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.