea de los Caballeros. After restocking of food they happily left with full packs and faced the mountains just before the Pyrenees. They went back and slept at Ejea for the night before taking upon their quest once again.

It took only one more day to reach Jaca, and when they got there they found it only slightly larger then Ejea. When you reach the end of a objective, you always imagine it to be grand, thought Fred, and his expectations were obviously not met. The town, though lovely, could only restock them with silence, as they feared the German hand. Fred and Richeaul after staying the night eagerly left the next morning, and finally, found themselves facing the Pyrenees.
And out of Spain it would lead.
~

Andrew stared at the casualty list, as dust flickered from the roof. Long and painful, he had no time to know these names. Bu these weren't just names, he reminded himself, behind each name was a family. A loving father who kissed the photograph of his family good luck each night? A poor, young lad who joined to escape poverty? Or a rough headed man enlisting to escape gaol? Andrew vowed to know these names, he promised himself his Company would trust him with a blind fold if possible. Andrew wiped away the rare tear, which was dribbling down his face, and stood. Colonel Whitby had requested (To Andrew's pleasing, quite eagerly.) that Andrew should meet the new RSM personally, and his new Lieutenant. Andrew dressed himself in his fine khaki uniform, left his Enfield behind and snapped on the Webley for precautions. He then trudged out of the apartments and to Whitby's villa. When he got there and passed the two MP guards, who saluted, he knocked heavily on the door which opened immediately. It was Whitby, who met him with a quick smile.
"Captain Blair!" He announced. Andrew looked over his shoulder and saw not two, but four men standing there stiffly. Three nodded and one saluted. Andrew was gently pushed inside and the door closed behind him quietly.
"A few introductions to be made." Commented Whitby, and steered Andrew in front of one.
"Captain Mac." He said it quickly and pulled Andrew to the next.
"Captain Murtagh." Andrew noted he said it coldly and gave the man a hard look, before pushing Andrew along.
"This is Sergeant Major Barbados. He is the new RSM and, though young and not quite experienced yet, good at tactics. Or so Eton says." Added Whitby, and Barbados and Whitby laughed.
"Also good a poker. Perhaps a game later on?" suggested Whitby, and the two nodded. Andrew smiled at the man shyly and they moved on.
"This is your new Lieutenant, John Stone ,Captain Blair. Fine good fighter, good ears they promise me. The boy, looking very young, smiled. He had blonde hair and a smooth face. His nose was short, noticed Andrew, but he smiled nonetheless at the eager blue eyes staring at him, yearning for recognition.
"I'm sure he'll make a fine Lieutenant, sir." Said Andrew, more for the Lieutenants sake then his. The Colonel muttered words to the Captains who saluted and marched out in good order. Whitby sat and offered the other three a seat. They sat. Andrew vaguely wondered what Whitby was doing, wasn't a introduction enough?
"Lie tenant Stone here is a relative of mine. Always been a good boy." Said Whitby.
"Relation, sir?" asked Barbados, looking very interested and not just sucking up.
"He is my nephew. My brothers in the Navy, but he took a different course." Said Whitby fondly, this was obviously his favorite nephew. There was silence before-
"Oh yes, by the way Captain, it is the Victoria Cross you're receiving." Said Whitby airily. It had the effects of a bomb shell. Stone sat up straighter and looked at Andrew with more admiration and Barbados's eyes sweeped him with new found respect.
"Good to know, sir." Said Andrew. This was why these men were here. Whitby was, in a certain way, doing him a favor. Stone was dismissed and the poker cards were brought out from a idle shelf with a bottle of gin.
"Drink?" offered Whitby, holding the bottle of gin over the table. Andrew nodded enthusiastically but Barbados shook his head, pointing at the cross hanging around his neck which Andrew had failed to notice until then. Several games and drinks later Whitby was calling Andrew by his first name, and became a different man. A bit too different.
"So… ever been in battle, Barbados, ever been in battle?" he demanded loudly, sitting back.
"No, sir." Replied Barbados.
"Damned hell on earth." Said Whitby, leaning back, he continued, "God I hate the army. Why in heavens name did I join this hell hole? God should've chosen a bloody hell easier life, God damn it." Chorused the Colonel. Andrew saw Barbados smile at the outpour of oaths which followed.
"Well, fellows, been a good few games. Time… I… get… so-some sleep." His sentence staggering on its feet, and which Andrew and Barbados left. Andrew, quite nervous, was wondering whether this man really did have a grasp of tactics. He couldn't test it unless in real battle, and they nodded good bye to each other. As Andrew pulled up the sheet covering him for the night, h thought about the Victoria Cross. Did he really deserve it? All he had done is check if some troops were charging across the field… Those machine gunners who fought and died deserved it more then him, those soldiers with guts enough to stand up and take the risk of dieing painfully… It shouldn't be up too rich politicians sitting peacefully in Whitehall, or Generals with expensive cigars… No, Andrew didn't deserve it.

So the next morning he took it up with the Colonel. The Colonel had nodded in a understanding way after Andrew relayed his worries to him.
"Captain, I'll tell you why you deserve. Go back to your villa and look at the Regiment casualty list. What will you see there?" Whitby asked.
"Names?" said Andrew in a confused fashion. Whitby frowned.
"No! You'll see bloody three dead Captains, hundreds of Privates and a RSM. That's what! We lost a lot of men, and in a few weeks time they'll have surrounded us so those will slowly dwindle!!" said Whitby in minor panic. Andrew softened.
But it still didn't explain the VC.
"But why me? There were aplenty of others who deserve. A dead man can't carry medals but his coffin can!" Whitby looked hard at him, and in Whitby's eyes the glint of consideration could be seen. It disappeared quickly.
"If you hadn't been there I, and hundreds of others, would be step ladders for the German advance. Didn't you see the chain reaction? That’s why you deserve the VC, so stop being… so unwilling of your victory. You-" He pointed at Andrew, "deserved it." He said, in a somewhat proud tone. Andrew did remember when the trumpeter had blown the notes many others had followed. Whitby smiled at the emerging look on Andrew's face, quite similar to a man void of sunlight emerging from a dark cave.

~

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Though I alittle bit shorther then usual, this Chapter is defintely (I can't explain it somehow) when I started writing a bit better. I took a while off, made a few chnages and read a few tip books and advice.

Though here it is Chapter VI, I am actually nearly finished and am now writing Chapter XII... Once this story is done, MisGUided Life, I will hopefully get started on a story which is easier to read (Not as big to Internet eyes) Enjoy though, and prepare yourself...