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!

[Motep]

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

The first chapter is all right, I find myself having to agree with meldarion. i have not checked out the second chapter yet, But It looks to be better than the first.

-edit And it is.

[Baby Boomer]

Chapter III

A temperate day down by a gentle washing sea, with picturesque ships rising up and down with the waves, don’t we all dream of that? Fortunely, the small sea side town of Southhampton was enjoying that exact weather, to the extreme happiness of its inhabitants. The horrible weather which had beaten war time Britain over the last few months had subsided, thankfully, as had the war. When the veterans returned from Belgium, it all went quiet, as a sailor was found to be complaining down by the port one evening;
“Its not right Al, just not right. Those Huns are up to somethin’.” He told his friend darkly, shuffling a newspaper. The other sailor nodded and continued watching the sea. Mr. Hamburg, though, was entirely happy not to be being shot at. After a month though, he found himself empty, as if he had nothing to do. That though, was quite the contrary, he had a haven of things to do. He visited the old dock master Mr. Hammerston. He greeted him like a old friend with a shout of joy, which was expected since he had been Mr. Hamburg’s childhood idol, and was still a good friend.
“Freddy! My god, you look like a sunken ship.” He said, Mr. Hamburg, or Freddy, looked around in reminiscing. Above him lay fishing nets and lines, dead fish hanging, buckets, model ships. The wooden desk was covered in a mess of papers (Illustrated with detailed drawings of old wooden ships and new iron decked ships) and small models of ships. Mr. Hammerston , was now standing behind his desk, with his small glasses, a tuft of white hair and a chisel in his hand. Mr. Hamburg smiled warmly, he felt his face stretch at the loss of feeling. As he gave a hug to the dock master, his eyes travelled into a large luxurious room with shining timber off to his left.
“Still got that old ship going?” He chuckled. In the room, on a large desk, lay the most massive model wooden ship you could imagine. It was at least a two meters long, estimated some. Mr. Hammerston looked around at what Freddy was talking about, and quickly looked at him.
“You still remember that?” He asked in utter pleasure, Freddy, or his full name Frederickson, and made a half – half motion with his hands.
“Well, its time for the story then!” announced the dock master, carefully shoving his glasses from the tip of his nose and giving a fatherly smile. Fred groaned, but all the same, he sat down. After a minute the window was open and a chair to accommodated sat there, and a large cup of steaming tea (Hardly needed in this weather let me remind you) the story started by the old dock master, with his tuft of white hair blowing in the cool breeze sweeping the wooden room.
“Well I’d say it was forty years ago, I was probably about twenty back then, just a young wee Midshipman. A great ship pf the line took me on for service in the East Indies and the colony of Australia…” he started drawing a great big pipe and preparing to light it.
“The story of the ship, not you, isn’t it?” said Fred in an exasperated voice. Mr. Hammerston waved a wrinkled hand,
“You impatient boy, I’m telling you a story the true way, now listen! Ahem.” He issued a small cough before starting again,
“Anyway, where was I again? Oh, yes. We got broken up a large storm of the East Coast of Australia, no bloody people there up north, so we had to stop at New Guinea.” He nodded at a significant look from Fred,
“Yep, the German colony. Well, awfully friendly fellows. I felt like we were best friends by the time our ship left, but before I left the German governor there, bloody boring man he was, sat me down and said. ‘ Well! Mr. Hammerston,’ started he, a deep German voice this bloke had, ‘One day you’ll own that ship, and lead it into glorious battles! You’ve been greatly kind to our people here, and as a memoir, you may have this beautiful ship. Something to lead your dreams’ He said, and I was beside myself with happiness. Took it at once and brought it home, got chipped a few times, but good as perfect. And, uh, here it is!” He looked at it proudly, but Fred still had a question.
“Was he famous or something to afford it?” he asked, Mr. Hammerston uncomfortably rolled in the seat,
“Nope, but I think a ship from its port brought back a ton of gold as a gift.” He said lamely, but Fred took no notice and silently dwelled on the facts laid before him. As Fred walked home he imagined fighting so far away. He remembered Belgium, then Mons. He’d never been as far as Europe, and he drifted into an imagination which spawned images of him with his long French Lebel rifle in hand in South Africa, fighting against waves and waves of Zulu shielded warriors. It was in that port that he suddenly missed war, it was his life and he needed it. He had killed, and it no longer weighed his soul. Fred sat down on the concrete wall which stopped the sea, and let the small waves jump and try and reach his bare feet. On the ship nearby a sailor swung from the ropes while he roared something to his Captain down below. Meanwhile in another East Indian ship, a small trade runner, several men in pairs were lugging barrels of stuff aboard the small ship which seemed to sink lower with every barrel. He lifted his head to the sky and sucked in a deep breath of salty sea air. He leant back, and his eyes surveyed the scene behind him. A beggar sat there in a bundle of clothes with a hat of money and a toothless grin. But the grin disappeared and he fell backwards with his home of rags into a alleyway where his darks eyes glowed like a cats at night. A khaki dressed man imperiously marched down the street with a traditional army cap, and the moustache to go with it, and a short baton folded under his arm with a pair of white gloves. His thick eyebrows almost clouded his small eyes but he had a air of superiority. He knew he had the situation under control; was what Fred settled on. He nodded at the young ladies who passed him who giggled and looked back, and the boys shrunk before him and looked up at him like he was a titan, as it seemed he was. He marched to the cottage where Fred’s mother lived, but before he knocked he felt into his pocket and pulled out a sealed letter, and with that knocked twice and put his arms behind his back. A joyous lady answered the door; Fred’s mother. Her smile though was wiped out like a small ship in deadly waters, but she answered him all the same.
“Hullo, you look like your from the Army.” She said politely and with the air of one observing the weather.
“Hello, you are correct. I am Sergeant Major Steven Connell from Whitehall. I’ve come to give a Mr. Hamburg some news about his doings at the army.” He replied in the same tone, brandishing the letter as though she was blind.
“Yes, I can see the damned letter.” She said coldly before her eyes flickered over to Frederick. She stood out of the way and donned a welcoming smile,
“If you would deposit it on the table, and leave.” She added, the smile never reaching her face. He shook his head sadly, and then the Major’s eyes struck upon Frederickson and he gave a wide smile which reach Mr. Hamburg’s heart, in a cold way.
“There’s your son, I’ll give it to him now.” He commanded, and brushed past her without stopping to be gentle. Fred raised himself from the ground and patched himself up before receiving the Major. He raised his hand in a salute and stood to his full height.
“Good day, sir, I suppose I am to be recollected, right?” He said quickly and like steel. The major released a air of relaxation,
“Hell yes Captain, you’d think we’d been cozying around these last few months. Busy as hell down at London at the moment.” He chuckled and they both turned and looked out a the sea while some sailors dawdled for information nearby. The Major eyed them darkly before turning heavily towards the Captain.
“Well, I thought I’d deliver this to you in person, seeing as you got nothin’ for surviving Mons. If I would I’d give you the Bank of England, Captain.” Said the Major roughly,
“As long as I’ve got my life sir.” Replied Fred smartly. The Major raised his eyebrows before handing Fred the envelope, he slapped Fred on the back.
“Well Fred, you’ll find everything there. On your way to Plymouth, drop into the barracks there, I’ll tell you a few things.” He said, before drawing his baton once again and folding it under his arm. With the look from Fred he added,
“Army regulation boy, wait ‘till you’re a Major.” He tipped his cap and marched off with a thud of steel capped boots. The sailors swung back onto their ships in his wake, disappointed with the lack of information.
“Useless as fake gold they ar’” One was heard to say as he slugged off onto the ship Fred ignored these comments shot at him, but instead eagerly ripped open the envelope before he heard the approach of his mother. Her face was blanketed with a look of anticipation. She scuffled over and then looked up at him.
“Well? Are you recalled?” She asked quietly as if it was a death sentence, as it basically was. He nodded after a pause, and her face fell like a mountain.
“Just got here and your already off on another hopeless adventure!” She steamed, frog marching him into the cottage. She turned on the stove, but the kettle on and drew forth two mugs before seating herself and her son at the table. A ray of golden sunshine fell from a window right onto the table. Over the loud noises of whining from the kettle, he read the letter. Now, I would show this to you, but it goes for ever so long!
“What does it say?” his mother asks after his eyes had trailed a measurable way down the page.
“I’m recalled, I’ve got to get a coach and be at Plymouth in a week’s time, where they’re to assign me to a new company and we’re boarding the ships.” He said dully, finally looking up. She had one more question though;
“We are you going? Not Belgium again!? What a mess up that was, the stupid-…” He stood and calmed her down and poured them some tea, before seating himself again with the mug of hot, steaming tea.
“Portugal.” He said quickly, so quick his mother asked him to repeat before she understood.
“Portugal!? All the way down south? My god, I’d preferred Belgium!” She stated in shock, he laughed quietly then stood.

A week later; he was all packed with the items he had brought. He wore a khaki British uniform, a Enfield rifle slung of his shoulder and a polished Webley pistol in its holster. He had a traditional army cap seated on his head and in both hands lay a suitcase. He wore a sad smile on his face, and a few people were there to say goodbye. They were in the main street, blocked off for the army coach’s to come through, and at least a hundred people were there saying good bye to friends, family and loved ones. Fred’s goodbye party included his father, wearing a blue uniform, his mother in a long dress, and Mr.Hammerston in his white pants and overalls. His mother hugged him so he had to gasp for breath. Mr.Hammerston grinned at him as a tear trickled down his face, and shook his hand. But afterwards he hugged him,
“I want you to keep this to remember this place while your… your there.” He said weakly, handing Fred a perfectly modeled small ship. Fred muttered thanks before pocketing it and turned to his father. He bowed his head quickly before shaking his son’s hand.
“Good luck.” He whispered.
“Officer’s coach A!” roared a voice, a soldier stood there with his rifle propped up against a wall.
“Frederickson Hamburg, Andrew Blair! Officer’s coach A!” roared the voice again. Fred picked up his suitcase and hurried over to unoccupied Officer’s Coach A. He lifted the seat and dumped his luggage there, before waving a last time as he hung from the door then seated himself on the red, cushioned seat. He looked around, it was the same as the old one but not as luxurious. As he leaned back to relax, some dashed into the coach and pulled open the seat, dumped in his suitcase and hung out the window.
“Se’ ya’ Ma!” He yelled, waving furiously. The panel behind the newcomer opened causing him to jump violently. The driver’s head appeared,
“All ready, Captain, Lieutenant?” he said politely. They both nodded at the same time, and both looked out the window where there families were. They both started waving violently, and one at a time, hung out the window and yelled goodbye. There was the crack of a whip and they started off slowly, before they’d picked up speed and were leaving the city behind. As the dust rose steadily behind them he drew forth the model ship, ignoring his fellow officer. The man moved slightly then spoke;
“Goo’ model there.” He complimented coolly, eyeing it professional. Fred muttered his thanks and continued to observe it.
“I used to live up north before, around Inverness. We used to get lots of sailors there, never interested me personally, got there own bloody talk and all. Had a few bloody collector nuts hanging aroun’, I tell you.” He comically stated, shaking his mop of gold hair.
“You lived in Inverness?” asked Fred. The man nodded,
“Yep, me family lives up there now, wanted to send me in a regiment off to Mons. Hell no, I am darn lucky I didn’t join then, eh?” He stated. Fred grunted, the mention of Mons bringing back memories. The man noticed the medal hanging from his chest. He pointed at it,
“You’re a vet, eh?” He asked, Fred looked at him quizzically. A vet? He’d never owned a pet, let alone nurse one.
”I’ve never been a vet in my life. Soldier through and through.” Replied Fred. The man looked confused, then boomed out laughing.
“Hah! I meant a veteran. Come from Mons, eh? Me Pa’s Pa was in Crimea they say, like I care? I don’t think I’ve introduced meself either, I’m Andrew Blair.” He told him, grabbing his hand and shaking it. Andrew as basically jumping in joy, and seemed to be shining with happiness.
“I was sent off becaus’ I was too happy. Me Ma and Pa go’ sic’ of me. Same as me Aunt and Uncl’. They said, ‘Andy, you go off away from here, we’re sick of you bloody bouncing aroun’ here.’ So I lef’ the next morning, the bloody grumps ar’ probably cryin’ there eyes out by now.” He dreamed into space. Fred grinned,
“I come from Southhampton. My father’s a sailor, my mother stays at home. Ever heard of a Mr. Hammerston?” Fred asked politely.
“’My father’s a sailor.’” Mimicked Andrew, and laughed at the look on Fred’s face.
“Bloody pompous fool you ar’.” Chuckled Andrew, Fred looked stunned, then laughed.
“My names Frederickson Hamburg, just Fred for short.” He greeted, saking Andrew’s hand again.
“Well Freddy, we’re almos’ there.” He stated, yelling at him from outside the window half a hour later.
“We’re almost at Plymouth?” Asked Fred excited, hanging out the other window.
“No, you bloody fool, we’re almost at a…” Fred heard a thud and a groan and then another thud. Andrew had disappeared from the opposing window.
“Andrew!?” He asked wildly, looking behind the coach. There was no body, only leaves from the overhanging trees. He ducked to avoid one and ducked inside. He laughed at the sight which greeted him. Andrew was sitting on the chair rubbing a bruise on his head with rolling eyes.
“Ow…” He groaned, Fred grinned and playfully punched him. Andrew aimed a heavier one at him,
“Its no’ funny, I got hit by a bloody tree.” He groaned once more, he then hung at the window and swore at the disappearing tree, before ducking inside with a laugh. After a few more minutes eventful talk, the driver informed them through the panel this was where they were stopping for the night, as the coach screeched t a halt.

Fred jumped from the coach and stretched his legs and walked in a few circles, the result making him dizzy. Andrew nearly toppled from the coach when he tripped over god knows what. The two officers, both in khaki and with their Webley pistols slung in their holsters, followed the driver into the inn. There was no sign hanging over it saying Horned Pig, and it was almost full with already arrived soldiers from Southhampton. Fred and Andrew chose a table and sat. A long bar went along the whole room with shelves upon shelves of a soldiers dream; ale and wine. Wooden tables were dotted about the place while numerous fires flowed with the babble. A waitress came along with a notepad.
“What would you tow like?” She asked kindly, Andrew looked up as if he was staring at the sun, but Fred merely muttered,
“Noting thanks.” And gloomily looked around, he seemed to be missing the Horned Pig, strangely, and couldn’t place his mind on the reason. Andrew had obviously ordered something and was happily returning with his drink, and sat down with a spill of his drink. As he drunk Fred picked up a paper and was ready to scan the front page when Andrew spoke,
“Your not going to read the bloody paper ar’ ya?” He demanded, and thunked his drink on the table and ripped it from Fred’s grasp, throwing it to the side. The inn door opened and everyone roared a rowdy greeting before laughing and returning to their drinks and games. Two more officers entered, and scanned the inn. Andrew and Fred watched their eyes link up to their table, and then make a beeline for it.
“Mind if we sit here?” they asked, Andrew cheerily answered ‘Yes’ while Fred waited. They pulled up two chairs and both sat down, and while they ordered Andrew and Fred exchanged a look.
“Well!” started one, looking at both of the officers.
“We’re just Privates; the other two scheduled have made a run for it, somewhere in Wales by now. You two chaps are officer’s, I presume?” one asked. They both wore the same as Fred and Andrew but with the absence of several things.
“I’m a Lieutenant, this grump is a bloody Captain.” Introduced Andrew quickly, and they both shook the other soldiers hands. After some small talk, extra boring I assure you, and enough to make you want to jump off a cliff, the inn was full and several groups had started singing, as had Andrew and the three men. As they all sang a soldiers song remembered by only them, quite like a school only remembers the school song, Fred was reading the paper. Yes, it might seem boring, but he was extremely tired after that day, and yearned to reach Portugal. Though he was tired, and he would’ve been bored, he had only seen the days headlines. The rest of the inn hadn’t, it was out of bed and into work for them. But he was absolutely shocked. It stated that after Mons, the German Army had advanced rapidly through Belgium. The French armies were fighting in Lorraine and Alsace and the ones from Paris were still on the train when the Germans got to at least the 200 km from Paris, where they were barely halted by a quickly mustered volunteer army. The writer went on to state, that Britain was making plans to evacuate the French armies as soon as possible. Fred clutched his head, that’s why everyone (else, may I add, the soldiers around him certainly weren’t) was somber this day. The French were certain of falling within a year, or two. That’s why Portugal had been so hastily managed, because it would serve as a distraction. He noticed someone approaching him and looked up to see the beaming figure of Andrew.
“Com’ on mate, your missing out!” He said merrily. Fred threw the paper at his feet, Andrew glanced at it quickly before looking at Fred, then looked again at it horrorstruck. He bent down and picked it up and read the article through,
“Hell, that’s bloody crap.” He said weakly after reading, then turned to the pub as a whole.
“People! People! Listen up!” he roared, they kept on singing except those nearest. He tried again until,
“Shut up!!” roared the owner’s voice and silence was the ruling reign. “He’s going to say something!” The owner yelled again, pointing at Andrew, who at that cue started to read the article to the inn. Fred listened, as did the rest, and when Andrew had finished, all was silent. Occasional talk broke out but was silenced quickly, and men gloomily gulped their beers and started to head off to bed. Fred stood and went upstairs. Britain was all alone, for the first time ever.

The coach jolted high up in the air and then crashed back down, and Andrew nearly fell out the door. He got up and ruffled his hair,
“This driver’s a bloody maniac!” He screeched as he hit his head on the roof. Piravately, Fred agreed but didn’t voice his opinion. They were travelling at full speed to Plymouth, and Fred had been angrily awakened by Andrew that morning,
“Listen, you bloody sleepy fool, the coach is ready to go!” He stated, jumping away as Fred launched himself from the bed and threw his stuff into his suitcases, grabbed his gun and they both bolted outside. As his coat trailed behind him he jumped into the coach which banged backwards then galloped off. Fred now sat, in comfort, in the coach which was nearing very close to the surrounding trees. Fred and Andrew cheered and laughed as they barely missed trees and Andrew even hung himself from the window, when he jumped backwards yelling something about trees aiming or him. This lasted most of the day, and they were both good friends now, united by war. They both told stories, many which I am sure you may here later on. They talked and laughed like a pair of old ladies before Andrew reckoned they were within half a hours course of Plymouth. They finally stopped and Fred looked outside, behind the short river was a richly populated town sharing many similarities with Southhampton. People in richly dressed clothes walked past to the port. Women wore long dresses of different colors while carrying a parasol. The men usually liked to wear brown or black with long trousers and black overcoats. Coaches were trailing them and they were following one, and it was like a line of sheep. People waved at the windows they couldn’t see through and some even through in items. Andrew laughed as he caught a pack of flowers.
“I wish I had a garden.” He said wistfully as he looked at the lovely flowers. Fred laughed and watched the crowds. The increased, instead of decreased, and slowly tiled roofs were replaced with nailed wooden ships. Sailors roared orders and swung from ropes under admiring looks from the crowd while soldiers waved farewell to their family and friends as they disappeared below. A small child gave a startled cry as he narrowly missed being flattened by a rocking wheel and a distressed mother screamed in the grief of saying goodbye. The coach shuddered to a stop and silence was dominant. Andrew turned to him,
“Well, lets go, try to stick together.” He offered kindly, Fred was on the verge of agreeing when he remembered the Sergeant Major’s words. He shookh is head,
“I have to meet a Major, he needs to speak to me.” Fred told him, Andrew nodded and grinned.
“I’m going on the ship Racing Fury, yours?” Fred laughed and told him that was the same ship he was going on, and they both heckled for a while until a angry thump sounded from the door.
“Get out!” ordered the voice. They both tramped from it loaded with luggage and thought, and Fred said goodbye. Andrew waved and was enveloped by the massive crowd there. Hundreds of families and friends milled on the platform, while hundreds more soldiers there. Fred looked around as smiling and tearful faces swarmed past him, a confused ix of voices washed over him. A Major was yelling at a group of troops to move as if they were headless chickens, and a man walked past with five children hanging off him.
“Lucy, don’t play with Daddy’s gun!” he commanded as the little girl looked in awe at her father’s loaded Webley pistol, and the grandmother instantly swooped in and ripped it from her with a extra smack. Fred smiled as he heard the voice of the girl disappear into the crowd. A row of buildings were set opposite the harbor and set himself for it. He shoved out of the crowd and was welcomed by a large café. The windows revealed a place with small rickety chairs and a rather small desk with, comically, a small woman standing there. The whole place seemed tiny and Fred felt like a giant.
“Frederickson!” called a voice, Fred looked and there sat the Major. Looking as grim as ever. Fred shook his hand as he reached him, grinning.
“Good to see you sir.” Greeted Fred, tipping his hat and taking a seat opposite.
“Same to you, Frederickson. My name is, Stevens Connell. Some bad news over these few weeks…” He was interrupted by Fred.
“About Germany and France, the whole takeover?” he informed. The Major laughed and slapped him on the back,
“Yep, not a normal soldier you are, reading the paper like that. Yeah, that’s right, it seems pretty bad.” He said.
“Seems? So it is a bit of a non event at Whitehall?” Fred slyly asked, Steven eyes deepened.
“Hell no Frederickson, it’s a bloody a country fair.” He said sarcastically and in a snide voice.
“Yes! It’s a bloody mess up! The Lords and Politicians are blasting like foghorns on about our soldiers messing up in Mons!” He told Fred, who swelled indignantly.
“Us! Messing up! How dare they? It was there whole fault in the first place! At leas the public knows.” He said outraged, and wouldn’t have been surprised if steam was coming from his ears.
“The public, there treating the army, not to mention the vets, like a pile of dog…” The manager hissed for him to mind his language and he nodded respectfully as a couple near them looked over. Fred leaned back, absently watching Steven. If the army stuffed up in Portugal, the Parliament would eat them all for dinner. Fred saw it in the Major’s eyes. This last front, was a desperate gamble. They lost it, and the public would demand a end to the war. Isolated, hated, unwanted, what more could the army ask for?

A merry goodbye tune started near Fred, who was making hs way through a strong crowd. He and the Major had departed quickly when a nervous young Private had skidded in and told him he was needed down at the dock. So they’d departed and said their goodbyes. The whole crowd was facing the port, where hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers were walking up steel bridges to a massive transport ship which were all very much outdated, some even wooden. Fred grimaced as he saw Andrew standing looking for him urgently. He approached him and Andrew glanced.
“Took your tim’.” He commented and was almost cut off by a loud and obnoxious voice.
“So you’re the final Captain?” the voice yelled, Fred looked around and saw a poker straight, stern looking man. He seemed wild, as if he had just escaped from a jungle full of snakes and tigers.
“Don’t just stand there! Say something you fool! Irresponsible, as soon as I get to Portugal your gone! I will not stand for filth to infiltrate this great and proud Regiment. STAND TO ATTENTION!” He roared, actual spit hitting Fred in the face. He snapped his heels and his hand to his head so fast he stunned the wild man, but he regained his loudness. The man started circling him,
“Next time, I won’t be kind.” Something very hard like metal hit the back of Fred’s knees, and he buckled. The man laughed,
“Not so strong now, are we?” He said in a mean voice. He strode away with his metal baton an deep blue uniform, and to attend to the regiment of soldiers who stood to attention near the ship Racing Fury. Andrew pulled Fred to his knees,
“Welcome to our new Colonel.” He whispered to the answer of Fred’s groan, and then followed by a furious look and Fred said several nasty things about him, before he was calmed down by a stunned Andrew. They waved to happy crowds, who obviously had not received news from London, and their Colonel stood before the Regiment. Fred, as the new Captain, was standing in front of the four Battalions. The Colonel pointed to Fred, as several people watched them with fascination.
“This, is a new Captain. His name is…” The Colonel looked at Fred who paused before speaking,
“Frederickson Hamburg.” He told them at large. The Colonel sniffed and continued.
“He is assigned to Battalion B, now get outta my sight!” He ordered and the Captain went to his new Battalion. He jolted in surprise when he saw Andrew waiting with a grin.
“Regiment will move into marching formation!” roared the regiment’s Sergeant Major, Unfortunly not Steven. The whole 600 of them fell into a rigid formation.
“Regiment shall load onto transport, move out!” The voice cracked over them. The steady fall of boots as they ascended the steel bridge which was in the air over a clam sea. A iron boat was connected to it with many curious faces aboard. Fred quickly looked behind and saw a mixed mass of people jammed into the docks with a fine city laid before him full of coaches and humans. He looked in front again and was finding that he had to step over a small bump, before they were there.
“Regiment dissolve!” roared the voice and they broke off to get a good position to say goodbye. Fred and Andrew proceeded to go into the ship. Several glass doors were there and they took one, and went along a narrow, finely dressed, hall way. Several cooks seemed to edge past occasionally until they found stairs and more glass doors.
“Hell!” Swore Andrew deciding which one to pick, and then threw himself down the stairs followed by a surprised Fred. They meet no one and come into a hall way with hundreds of wooden doors set along with no numbers. They ran down to the end and picked the last one and opened it. Two bunk beds and a tiny porthole. Andrew already had the top one and Fred claimed the bottom, awaiting a long trip to Portugal.

A sound of something thick hitting a heavy floor, as Andrew vomited into a bucket again. They were in there cabin, on the other bunk was the two soldiers they’d seen on their way to Portsmouth. They were all lying silently, while the lights flickered dully. A small window revealed enormous waves tipping the boat constantly. One slept while the other fiddled with the ammunition of his Enfield rifle. Andrew was pale and kept his eyes on the roof occasional vomiting ovr the side of the bed into the bucket. This unfortunely, meant the vomit passed Fred as it travelled down. Fred rolled over covering his nose and stared at the model ship Mr Hammerston had given him, it was beautifully crafted and Fred was sure it was not made in Western Europe. He turned it around, but as a wave of vomit flew from Andrew it slipped from his fingers as the vomit spalttered over the floor. He hung himself over the side,
“Can you mind your aim…” He was thrown against the wall as a particularly vicous wave seemed to pick up the ship and throw it. He looked up and Andrew was hurriedly pouring pills to make him better into his mouth. He lay back with a groan,
“I hate travelling.” He said lightly. Fred stood and pocketed the model ship.
“I’m going for a walk” He informed the cabin at large, and Andrew weakly grunted while the other men kept reading. Fred opened the door and slipped out, thankful he was away from Andrew. As he walked down the passage the lights flickered and he head waves repeatedly smashing the ships fragile walls. When he was climbing up the stairs the whole place seemed to fall sideways, and everything went black. As the whole scene chucked itself around Fred gingerly picked himself up and struggled out into the area where the lifts and stairs led off from. It had a high ceiling and was eerie in the dark. Light was being thrown from a door and was quickly eclipsed with a muffled crunch of closing door. He sensed someone else in the room and his suspicions were quickly realised.
“Hello?” asked a voice, the lights flicked on and off then turned on slowly. Fred was standing in front of a Private, who was wet and staring at him. He saluted,
“Sir! Just going for a stroll!” He jumbled out. Fred waved away his salute,
“No worry Private, I was also going for a stroll, the waves seem quite brutal.” He observed and continued outside. The steel ship rolled as waves over 40 feet high trundled past, frequently spalashing onto the deck. Fred heard shouting and turned his head as the icy sleet pounded over him. He walked down the deck his view blocked by the massive steel cabins. Sailors and soldiers alike were there, a few soldiers merely watching like Fred while the sailors pulled away ropes and pulled levers and the likes. Fred had no clue what they were doing, and was about to ask when one of the sailors started roaring something. Fred heart seemed to jump from his chest as the sailors slid quickly around and eyes widened at sometinhg behind the boat. The rain had stopped and Fred turned around as did the soldiers near him. A absolute massive wave was coming towards them. It was bigger then the Tsunami’s sailors are told to have experienced in Asia. Men at the other side of the ship were now all inside, and the ones at the bow were now exposed. Someone screamed and Fred grabbed a flailing piece of rope while others grabbed something else. The soldier nearby though sprinted for the door.
“Here!” roared Fred as everything seemed to go quiet. Other waves were minor, and the ship was trawling up the side of this wave, on the edge of falling on itself. Fred grabbed the soldiers arm and gave him the end of the rope, and he weakly held it. The waves crashed high in the air as it hit the captains cabin, and slowly the tall wall of water fell upon the helpless men on the bow. Water upon water, the rope seemed to slip from Fred’s hands, his mouth was full of salty water while he was being compressed into a tight space, water seemed to push him into the wooden deck while his ears filled up. He felt himself sliding down the vertical deck. He hit something and spun past it and bowled over another man who also fell. He closed his eyes then opened them and saw the bars which represented the end… A strong hand wrapped itself around his arm and he stopped painfully while water slid down the deck. The boat fell down the other side of the ship and they all hung towards the stern before straightening up. A men in a drenched Private’s uniform was grasping Fred’s arm with a grateful look. Fred beamed and spat out water as he stood up,
“You saved my life.” Said Fred simply, as the men around him got up and mourned over their dead friends. He then groaned and held his head. More waves were crashing by and the rain continued its steady stream. He looked up into the face of the man who saved him, and felt like it was familiar. Its expression though was uncertain and worried. Fred shook of a feeling of danger and smiled and left. As he walked down the stairs dripping water over the carpet he wondered. The man had only saved him by instinct, if he had’ve seen who he was, Fred was sure the Private would’ve let him fall into that vengeful sea. He slowly opened the door of his cabin and was met with silence. He flicked on the lights and saw everyone asleep, all though the water was still constantly whipping the sides of the ship. He dried himself down and changed into comfortably warm clothes then relaxed onto his bed where he drifted uneasily into a sleep.

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The plot now drifts into the story, so take careful notice. Things which happen now point to things which happen later. This Chapter was 11 Pages, the story so far is 26 Pages and the next Chapter will be even longer. Sorry there so long but it is needed to be. It usullay takes a while to write these Chapters, at least two or three weeks, so there is always going to be a very long wait between them.

[Baby Boomer]

Chapter IV

Accept nothing, challenge everything – Anonymous

Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once – William Shakespeare

Thud, thud, thud, thud
“Wake up! Get up! We are nearly there!” roared a voice outside their cabin. What Fred had taken for the fire of cannons was in fact someone’s boots hitting the floor outside. He raised himself out of bed while Andrew fell from his onto the ground. While on the ground he pulled out his stuff from under the lower bed and stuffed it into a small bag. The four of them were soon ready and filed outside into the hallway. Fred glanced out of the porthole as they left and saw the outline of a landmass. He then gloomily shuffled out of the cabin and closed the door behind him before taking his spot in the line of soldiers which had formed up and down the hallway. The Colonel walked before them and as his foot fell before Fred he gave him a hard look of intense dislike.
“You will form up on the bow and organize yourselves into Company’s. We will then go out into the port where you will be assigned to a house, where we stay the night. Questions?” He spat out.
“Sir? Can we travel out during night, sir!?” saluted a soldier opposite Fred. The Colonel stopped suddenly before him and turned slowly.
“No, Private. You my not get drunk and disgrace our army. You move out during night and I assure you I will shoot you personally.” Fred had no problem believing the Colonel would. The whole two lines snapped to attention facing the stairs and the two lines slowly ascended the stairway before they were in the room with so many hallway’s and stairs and then out into a golden sunshine! Fred blocked his eyes then was greeted magnificently by a clear day. Many ships were docked in a large harbor and thousands of British soldiers could be seen, like ants below them, marching off the ships. Some ships were steel like the one Fred was in, others simple wooden ones dating back to the Crimea War in 1850’s. He was shoved forward and noticed his Company readying itself. He composed himself and before heading there noticed the deep black clouds swelling on the horizon. He snapped before his Company and noticed many eyes upon him.
“I am Captain Frederickson. I am your new Captain and hope to lead, and know, you soldiers well.” Fred felt color rising in his face and faced Lisbon. He felt his words were stupid, such portrayed by an outspoken Private;
“Obviously he is our new Captain; I didn’t think he was te bloody new trumpet boy or somethin’.” He heard a few chuckles behind him but continued to observe the city. It was quite beautiful, though the history it possessed had been destroyed between wars and disasters. Portuguese citizens were roaming the docks and watched in awe at the massive ships unloading so many foreign soldiers.
“March down bridge and stand in formation at docks, move o-u-u-t-t!” yelled the Sergeant Major who led the Regiment down a steel bridge much like the one in Portsmouth. Finally they reached the bottom (Fred now rubbing his burnt neck) and stood in formation. The Regimental Sergeant Major stood before them with a stern look,
“A Change of plans; we move out TODAY!” He roared, he was always roaring and it was surprising the man didn’t lose his voice. The soldiers around Fred were preparing themselves for a long march. Tightening boots, donning hats and comforting sleeves. They grouped into a tight formation and then a single word was roared;
“March!” And what followed was a continuous thud as boots smashed grass and ground. Fred stood by the side of his Company and watched over them. Andrew was behind him and with him laid the responsibility of keeping them in order. Small children ran along beside their formation, but on the whole were entirely ignored by the British soldiers. Wave upon wave of khaki dressed men marched through the streets of Lisbon while man with large top hats observed these foreign men fighting for their cause, or the women stood with their parasols and watched these men who may die within weeks. The children tried to march like them and imagined the day they could wield a gun and be thumping through the streets of foreign lands while people cheered them on. The sun was cooling and calming. Fred’s water bottle lay full, to his mighty gratefulness. And finally after a hour of marching like sheep the houses wore away and the people retreated inside. The sun blinked many times before seemingly slipping down the slippery slide of sleep. As the moon rose and the darkness enveloped them so you could only hear shouting of men falling in holes or Sergeants getting tired of cheekiness, or when the thud of boot smashed numerous rocks. Fred looked back and saw a small moon glaring at him over the heads of thousands of soldiers.
“Break formation and make camp!” roared voices, repeated like a Mexican Wave. Men sighed and groaned and pulled forth blankets and rags which they threw upon the ground. They collapsed on this makeshift bed and slept, nearly every single one of them sleeping like a baby. Fred yawned and rolled over before remembering he had a diary, and would be certain to write in it the next morning.

He scratched a tired eye. Fred had been woken early by a mixture of things loud voices nearby and a loud bird screeching in the tree near him. There was a shot and it dropped dead and a sleepy Sergeant tucked away his Webley before snoring loudly signaling he had gone back to sleep. Fred eyes twinkled with amusement before he wrote down several more sentences of his experiences here, certain to give them to his parents in Portsmouth and to Mr. Hammerston.
The days are long and drawn out. Portugal is not what I imagined; I don’t know what I expected here. Lisbon was sad I thought, it had no history to its name and its people seemed… down. I could not explain it and I won’t try. The trip here was fine; we encountered a storm which washed many over board.
Fred paused before putting quill to paper again; he decided not to tell of his life threatening moment aboard that ship.
We march through the country; it is much like those pictures we have seen of Spain. I am sure father and Mr. Hammerston have been to Spain before. The family goes well? Are the docks going well and no one come over with sickness?
From Portugal with love,
Frederickson Hamburg,

He sucked the end of the quill and eyed his painfully short message before sealing it and tucking it away in his pocket to give to the postman. Men were rising and putting on boots and puttees, as did he, and soon they were in formation leaving behind a mess.
“Move out!” roared the voices again and they, in a timed fashion, marched away from these Portuguese fields. They passed farmhouses where the farmers stood up and wiped the sweat from their brows before feverishly picking the dirt with their pitchforks. They passed coaches full of rich people who stared politely from their windows at this host of British soldiers, People travelling from town to town in wheelbarrows who desperately tried to avoid this foreign army. Many types of Portuguese people; Fred was full of wonder at the place. But after a few days travelling the shadow of a large city proposed itself before the sunny horizon and soon a tide of people were meeting them. They were then told to behave and mind their manners to these allied people. A rumor, soon confirmed, went around and Fred was told by Andrew.
“We’re in Spain now; the Germans are rumored to be at Madrid by now.” He whispered quietly in the hope no superior officer would hear him. Fred took this news carefully. The Spanish Army had been hopeless so far in its efforts. The Spanish had still been reeling backwards from their lost Spanish – American War where they lost many West Indies possessions.

They reached Salamanca soon and were greeted by the Spanish population very cheerfully. The people were excited at the fact that they were being protected by such a foreign army and the fact there were foreign troops there. The whole army received houses and places to stay and Fred, Andrew, two Sergeants and another Lieutenant were staying in a shamelessly cheerfully Spanish family’s home. It was large and to a limit quite comfortable. The old man and wife didn’t mind their presence at all and even offered a mug of mead. As Andrew downed it in the room he couldn’t mind complimenting;
“Well I hope someone else invades Spain after the Germans! If I was the big brass I’d be stirring up other nations just for this!” He said loudly and the others agreed with no thought on mind. Fred sipped it and looked around the room. It was plain, that much was certain. Its walls were brick and cream colored and the door led to a hallway with several windows giving view to the whole city of cream colored houses. Fred leaned against the sill and looked out. Spanish villagers walked through the streets with carts full of items they tried to persuade the British foreigners to buy. The sun spun off cozy rooftops reflected into Fred’s eyes. He shied away and turned around smiling, this war was going to be easy.

“They say the Germans are there.” Gossiped a soldier. Fred, Andrew and several other officers were sitting around a wooden table. They were inside a low room and were passing rumors.
“The Germans are where?” asked a soldier who just entered the room with some beer. He took of his cap and threw it o the floor and listened closely,
“Madrid, of course! Where the hell else could it be!? Not bloody Edinburgh or somethin’.” Pointed out the officer, and the soldier waved away the insult.
They all sat in silence and wondered the same thing; why was the British Army in Salamanca?

Weeks drifted past; sun and rain; cold and warmth. News had not reached them, letters found no home. Things were quiet; the veterans were scared. Soldiers sat sleepily on the walls and watched the horizon for smoke and flames. News reached them soon though, and left its traces visibly. The Germans had cracked Madrid like a shell. Quite easy, the Spanish troops were fleeing southwards and several hundreds were now heading to Leon, north of Salamanca.
“Why don’t they come here?” questioned Andrew one day. He was quite right; the Spanish would be safer in the strong hands of the British Army. The Germans were chasing them, and were ignoring the troops to the south. They were expected to cross the strait and head into Allied controlled land. More news rushed in tumbling away rumours and speculation. They were wild, mixed and uncontrollable. The Germans were heading south and flanking them, the next day they were crossing the Channel and attacking Dover. None were true, but the common soldier couldn’t discern fact from fiction. Letters were far and few. Panic had ridden the place like a plague; the Generals even worried of they were making the right choice staying there. Fred sat on his meagre bed while another officer was lying down nearby reading a letter which was months old from England. Fred did similar but instead of reading wrote thoughtfully of their time so far. After deciding what would pass the Military Police’s strict rules, he started.

Dear Mother and Father,

Time is most fine here where we are. We are now in Spain and it is quite hot. How goes the English summer? I so dearly miss Southampton and the cold. The war seems to have gone cold. The Germans are backing off I hope, as we would all know. I have received no letters from home. Have your hands grown weary? News seems to have reached us from abroad, things such as England invaded! I dare not believe any of them and instead pray fervently that you remain safe. Its all good here; the stockpiles remain high and we remain well fed and well kept. When you write again please make such letters full of news and truth; I here assure you I remain safe and sound. Not a soul has been killed on this journey yet, other then the trip over here where some literally tripped overboard.
I eagerly wait for assurance and news,
Yours truly,
Frederickson Hamburg,
As Fred folded it away he prayed that it reached the shores of Britain quickly and before the place was sieged. He wondered how hid parents and Mr. Hammerston were faring. Fred imagined the port alive and full of life, ships daily coming in from nations and colonies far away. His father ship docked, as it had been for years and years, and Mr. Hammerston’s business thriving and drawing in cash. Fred laughed as he wondered what it would be like to return to parents rolling in money. Fred left the room to the sad officer and walked the stairs and ripped though the door, seemingly rolling down the street to the post office. The tide of cream colored houses he had originally seen now were a mixture of cream and white. He passed a large bank and came to a post office. Red boxes lined their walls and two Military Policemen were stationed on either side of the door. He passed through the doorway into a partly crowed room. Many were anxious to send off letters to receive news that their friends and family remained safe. Fred handed approached the counter, gave his letter and pushed himself out of the throbbing crowd. As he walked the streets he heard, and sensed, someone following him. He quicklyturned into a alley and theninto another in sharp succession. The outline of a shadow displayed itself across the paving, the hot Spanish sun burning over the person.
“Capatain Frederickson, I know you’re here.” Said the unknown voice. Fred retreated down the alley quickly and out into the busy streets. He sighed and went down the familiar street. Someone stepped from a alley, and Fred realised he was walking the same streets.
“There you are.” Greeted Major Connell, Fred smiled as he remembered who the man was. He was the Major who’d collected Fred from Southampton.
“Go get a ale at the oub?” offered Fred in a friendly manner. The major shook his head darkly and wheeled Fred into a alley way. Dark light enveloped them and they could not be seen from the street.
“I’ve come to warn you Frederickson. Your Colonel… Colonel Whitby?” That was the Colonel’s last name then; something Fred didn’t know. Fred nodded though;
“He will summon you later t’is afternoon. He will demand something... accuse more like it…” said the Major mysteriously. Fred quickly interjected his own question.
“What? Is it serious?” He asked in wonder; what could he have possibly done? Fred racked his brain for every sin he had committed and could list quite a few. He silently swore, and had to add another to the list. The Major threw him a impatient and annoyed look and Fred clamped up immediately.
“No questions. You’ll find out, be shocked; in fact show you’re shocked. But do not give in no matter what, uh, happens. Decline it; that’ll find something to frame you with but I’ll make sure you get through.” Major Connell assured him, and Fred did feel reassured. He was bursting his brain trying to think, wonder, what it was. The Major beamed a grim smile and patted him on the back before tipping his hat and spitting himself into the sun lit street. Fred leaned against the wall of the house behind him as the Major disappeared down the other end of the street. After moments to recollect he emerged innocently from the alley and felt no different then before the dire warning.

Fred waited in his room; the sun was falling gracefully from the sky while darkness spread across the lands of Spain. A sweet smell of pork floated into the room so his stomach growled and whined. The room was empty and the scene was eerie. The only sound drifted from below the balcony where the streets of Salamanca were alive. The British Army and Spanish Garrison still fearfully awaited the arrival of the evercoming German troops. It was rumoured a Advance Guard was only coming to snatch their supplies. The other German Corps were heading south and strangely; north to Leon. The Corps heading to Salamanca though was von Kluck’s 1st Corp. Feared and well trained, they had beaten the British at Mons and were veterans. It was rumoured there was even the elite of the German Army accompanying them; the Stormtrooper’s. Fred shivered as he thought of his last encounter with the feared German Elite. It had been when he had run from the forests of Belgium trying to escape the pursuing German forces and they had, somehow, found him and two soldiers who were travelling with Fred. Only two had made it out though…
Knock knock
Rang the door as a hand obviously hit the wood. Fred raised himself and shuffled along the outer corridor. His fingers twisted around the doorknob and it opened before him. Colonel Whitby stood there with a stony face, but even stonier eyes. His eyes acknowledged Fred’s arrival.
“Captain, the General is demanding your presence for a reason you will soon find out; please come with me to the Commander’s headquarters.” Informed Colonel Whitby. Fred wondered of his kind tone. It was certainly a complete opposite to his usual stance towards Fred; complete dirt. They both walked from the building and down the busy Spanish street. Locals rushed past; concerned with their own events, offering them food and items, begging for money occasionally when they passed a particularly dark alley. Fred was tired but somewhat; excited. The silent Colonel Whitby beside him had a different stance and tone. He seemed sombre almost. Fred started worrying, was it something to do with England? A horrible crime he had committed? Or perhaps a doomed expedition into enemy territory… Fred laughed to himself, he was getting carried away. Whatever it was, it was simple. Two Military Policemen stood with Lee – Enfield rifles propped against the wall. They were sitting down but fired upwards like a rocket at the two officers approach.
“Sir!” they both saluted and opened the doors to a somewhat bland interior. The building was normal. A normal Spanish house with two large pillars standing before the building supporting it. Inside the room stood a host of people. Many were high ranked, or the ‘big brass’ named amongst the ranks, due to the number of ribbons upon their arm. A table stood in a decorated room, and on it was maps of Spain, Salamanca and Portugal from a glance. Red, blue and black marks were etched over it and most was covered by even more parchment stuffed full of writing. A tapping noise consisted and Fred looked around; it was like an annoying mosquito. The General stood and clapped his hand. The General; General Haig was a prestigious figure in British society. He was older now but a very experienced General. He had been noted at Whitehall and was shipped off to the Asian fronts in 1903 where he fought the Chinese uprisings and Second Indian War. He had then been shipped backed to Europe in due course as the war was looming but arrived too late to affect Mons or the affair at Belgium. He was though in command of the British Army in Salamanca. He had at least 20 medals hanging from his chest. Fred was surprised his navy blue uniform didn’t slip off with the extra weight. The man smoked a large cigar and ruffled his grey moustache before turning to the assembly before him. Someone grabbed Fred’s arms from behind and roughly pulled him belong side a already formed line. Fred glanced along it before looking back towards General Haig who was prepping himself for a speech.
“Gentlemen, I apologise for the manner of your arrival and the unfortunate but a source has revealed important information to us.” Started Haig. Fred imagined the source of information. The British Secret Service probably hunted the poor soul down and tortured him for information.
“But this source has said that a… informer…” Fred rolled his eyes at the decorated words Haig was using “… has infiltrated this Army.” He eyes glared at each of the men paraded before him and all of them seemed to shuffle suspiciously. Fred eyed them all suspiciously then realized he was in the line, and started dearly to hope they were meant to find the spy.
“The German Secret Service is cunning, but we are just as. Any German Spy caught from hereon in will be trialled and most likely hanged. We will first torture you for information. You know who you are, and I can only say be very afraid. So come forth; we offer you help and protection from the German Kaiser!” bribed the General adopting a kind expression on his face. No man moved, the room was quiet as if someone had died. Fred looked determinedly at the General and wiped all traces of suspicion and doubt from himself. He was a figure standing proud and confident of innocence. Haig turned to his desk and inclined his head to note it was over.Fred heard the tapping again and seeked the disruption and found the source. Several men were sitting in front of typewriters writing furiously.
A Colonel stood forth;
“You will return to your rooms and resume normal activity. We will call you all forth in a few weeks when certain events have taken place. If you come forth within that time we will offer you forgiveness. If not… our actions will be far from kind. You are dismissed.” Told the man and the seven suspects trotted from the room and away. Fred faltered to hear the words then sped forth to his room full of fear, doubt and impatience.

He raised a the binoculars to his eye and scanned the empty horizon. Colonel Whitby snapped them away disappointed, ever eager for a sign of coming battle. They stood on some defences. The RSM waited quietly behind the Colonel and Fred. Away behind the three of them stood the three other Captain’s looking envious that Fred gained such inspection by the Colonel. Fred would’ve gladly traded such attention in to them for some peace. The Colonel turned around with his officer’s baton. He motioned that Fred follow him and they set off along a cobbled street.
“Captain, I’ve singled you out to tell you one thing; you’re suspected of being a German.” He seemed to spit the words out in hatred. They stopped and looked each other eye to eye.
“Are you?” He asked slyly. Fred shook his head,
“That’s noanswer man! ARE you!?” He roared.
“No, sir!” Fred roared back. The RSM rushed forward but Colonel Whitby made him stop with a raised hand and the Major retreated to a respectful distance. The pair strolled along,
“That’s better. You’re to attend to another inspection in a week’s time. No funny business ‘till then. If so, all fingers point to you. Sergeant Major, bring the others over here!” He added after speaking quietly to Fred. They all came over gladly and eyed Fred carefully. The harsh words spoken to Fred weren’t known; they thought Fred was in the Colonel’s good books.
“I’ve got orders for you all. General Haig suspects a attack upon this bloody place in two weeks or so. Honestly, we’re not prepared for anything, much less a horde of Huns.” He told them all. The Captain’s nodded fervently to gain Whitby’s praise.
“Captain Frederickson, you’re battalions to build trenches in front of the city. It won’t do no good but hell, it’s better then standing in front of ‘em naked.” He rattled off orders to the rest and they all tipped their heads when spoken to.
“You’re dismissed.” He finally said and they all ascended the slopes and then into the city. Fred sighed; what good trenches would do? The Germans would simply rush forward and take them out. He clicked his fingers, machine guns would do it. But did they have enough? That was true, they didn’t and he knew many men would die for it. Fred brushed away such matters. He was no General and probably never would be so the rate he was going, let alone live. If he was accused of being a German Spy they’d unfairly trial him and then let him hang or execute him by gun. Fred’s hat fell from his head and he bent over to pick it up. Soldiers rushed past sharply as he did so and he stood soon. The RSM was lolling around behind him and he was certainly annoying Fred. Fred continued to walk to his accommodation. As he merged from the crowd he noticed the RSM watching him carefully and as Fred lay down alter that evening he felt as if he was being watched by not the enemy but his friends. Such suspicions came to mind as he was reated carefully by his roommates who seemed alert. Fred wouldn’t have been surprised if some people had been warned a German Spy lived amongst them. He now shyed away from people; kept quieter ten usual. A gloom settled like a surrounding mist and it grabbed him and refused to lift. He tried to shake such feelings from his mind with a walk to the HQ, rumor was that orders were ready to be issued. Fred shook his head; rumors seemed to be a common thing now, worse then back in Southampton. But thinking of home made his heart ache and added to his misery. He kicked a rock, could not everything go smoothly! Why couldn’t these damned Germans attack and kill them all! Fred quickened his pace as the pebble hit a higher ranked officer in the heel and he sped past the man and around the corner. It was busy; a mix of Spanish and English rushed past them. One house contained two people arguing loudly over a large box of fruits, causing many to stop and see what was happening. Another had several comfory chairs in front of a row of mirrors and people dressed in black skirted around those sitting down, chopping off their hair unprofessionally. Fred noted not to get his hair cut there; he might come back with no ears. He chuckled and passed a shop where a confusing mix of languages came from a back room. He slipped inside and looked around. Foods and many items lined the shelves and were neatly packed; almost obsessively. Notes marked the price and name and his eyes fell off all. It was very expensive here. There was a back room behind the counter, its entrance blocked by a wooden door. Fred edged towards it slowly and a French voice and… was that German? It must be a British officer (Fred covered his guilt at eavesdropping on his fellow comrades by the fact it was his right)
“… and that’s very lucky there hidden; there checking the town out.” A voice commented, finishing a sentence. Fred wished he heard who ‘They’ were. He knew these people were talking about the British.
“I’m selling good. Remember why I came here! I shan’t do your dirty work!” said a rough voice.
“Dirty work? I mentioned no such thing!” said the second voice in a insulted voice. Fred heard a faint doubtful sniff.
“I know why you’re here! You want me to spy why’ll you run off before they get here.” Accused one.
“Do you not know why you remain here?” asked the second voice slyly. Fred knew a threat was coming and so did the other, they detected danger.
“Yes, to get away from the war in France…” The voice switched to French and seemed to swear at the other. The sound of a chair scraping back could be heard.
“No you idiot! You stay HERE, because we ALLOW you to!!” roared the voice, “If we did not protect you the British would be on to you like flies and horse (He swore in German) They would arrest you for being a accused spy, ship you to Ireland and let you rot!” yelled the voice. There was a stiff silence punctured by a voice.
“Here’s what I want you to do…” started the voice. Fred leaned in eagerly; this could get him off the hook. As he did so he tripped over a large bucket at his feet and a loud noise of it clanged around the room.
“Run! Through the back door!” Roared a voice. A door opened, and a echo of footsteps rang through the door.
“If you’re some British MP I’ll run for it, I swear. I have a gun!” said the voice calmly. Fred’s eyes widened and he drew his Webley.
“I shall not harm you, just come out quietly and you won’t be charged.” Yelled Fred so he could be heard. He heard a gun cocking from behind the door. Fred launched himself backwards as a large splinter from the door flew straight over him. The bullet smashed into a glass of olives and water splashed over the ground. Fred seemed to skip over the counter and watched the door. The top half of it blew off with a splitting noise and Fred covered his head and ducked. It smashed into the counter and all the mess upon it spread across the door. Fred raised himself and fired two shots towards the door. He heard something like someone swearing in French.They fired two more rounds, before someone skidded into the house. It was a British officer followed by two soldiers, all with drawn guns and fiearce looks. The officer pointed at the door,
“Ther’s the man!” He yelled. The soldiers raised there Enfield rifles and fired towards it. Fred looked at the door. It had fallen from its hinges, someone had just thudded into the floor. More bangs and several bullets flew past before the person obviously raced from the building. One soldier vaulted the counter and ran after them and the other twisted outside. The Officer raised Fred to his feet and brushed away the dust and wood.
Good work man; if you don’t receive a praise for that I’ll shoot the General myself.” He joked.
“Be prepared to go to gaol then…” muttered Fred under his breath. The officer’s face hardened;
“A joke man; no time for them!” He ordered. The two marched from the building. A crowd of curious people surrounded the building. They backed away except the more brave ones. A bang sounded from deeper in the city, a obvious gun shot. The Officer dragged Fred by the sleeve and pushed him outside and down the steps.
“We’re going to the General. He might want someone to question you. What were you doing there?” asked the Officer, after he shooed away the people.
“I was taking a walk.” Replied Fred. He knew this wouldn’t count as a answer, and he was right. The Officer offered a mere doubtful nod.
“Sure… Tell that to the Military Police. Hard as me shoes they are.” As the Officer spoke several soldiers arrived at the building behind them and fanned around the doorway while some Military Police went inside for the obvious sweep of evidence. Fred cursed himself. If he hadn’t acted rashly the other wouldn’tve started shooting. He’d have one probable German Spy, and if accused of being a Spy the MP would now have evidence to frame him with. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but they’d make sure they do find something wrong. They arrived at the General’s room. General Haig stood up from behind his desk and several people who were spread out around his desk looked around. Several were dismissed. The General pointed and the Officer roughly pushed Fred into a wall before walking into the crowd. Another man was dragged in and pushed up beside Fred. Several minutes passed. The other five suspects were coming and they were to be told important information, but what? There was a thump from outside and the crowd looked there. A man was dragged in from outside by two soldiers. Behind them followed another two Enfield armed men. The man was dropped next on Fred’s other side. Haig stood before them and the crowd behind him. He started pacing,
“You have been brought here today because we have hole proof evidence you ar ein fact associated with the German Secret Service. You are going to be trialled; the politicians in the Parliament think you shan’t be punished until convicted of the crimes accused of. aYou may assemble one person to speak as a acting lawyer for you in your case, and ‘till then shall be put under house arrest back in Portugal, location not to be known.” He spoke officially and even had to read of a piece of paper once. At the end of his sentence several more soldiers walked in carrying three fully packed packs. Fred recognised his and realised the others are the two men standing beside him. Haig pointed a steady finger at three Military Policemen and then at the bags;
“Search them!”
They obeyed and ripped the bags open with no respect. Things scattered across the table and everyone waited with bated breath. After several minutes searching it was all done. Haig pointed at the three suspects.
“Search them!”
This was also obeyed; the three were frisked and all weapons removed. Nothing was found.
“Read the accusations to accused. Excuse me.” He added and left the room. One MP stood before the man next to Fred.
“You have been watched all week; your actions are regarded as supcious and you are under light accusations. Your trial may not commence.” The MP switched to Fred.
“You were found at a scene of obvious crime late this afternoon in the town. It has also been confirmed by high ranking spies in Germany you have connections with the Royal House of the Kaiser. You are certain to be trialled and under heavy security.” He moved to the other man.
“You have attempted to run away from the Army twice this week; even if found innocent you shall be shot for such cowardess. Arrest them and take them to the car.” He said to four MP’s satnding nearby. The Big Bras lined up before the door. A MP grabbed the htree of them and tugged them like boats through the middle of the line and down the steps outside. Two vans waited outside. Black smoke poured from the muffler’s. A door was opened and Fred was pushed inside the first, the others the second. He was seated in the back. The large doors were slammed shut with a loud bang. Light poured in from airholes and Fred peeked outside. People watched with hands of mouth’s and stunned faces. Fred saw Major Connell and tried to yell as he watched grimly. The car started as he did so shutting off all noise and he fell into the side of the van as he moved away.
“Quieten down there!” Yelled a voice through the small shutter above him, before sliding shut with a snap. Fred looked at the roof; Connections in Germany? He had been a orphan since he could remember, found at Southampton. He thought of his innocence; it was certain, had to be. He screwed up his face and thought away all miseries. The van flew up in the air as it hit a large rock and he heard a Englishman yelling from the front. Fred looked through the air hole; countryside rushed by them. He lay down and attempted sleep to pass time.

They sped through small villages; people watched the small convoy trudge on through Portugal. He saw a a group fo heavily armed British soldiers stop the convoy. One got off and cocked and load his rifle while the another got out his Webley handgun and wheeled around the other side. The door slowly opened and Fred raised a hand to stop the stream of sunlight.
“Show your face ya Hun.” Said a rough voice. Fred lowered his hand but squinted.
“Looks fine. Lets check the next one.” Said another. They raised a vertically flat hand to the van behind and inspected it as well. The British drivers pulled forth documents and yelled their intentions. They were waved through. As Fred watched the door suddenly slammed shut with a blast of air and he hit the roof with fright. As he settled down one of the soldiers banged the side with the butt of his rifle and psat at the vechile.
“Bloody traitors!” He spat. Fred watched them disappear beyond the horizon.

He bent down and tore at the stripes on his arm. Damn it! Damn it! Hr thought over and over. The British Secret Service makes a small mistake about his relations… and he dies for it! The had made up his mind. They must’ve made a mistake, he had no true family but those in Southampton, even they proving to be not through and through. Fred punched the wall of the van and it blasted loudly. The shutter opened;
“Shut it you pig! We’re nearly there, just look outsid’.” Said the voice before it whipped shut. He looked outside as told and saw people bolting out of the way as the convoy sped up. The van bounced several times and he fell back with rekindled hope. He needed a lawyer to defend him. The only two men he trusted in the Army were Andrew and Major Connell. Both miles away from him, and days away from a country and war changing battle which they’ll probably die in. He shook his head and laugh.ed The complications! Could they never end? Here he was to die and still problems dropped from nowhere.
The tried to stand; and ht his head. He’d felt that way for a long time. When he tried to stand and take some credit for something; he was hit. He’d become a Captain, and was then sent of to Mons. He got lucky with staying in service; and then he was accused! He wanted a bible suddenly, some way to pray. He hadn’t done so since going to Church in his childhood.

Home…

He suddenly thought and wiped it from his mind. What good would missing something do? He had been accused; he couldn’t change that. He’d have to grin and bear it. This wouldn’t sort itself out; he always hoped for that. He was going to take matters his own way. And the only way he could do that… was getting away from Portugal, Spain, the Army and his life! How… How was he going to that? He was going to jail, and then to court. So…

It had to be when he was going to court! His head pounded and started hurting. Too much thinking, and such little hope. He also recognised that when his head pounded it was when he knew he was in a hopeless situation… only outside help could get him out of this one as it had so mnay times before… At Mons the soldiers, then the boats when they were running, then when he was certain to go in dsiactive service the Major Connell… He sat up quickly as if stung and the answer came so suddenly and quickly he was full of hope.


~~~~~~~~~

Well; I've been wrting this constantly. Its my new big book and I really, really want comments upon what you enjoy the most and parts I cna imporve on. CC4 please. So far 36 Pages; no more comments and I might even stop posting them...

Over the next few days I may edit it for spelling mistakes, a few changes to adjectives and some adverbs and most of all some plot mistakes. But be certian only the last few paragraphs shall not be final (The first paragrpahs are fine, I've read them hundreds of times)

Enjoy! Please!

[Baby Boomer]

Chapter V

Ours is composed of the scum of the Earth — the mere scum of the Earth. ~ Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington

By careful observation, reason, and verification, we can discover truths that we were initially blind to, or even opposed to.
~ Paul Rosenberg

Fred jolted as the van stopped and he heard the pebbles beneath them crackle. A door opened a bang from the side of the truck;
“We’re here!” Yelled his captors. The door opened and a pair of arms piked him up and pulled him out (Gently he noticed) He blinked in amazement and then again.
“Yes, we’re in Lisbon.” Told one of the captors. He looked around. A large manor stood further down a crackly stone driveway. Lined upon either side was a forest, or so Fred thought. Trees and flowers of every kind were there. He looked behind. Two other vans were coming in the driveway now. A large stone fence surrounded them and the gate was gold (Not real gold he reminded himself) and had lions on its head. He was pushed in the general direction of the manor and saw several people outside. Someone came striding down the driveway and spoke quietly to the main captor. Fred could hear;
“The Major’s already here.” He informed the captor. The Captor nodded,
“No; ask them tomorrow.” He said and the other man was brushed away before trailing back to the manor. A bang from behind and someone was pushed into the gravel. As he was dragged towards the soldiers at the manor he fell to his kness. A quick shake of one man’s hand and he was dragged inside. His vision swayed, his breath slowed. He noted being dragged up stairs and then into a room before the silk sheets before him suddenly disappeared as he slept…

He puffed on the cigar burning in his mouth. The thought’s fo certain torture which had entered his mind at first were blown away with every puff. He felt reassured; as if it was some big prank. It wasn’t of course, he wasn’t that stupid to be in denial.
Or was he?
As he squirmed in discomfort he noticed more of the room. When Fred had awoken earlier he had remembered the deepest sleep he’d had for ages. On the table which was positioned before the window stood a pack of cigar’s, a newspaper and breakfast (Bacon and eggs which were fine quality) And here he sat with a reasonably packed stomach. The newspaper was blasted with large Portuguese letters. The date read 4th March, 1915. It meant nothing to him; as did the paper (He only understood it by scanning through the pictures several times) As he looked at the pictures the door opened. A British Military Policemen stood there.
“You’re requested by the Major.” Snapped the man. Fred lazily pushed away the paper and puffed on his cigar several times. He jumped as the cracking voice hit him again;
“Hurry!” He stood with hands in pockets and the two left. The MP locked the door then they strided down a hallway. No words were exchanged and Fred got rather bored with the man. The MP stopped and drew a long, gold key which he unlocked a door. Fred was shoved in a looked around. It was dark and a light stood on a table with only one other on the ceiling above the only wooden table there. Two heavily armed British soldiers guarded the door. Fred sat on the chair and soon another man entered.
“Major; our guest is here.” Fred gasped.

But then faultered; the man jogged his memory. He couldn’t remember who… He thought furiously as he observed the Major. Nope; nothing suddenly came to him. The Major grinned in a sick way.
“Enjoy your stay, Captain?” he asked politely. Fred nodded;
“Suposse you won’t be a Captain for long.” He commented before sitting. Fred moved defensively.
“How many patriot’s have you shot in the heart, Major?” sneered Fred.
“A country’s worth you could say.” His answer confused Fred but the Major didn’t care. He was staring at him as if Fred could actually, literally, crack.
“Captain, were you aware of your relation’s in Royal Germany?” asked the Major.
“No, thus the fact I received the news with greatest of supirse.” He answered. The Major nodded as if a suspicion was confirmed.
“You were orphaned, hm? Where were you found and what day of the year?” he asked again as if prodding a live bomb.
“Yes, I was found 1884, on the 1st of June in Southampton Bay.” He replied.
“Your name’s German.”
“I got it from my fake parents.”
“Why’d they call you such a German name. They obviously knew nothing of these German relations, right?” asked the Major leaning back. Fred was bewildered;
“I don’t know. Probably not though.” He added hastily. The Major wrote down something andd turned to the Guards.
“Leave.” They did quickly. The Major stood and circled Fred. At Salamanca, what did you hear from those two men in the backroom?” asked the Major.
“Something about the British moving in and then one, who sounded French, was told to do something. I didn’t hear anything else.” He said. Then straightened his back.
“Crap! You heard more! Now shout it!” He yelled, Fred yeled back.
“I heard nothing more. Cut my bloody foot off but I herd nothin’ more!” He prepared for a lashing from the Major but his face calmed.
“Dismissed; bugger off.” Fred stood and left so he left behind a feeling of conclusion.

The Manor was interesting. He saw nothing of Lisbon but defntely heard it. Occasionally officer’s came. He suspected they were extra secutrity but were also there for the comfortable rooms. The backyard was very large. Chairs, pavillion’s and a well kept garden was they’re. The first day Fred was satisfied strolling through lines of flower’s and exotic trees. That night he was given a shower and dinner before falling asleep unantraully quickly again.

The next morning he was ushering into that room again. His eyes were misty with sleep and he rubbed them feebly. It was very early as explained by the absence of the guards. The Major was already there.
“This is off the books.” He started as Fred sat down.
“Now… Mister Hamburg. Have you visited Manchester, Antwerp and Oxford beforehand?” he asked.
“I visited All but Oxford. Never went there.” This was true. He went to Antwerp in ’14 for the war and Manchester for a training exercise. This answer was right by the expression the Major proposed.
“Do you have a friendship with a Mister Hammerston?” asked the Major. Fred’s head whipped upwards in a stunned look. How! How!? They’d been to Southampton obviously. Checked the place out, asked around for clues and evidence. Fred swore over and over.
“Yes… Yes we are rather good friend’s.” The Major knew the answer; the question was merely asked to startle Fred to the large resource’s being wielded against him.
“When did you change your hair color?” asked the Major. Fred was confused. His hair had always been brown.
“It’s always been brown.” The Major continued as if no answer had been said. After at least six hour’s questioning Fred was sick of the place. Question’s regarding if he’d been to germany, where he’d been with his parents, and so on. The Major was also tired. After the six hour’s he face was centimeters away from Fred’s.
“TELL ME THE TRUTH!” He roared with slying spit. Fred moved slightly backwards.
“I’m TELLING the truth, SIR!” He roared back as loudly. The major swore at him.
“No you’re not. Your some bloody Hun from germany. Born in a bin and you’v ebeen raised like a PIG!” He threw the insult at Fred and it hit him at the heart.
“I guess we very alike then.” He said coldly. The major threw a swear word at him. He laughed cruelly as he circled again.
“Fine then… no truth from you.” The Major stood behind him and Fred was forced to look at the opposing wall. He felt nervous. A barrel was pushed into the side of his head until it made a mark. His heart started to beat faster and his breathing slowed. The man was mad! He was going to shoot Fred and go to gaol!
“Tell the truth or die you Hun.” Said the cold voice behind him.
I am a…” He started. The major suched his breath in.
“Yes?”
“British soldier.” The Major swore.
“That’s it….” He muttered a number of times and entered Fred’s line of vison with a Webley handgun.
“You’re a German.”
“Englishman.”
German”
“Englishman.”
“GERMAN!”
”BRITISH AND PROUD OF IT!” Fred roared. The Major kicked him in the stomach and Fred leaned in pain. A loud pistol shot and a piece of floor chipped off and a second landed right between his big toe and smaller one. The man was a crap shot. The door banged open and smashed into the wall and a gun barrel protruded in.
“All’s fine” Reported the Major tucking away the Webley.
“Dismissed. To the attic.” He added to a solder. Fred didn’t like the sounds of it. Sure enough he was shoved into the tiny attic with a awful bed (All which was in the place which stunk of wine) and was quite a step down from the luxury upstairs. He was now in a definte prison. Allowed out only when allowed and guarded constantly. He slept awfully and woke with a fright. He was disturbed by it all.

On the Sunday, after being there for five days, he was called in for a third interrogation. When he entered there was no politeness.
“Well, Frederickson.” The Major used his full name strangely. There were no Guards and no buzzing of machinery. This was followed by a procedure of questions which were answer as always. But a awkward silence followed and then;
“Frederickson… I’ve been contacted by someone.” Fred’s ears picked up.
“Says he is a German agent.” Was added. Fred leaned back in disappointment. Another stupid attempt for him to give in.
“He wants to pay a ransom… or the Kaiser-!”
“Give it up. I’m not falling for your scum tricks.” Snorted Fred staring him in the eye. The Major gave up all caution;
“Well you’re gonna have to. Because if you don’t then the Court’s will rip you raw.” He snarled. Fred believed this but was certain they would anyway.
“I’m British. Ask me parents, ask me colleagues. I’m British and proud of it.” Replied Fred.
“Dismissed ‘till final interrogation. Take him back!” ordered the Major.

Fred rolled over in his bad bed. He couldn’t sleep. He’d be sleeping in a few weeks… forever in a dirt hole. Where’d they bury him? Tney wouldn’t most likely. Probably toss him into the sea with a curse. The night was completely still. Another week ahd passed and he was used to this place. Its effect meant to have on him didn’t work thankfully. He rolled over and stared at thr iron door. Escape lay beyond that… death more likely. As he was thinking this the iron door shuddered. Fred sat up, then stood up. It shuddered again and this time there was a sound like scraping fingernails. It stopped suddenly and he heard shuffling. It didn’t move for minutes, so Fred put his ear up against it. There was something like whispering… but not in English. Two footsteps and then-
He jumped backwards as the iron door moved slightly towards him, and then after some time it fell forward. Large scrape marks were on the door and there stood a strangely dressed man.
“The Major has requested you…” told the man in a accent. He, and another bewildered man in unfitting uniform, gently (What was meant to be rough) grabbed Fred and pulled him outside. As they went up the stairs he noticed several people following them.
“What is happening?” asked Fred anxiously.
“Quiet, Monsieur, or they will hear.” Whispered the French man. Fred shut up immediately and stifled a gasp as they came into the great entrance hall with its glass dome and hanging lights.
“We are taking you away.” The Frenchman explained, “We’re not MI6, we are not British. We are here to help you.” Two (Obiouvsly Portuguese townsfolk) had Lebel rifles in their hand, and catiously put hands on the door. Four other’s backed up Fred and the Frenchman. The Frenchman shoved a Colt pistol into Fred’s ahnd.
“For safety.” Assured the man.
“Open!” And the Portugese peasant’s pushed.

The doors shuddered and then slid open. The Portuguese peasant’s sucked in their breath and the Frenchman grimaced and drew a Webley. He doors opened wit no noise and the group carefully made their way down the cobble driveway. Fred dare not cock his gun, due to the noise it made. He needed to cough; but couldn’t. He jumped violently as a voice yelled a warning;
“Sir?” The peasant’s scattered into the bushes and disappeared. Fred bristled angrily over this before being shoved strongly into the scrubland.
“Sir?” asked the voice with more urgency. A British soldier came forward. His face noted a hint of recognition.
“Good day. Why do you need to leave, sir?” asked the soldier.
“To get a drink, of course. Better then what they serve here anyway.”
“You don’t like the wine they serve here?” asked the soldier. Fred noted the Frenchman’s pride in his country’s wine.
“Of course I like it! Tastes like its from Dijon, no?” asked he. He bent to scratch his leg and quickly signalled for them to continue on. The silently moved forward.
“Dijon! Hell no, sir! That’s German now1 That stuff is merely from Caen…” the soldier commented sadly. The Frenchman bent his head in recognition of the fact his homeland was falling. Fred couldn’t hear from then on. He wondered who these rescuer’s were as he pushed aside a hanging branch. The peasant’s were obviously being paid in gold. But this man was professional… so much that he was even accepted into a top class British manor. Fred looked away and saw the large golden gates standing there with two smoking soldier’s. They were British and had small cigarette’s. One had his rifle propped against the wall and the other only had a small handgun.
“Bloody crap stuff this is!” spat one as he lifted a bottle of wine to his mouth.
“Bloody Spanish stuff from down south.” Explained the other, and both acted as if this confirmed the fact the stuff was bad. Though it probably was. A pair of voice’s came down the road and Fred saw its source. The Frenchman and Guard were walking slowly down the driveway, deep in conversation. Fred marvelled at this. If he was taking a top security prisoner away he’d be out of this place already. A single gunshot fired from the manor. All three British soldier’s drew weapon’s and faced the manor. The Frenchman spoke;
“May I leave? Something seems wrong.” He observed a Guard roughly shook his head.
“Lockdown proceudure’s. It was a flare gun.” They formed a line and raised rifles, watching but not the Frenchman. He drew a pistol aimed at one and shoot three time’s. Before the man fell a peasant rushed from the bushes with his unsteady rifle, raised it and spat two shot’s at another. The man’s hand seemed to blew up bloodily before the dead body smashed sideward’s into his friend who fell with him. He scrambled up before staggering backward’s as blood flew from his chest. Fred shot again and he twisted strangely to the floor. Silence.
“Good job.” Complimented the Frenchman absently before motioning to continue. Fred could hear the manor stirring and already heard car’s coming toward’s them from further inside Lisbon.
If we do not move within ten minutes then I assure you; we’ll all die.” And from the noises echoing around Fred, he was ready to believe the Frenchman. The group moved away from the manor and across a open courtyard. The suburb’s opened before them. They sliced into a alley and silently moved deep into the city. He heard voice’s from further back but dared not stop and listen. A gunshot sounded as well. They stopped. The Frenchman brought forth a bag of money and flicked each peasant several golden coin’s. They said thanks in their language, or so Fred guessed, before gliding into the shadow’s. Soon only Fred and the Frenchman were left. They ran past beggar’s, a stunned tavern owner, they passed rugged looking people and spilt into the main street. The Frenchman stopped as someone stopped and gasped. Fred watched themas they fearfully turn away and walked quickly. The Frenchman took off and Fred was closely following. They rushed through the maze of dark alleyways which hosted a different surprise, or so it seemed. The sirens had stopped thankfully, and it started spitting just as the man stopped. He pointed and Fred wondered in amazement. There was a fine car, and the Frenchman held the keys in his hand. It was a normal car. A wooden protection sheltering them, small tyres and a basic metal frame. It coughed innocently a few times as he pulled the keys sideways. It finally spluttered into life and he looked at me.
“Ready.” Meaning the Army order of prepare to fire. I cocked the Webley and beamed at him, and he in turn as if it was good luck, as I spotted the small package of Lebel rifles, several grenades and a Luger. I drew A lebel, cocked it and loaded and fell back into my wooden seat as he smashed his foot into the accerlator. My head arched backward’s as we rocketed out of there. Several sreams of alarm as pedestrians jumped from hungry wheels. Fred laughed. The Frenchman glanced in amusement before his face shadowed with a serious look.
“Some Brits on our tail.” He reported. Fred cocked his Webley, twisted in his seat and spat three shots at them before pocketing it without looking. He cocked the Lebel rifle, aimed and fire fifteen times before it slid out the empty rounds, and he slammed another cartridge of ammounition into it. He fired again crazily as they turned dangerously around the corner and its blind flashing prevented him seeing his targets. A bullet shattered the mirror next to him and he cursed like a madman as glass lashed his face, leaving stinging cuts. He stared down its sights and watched the British soldier, one of two, waiting for Fred to stop his sniping. He raised himself from the seat just as Fred’s rifle bit back into his shoulder. The mans head snapped back with a fountain of ruby blood before the body fell limply over the side. The dirver looked shocked as he glanced sideways before a bullet smacked him in the side of the head cuasing him to fall into the seat next to him. The car skidded as his dead hands trailled on the wheel and the friction caused it to flip high in the air, watched by the crowd, Fred and the Frenchman, before plummenting to earth amongst a panicking crowd. It blossmoned in a ball of flames as they turned the corner. The Frenchman laughed a admirable laugh and Fred himself was amazed how he did they. He singularly picked off two men at roaring speed and caused that bloody accident. Their car had burn marks and bullet holes along with a bloodied passenger and one mirror. People stared but no one chased them. Fred stared as Lisbon gave way too a rocky countryside. He jolted as a head flashed past and saw a stunned Portugese family watching the speeding car. Deeper smoke rose from Lisbon as Fred started the pummeling question’s.
“Portugal. A fine place Monsieur, non?” asked the man politely.
“Yes, its sea’s roll like hell.” Said Fred remembering his trip there.
“Not as good as France. Though your Isle’s contest it in some… ways.” The Frenchman finished lamely. This proposed a host of question’s to Fred.
“Who are you? Why do you want me? Why not that other poor sod?”
“I am Lieutenant Richeaul of the French Foreign Legion. I was sent to you by my eager Major. I first travelled to Spain and heard you were in Lisboa. Here I am.” He momentarily took his hands off the steering wheel.
“You are Captain Frederickson Hamburg, right, monsieur?”
“I am. So where do we head now?”
“Your… comrades shall be chasing over the hills of course. Spain most likely.” He informed.
“And then? Spain can’t hide us forever!”
“Onward’s, monsieur, a field of opportunity awaits us eagerly!” he said ina eager voice. Fred was sceptical.
“Yeah. Let’s all run from the unforgiving British hands straight into the cold German’s bayonet’s!” he said in a mocking voice. Richeaul shrugged in a careless way which denoted nothing.
“Fine then. Mock me monsieur. Go back, be imprisoned, questioned, sent to a bloody judge and shot at dawn.” In a way he really would.
“But you get my point?”
“I realise the statement you are trying to make monsieur. There are ways to undermine the Germans easily.” He said in a confident voice.
“Head south? We could sail north from Tunis and find refuge in Italy.” Suggested Fred. He looked at Fred like he was a coward.
“Hell no monsieur! We’re no cowards! Straight to Toulon and then to Italy!” He said his opinion on the deserts and Spanish cowering down south near Granada. Fred shook his head dejectedly and stared out into Portugal. Richeaul did make a fair point. Go back, find yourself shot. Ditch Richeaul, get shot by the Germans. Stay with him, most likely get shot by some over alet Spanish garrison.

Either way; he’d get shot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The next part in my story. I particularly enjoyed introducing Richeaul, though maybe not a actual French name, I have a deep facination of French culture so used it every possible chance.

No comments? Chapter VI is already 18 Pages in, so I might have to divide it in two. From my calculations the story is 53 pages so far, congrats on reading so much! And give me feedback, I say again! I see all these views but no talking!

[Monk]

Hm. Looks like i know what i'll be doing tonight. I've managed to read a little bit of your story Baby Boomer, and what I did read I've liked. In the first chapter the scene transition was a little off, but it's clear it's simply a prologue so that's quite excusable. In the second you clean this up a little and make improvements.

So far I like it, I'll come back with further thoughts as I get time to read more!

[Monk]

Very interesting! Still haven't gotten over the entire story (there's an aweful lot here..) but so far I'm rather enjoying it.

I do have some pointers though, first and foremost I highly suggest picking up a program like MS word (i know, i say this a lot around here. I'm a broken record so sue me!) since it can actually spot grammatical errors for you and help you clean up your paragraphs a lot nicer. Keeping the readers' eyes moving and flowing smoothly from page to page is a secret that is held in good grammar and spelling (well along with a really good story too ), programs akin to ms word can really help in that regard.

Still, even with the trip ups that i've spotted it doesn't detract a great deal from the whole. I'm looking forward to reading more!

[Baby Boomer]

Thanks Monk, your help and tips are greatly appreciated!

The Chapter's are quite big; if people need so I can divide the Chapter's and deliver them half at a time? All up the story is 6-something pages. I'm careful with MS Word, due to the fact I like to use the Australian spelling in it (Can't get it too work) and a lot of the words are Americanised (z instead of s.)

[Baby Boomer]

Chapter VI

All fear the voice of death calling to them. - Unknown

The trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool. - Stephen King

Part 1

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Andrew lazily dawdled along. He had a baton sheathed under his arm like a sword ready to strike, and wore a cap which tipped down his forehead. He was essentially a Captain. Colonel Whitby had given the post to him sadly the day Fred was taken away.
“Bloody shame. Good loss of talent on that one…” Whitby commented sadly. Andrew was quite surprised; the Colonel had nurtured a vicious hate for Fred only a few months before. His reply was dutiful though.
“Yes, sir.”
So here he was, Captain Andrew, inspecting his troops who were confused. The three changes in such a short period of time were sudden.
“I am your new… Captain.” He said lamely as he stopped in front of them. They stared blankly and Andrew bowed shortly, and snapped away. “Dismissed.”

He was summoned to the Colonel’s quarters and found himself standing nervously behind Whitby’s chair.
“Greetings, Captain.” welcomed the Colonel, puffing a circle from his cigar.
“Good day, sir.”
“How do you find the Company?” asked the Colonel. Andrew truthfully hated it. He had ambitions… but they were for when he had found love and money. Luck basically.
“Fine, sir. I have experienced no problems of late.”
“Good to know Captain.” Whitby paused, “new information reached the General’s ears today.”
“Bad news, sir?”
“Bad news, indeed, Captain.” Andrew waited patiently.
“The Germans are only miles away. They’ll be here before the weeks finished.” Delivered the Colonel. He knew the news was a bombshell. Like a real bombshell, it had the potential to kill their hopes… and lives.
“By god! Week? More like days, even hours!” cried Andrew in a panic. His voice cracked and he temporarily forgot his place. The Colonel hadn’t though and scowled.
“We should crack ‘em with a whip. Follow the regiment, Captain, that’s your orders. Don’t panic, have a smoke, wine, beer. Just get ready.” Ordered the Colonel. Andrew was looking shocked and his eyes stared at him as if he had suddenly hit a brick wall.
“Yes, sir.” Gasped Andrew. The Colonel was already smoking a new cigar.
“You’re dismissed, Captain, go get drunk.” Andrew seemed to stagger from the room and alarmed the two guards’ considerably as he crashed into the hallway, slammed the door behind him and tumbled away. Instead of getting drunk, as he would normally, Andrew sprinted down the streets and to the city’s defences. People cried at him to slow down as his rifle clanged against his back and tailcoat fluttered behind him like a cape. Two idiotic soldiers stumbled down the road drunk as a beer of ale and singing an unknown song. Andrew though stepped into the trenches, pushed aside annoying people regardless of rank and fell onto the plains before Salamanca. He dropped to his knees and watched the horizon sadly. Dark and light smoke drifted high into the air and the top light of a fire. Several soldier’s nearby stood and watched but Andrew kneeled there until dusk came and night started its swing. How could he do this? Lead a company of men to their death? Andrew would fail; he was not a born general, he wasn’t a leader! He would kill… by himself. Pull the trigger and blow a man’s brains out. But leading friends and fellow countrymen whose eyes look to you for orders, who guns and skills could change a battle? Andrew was not capable of leading! The responsibly was too large! Where was Fred? Definitely not dead but he had to be somewhere in the city. Dismissed from the army or given to a new Company? Andrew pulled himself up and dragged his feet into the city. He was going to find where Fred was.

Andrew once again stood outside the Colonel’s apartment. He knocked and the door opened quickly. The Colonel stood there in robes with a smoking cigar and a doubled newspaper which printed:
‘Madrid’ but the other side was obscured because it was folded. The Colonel looked tired and exasperated.
“What, Captain?” he asked impatiently.
“I had a question, sir.” He proposed.
“Well give me the damn question and let me sleep you damn army fools!” he yelled.
“I’d like to know what happened to Captain Frederickson, sir.” Asked Andrew. The look on Whitby’s face was enough.
“I don’t know a damned thing.” And slammed the door.
“Is there anyone else, sir?” asked Andrew. Silence and he turned away.
“I do know a Major Stevens was going to speak in his defence.” Replied a muffled voice as Andrew grinned momentarily.
“Thank you, sir.” He yelled back but received what the Colonel thought of hid thanks really. As Andrew emerged into the city he realised he knew nothing about a Major Stevens and had never heard Fred speak about him. The name was familiar though…He thought hard and tried to remember. It was on the trip to Lisbon… no when he and Fred were travelling to Plymouth… He faltered. The Major was the man who had personally picked up Fred, and had talked to him the day they were packing onto the boats... Now Andrew was in more trouble. This city housed thousand’s of British troops, how could he find one? He decided to have a beer to clear his mind.

Andrew rolled over and sighed as he snored.
Snored!?
He sat upright and then lay back down again as his complained. It hurt badly, and his eyes felt like they were trying to jump from his head. Here he was, back at the villas. He had drunk too much last night. Andrew swore as he pulled on his army trousers and pocketed the Webley. The room was empty of the other officer’s and he wondered over this as he descended the steps. No owner’s either he observed as he pushed open the door. The streets were empty and as he paused to collect his thoughts he felt a twinge of suspicion. Andrew was going to the HQ, and there he could ask a clerk whereabouts the Major was. He pulled up short when he got there. There were two more guards and people were rushing past the door. He rushed inside and was pushed backwards as someone ran into him.
“I want constant feedback!”
“The 51st is moving too far east! Relay that to the Colonel!”
“Where the hell are those guns!?” Voice’s yelled all over the place and mingled in Andrew’s mind. He stopped a passing clerk;
“What’s happening?” he asked quietly. The clerk looked at him and then replied after some time.
“The Germans are here.” And walked faster with papers in his hand fluttering. Andrew didn’t move. His mind had stopped… or so it seemed as had his heart. His hand was still outstretched and hanging and his eyes didn’t move. He heard a distant thump like a muffled punch. The whole office stopped and then moved faster.
“Was that the Germans or us?” asked General Haig from his office door.
“Germans, sir!”
“They were siege guns!”
“Bloody hell.” Swore the General before enclosing himself in the office. Andrew hurried to a desk where a die sat typing on his typewriter.
“Excuse me.” Said Andrew politely. He was ignored. He thudded a fist onto the table and everything shook as the aide jumped nervously.
“What?” He asked rudely.
“I’m looking for a Major Stevens.” The aide looked through papers and then stopped. He pointed at a few tables away.
“He’ll help you. Has the right documents.” Before turning back to the typewriter with a nudge of his glasses.
“Where can I find Major Stevens?” Andrew asked again. More papers and then a final took stare. The aide gave him quick directions before turning away. Andrew walked quickly through the surge of people rushing around, blasted into the fresh air and walked down the empty street. Another cannon fire followed by several more. The ground shook slightly and Andrew started to sprint the cobble road. There were gunshots from behind him and screaming. He stopped and walked backwards. Nothing but tall buildings his vision. Soon he was out of the city. Andrew stopped.

Thousand’s of soldiers were beyond Salamanca. There were horses, cars, wagons and massive guns spread across the land. Men, and the occasional woman, hurried over the fields and a dark plume of smoke jutted away from this iceberg of things. It was a cannon, and the noise crackled like a roaring giant. The ground shook as it landed. Andrew rushed down the hill and stepped down into the trenches which lined before the city. It was all quiet here, One row of soldiers with there British hats lined the firing step, a second behind them and a third sat behind the second. Officers were sprouting everywhere with whistles and batons but all stared over the field. Andrew passed a large machine gun which had two nervous young men stationed on it flinging the muzzle around. Andrew ran and noticed nothing until a hand reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Captain!” brought Andrew from his sudden panic. He focused and saw Colonel Whitby’s face.
“Your Company’s over there. Prepare them and just shoot.” The Colonel ordered, letting go and pushing him in the direction. Young and old faces watched Andrew walk over and stand behind his cowering Lieutenant. The young boy was 17 or 18. Andrew took out his Enfield and loaded it slowly. A man at the front yelled back at Andrew.
“Looks like their preparing an attack, sir.” Andrew nodded and looked at Whitby who also nodded to motion he had heard. Andrew was very nervous. His worst fear was taking place right there. He pulled back a soldier, and looked over the trench himself. The Germans were lining their soldiers, with their spear tipped helmets and Mauser rifles, ahead of the trenches. Andrew stepped back to his commanding position.
“Sir!” Andrew looked around to see a soldier standing there.
“The Germans are preparing their fire.” And hurried away. His coming was followed by deep booms from the German guns. There was a whistle;
“Incoming fire!” roared the RSM. Everyone ducked as did Andrew and they were thrown back slightly as a mountain of dirt was thrown into the air in front. It rained down upon them as a second landed next to it. A terrible screaming as the trench further down was directly hit and two medics ran past Andrew. More hits and dirt was like a thunderstorm. Finally a barrage of whistles. Andrew was sweating, though thankful none hit him.
“The Germans are coming!”
“Present!” The front soldiers raised rifles to their shoulders. Andrew heard yelling and roaring and more whistles.
“Fire fifteen!” roared Whitby.
“Fire fifteen!” repeated Andrew. The soldiers fired and fired and it was like eating pork crackle. A grenade flew into the trench but a soldier hurriedly picked it up and threw it high where it exploded in a ball of light. The second row moved forward.
“Fire fifteen!” ordered the Colonel, then, “Captain’s fire at will.”
“Fire fifteen.” Ordered Andrew. Fifteen rounds from each man were like machine gun fire, which hadn’t started yet. Third row and Andrew walked up, raised his Enfield and fired fifteen accompanied by the others. He didn’t look at the field as the next row came up and he ordered they fire. This went on for five minutes before it was over. The ground shook.
“Bombardment starting!” roared the RSM.
“Step down! Guard rank only!” Mean the veterans were to stay on guard and keep watch.
“Regiment wait for orders!” his voice betrayed no hint of pride. The army had completely decimated the first German attack. Andrew was proud; his Company had performed the best by far.
The British never suspected a thing. The Germans had barely arrived yet.

Part 2

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Fred was sick of this damn car. They’d been driving two days straight while swapping seats and stopping to take a leak. Richeaul was asleep amongst the guns in the back and a waning sun watched them wearily. They were near the Spanish border, Fred was certain, and he kept a close eye. This payed off when a wooden structure appeared up ahead. The road was massed with soldiers. He reached around and woke Richeaul roughly.
“We’re at the border.” The Frenchman’s sleepiness disappeared and he drew a Mars pistol. Fred hated it; it was heavy, bad recoil and bad cartridges.
“Monsieur we have to skip them. They might be Spaniard’s and if so the Germans will swarm upon us like bugs. Drive around them, they will have guard’s but we kill them.” He said in a determined voice. Fred spun the wheel heavily to the left and they barged into the countryside. He watched the soldiers then swore as they hit a lage rock. His head whipped back and the Frenchman fell into the guns, and one fired. Fred looked back; saw a stunned Richeaul then the car ripped forward. They went faster then anyone had and neither words nor bullets reached them. Both, as Fred imagined it, danced behind them easily. The Frenchman stood up and swore at the soldiers before tipping dangerously over the edge as Fred swerved onto the road. Already he could see a city ahead.
“And now… we are in Spain monsieur.” Stated Richeaul.
“What is that city?” asked Fred meaning the city looming on the horizon.
“That is where we sleep tonight. That is Badajoz. Spanish still but not for long.” Said Richeaul carelessly.
“Why not?”
“The Germans, once they have swept away the British in Salamanca, will rip through here easily no matter what Spanish garrison stands. This is non Madrid! Lisboa will be German before the year ends.” He stated easily, obviously care free. Fred felt angry towards his remarks. How dare he insult Britain’s army’s so!?
“We’re the finest bloody fighting force Europe has seen!” Argued Fred. Richeaul looked at him.
“So, monsieur, why have you not won every battle you were in? You Brits are good, yes.” He admitted painfully, “We French, okay, though the Foreign Legion remains more better then any foreign army, but the Germans.” He made a motion to indicate it meant they swept the field of competition.
“You’ve never seen a German Regiment before, have you Monsieur?” he asked.
“Yes, I have in fact.” Said Fred in a sad voice, “Bloody chased by one.” He added gloomily.
“Where? Hm? When you were on some boat running with your tail between your legs?” insulted Richeaul.
“No! At Mons! Attacked and bloody massacred for that. Government didn’t give a care in the world. I was chased miles for that ran Belgium for my King and country!” he said somewhat proudly.
“Blind as a bat. You not realise? Your King does not care! He cares not about some stupid fool on his frontline! He cares about food and wine, he cares about where he sleeps tomorrow and what’s happening. Do be fooled by your foolish pride, monsieur!” said Richeaul. Silence. Fred did not bother replying. Why not? Richeaul did not understand the basis of pride. He did not care and only wanted Fred to join him! Fred ignored him until they reached Badajoz.

Fred was gloomily drinking a large mug of beer. Richeaul was sitting silently beside him detecting Fred’s disquiet. Fred glanced and saw him watching a group of Spanish soldiers closely. They had taken refuge in the cheapest place in town, and it clearly was with the worst beds Fred had seen for some time. He was not happy/
“What do you know about a German regiment, Frederickson?” asked Richeaul suddenly. Fred sipped his beer before replying.
“They’re bloody fast.” He said sharply. Richeaul laughed.
“Fast, eh? That is true, monsieur. Did you know they can march so that their boots hit the ground at the same time?” asked Richeaul. Fred didn’t know this, but knew such talent was rare. Some regiments in the British Army got it.
“Yeah, I knew that.” Fed said it so it smothered any chance of conversation and it worked. Someone entered the bar and Fred saw it was two people from the streets. Their clothes were bad and they looked very shifty. Richeaul was all eyes, watching them closely. Fred picked up a paper and scanned the frontline, saw it was Spanish threw it back down. He stood,
“I’m going to ask for a English paper.” And walked up to the bar.
“Two beers of some southern Spanish brew.” Asked the two next to Fred, and two mugs slammed in front of them. The manager grinned at Fred,
“Yes?”
“Do you have an English version of the papers?” he asked politely. The manager nodded heavily and brought it forth. Fred slapped some coins on the bar and walked back to Richeaul. He read them over,
Salamanca in closed waters!
The German Army fell upon Salamanca today, bringing forth their revolutionary tactics to smash the British Army. Though victory eluded them only today, victory is promising itself

Fred threw it down as well. He should’ve known the Germans would have the papers under a strong hand. The authors were well paid. Richeaul tapped him on the arm and spoke into his ear quietly.
“Did those two men order in English?” he asked.
“Yes.” Fed replied, mystified. Richeaul face was like he’d sealed a contract.
“We’re leaving. Now.” He added as Fred started to complain about finishing the beer. They stood and donned long coats to cover their army things. As they stood one of the men leaned over and looked immediately sick. For the first time this night, Fred’s mind was thrown into suspicion. He grabbed the Webley in his pocket and held it there, as he and Richeaul left in the great overcoats. They hurried down the street and hid in an alley. Richeaul pushed him back and watched. He swore,
“Damned fools are coming this way, monsieur, we can not lose them!” He said quickly, grabbing Fred and taking him deeper into the alley and turning quickly.
“Who are they?” whispered Fred, but was shushed by Richeaul. Richeaul drew his Mars handgun and kneeled, aiming it.
“Cover my back, monsieur.” He ordered. Fred turned around and kneeled as well, watching the street behind them. He wondered what was happening on the other street, but snapped to attention when he saw the two shifty men appear in his street.
“Richeaul! They’re here!” Richeaul rushed with the Mars and kneeled beside Fred.
“When you shoot, monsieur, do not miss.” He commanded confidently. Fred was offended he even thought Fred would miss. The two men dawdled down the street trying, too much, to appear with no care in the world.
“Now!” Fred squeezed the trigger and it snapped back once, then twice. One man shuddered and then arched backwards as the other rolled away with a drawn Colt, which Fred found strange due that it was an American gun. Richeaul was swearing, the Mars had failed to fire.
“What the hell is wrong with this damned thing?” he asked to nobody in particular. Fred told him rudely what it was and received a cold stare.
“Thank you for your opi-!” He ducked and swore as a bit of the wall chipped off with a bullet. Fred jumped into the street, fired six times and flew back into the alley. He spared a glance and saw the man lying on the street, bleeding. Richeaul stood and went over and Fred followed. The man was on his stomach.
“Bloody MI6! Following us. Must’ve known from the border guards!” Richeaul swore at the man and they walked off stashing away their guns. Fred stopped, picked up the Colt and pocketed it. It was a fine gun.

They left the next day. After a change of hotels they slept an uneasy night, packed early in the morning and left with no trouble. Fred adored his new Colt gun and shined it the next day, asking Richeaul what type of gun it was.
“A Colt New Service, made in America in ’07. A damn fine gun and not unusual in the British Army. Though automatic might be better.”
“Why the automatic?”
“Why? Are you serious monsieur!?” he asked in a stun.
“Yes.”
“Because you slip in a cartridge, fire, reload. Easy, oui? With a revolver you get the cylinder out, insert the bullets and fire. Strong, but slow.” He shook his head, “You can’t afford to be slow in the Army, Frederickson.” Lectured Richeaul. Fred snorted.
“What are you, Confucius.” He teased, Richeaul laughed as well and silence followed.
“So we’re we heading now?” asked Fred.
“A place called Mericda, a small town which is the crossroads to Badajoz, Salamanca and Sevilla. Very important, the Spanish, British and Germans will all have a close eye on it.” Richeaul told importantly.
“So we’re moving in and moving out fast?” Richeaul nodded, “And then where? Not Salamanca, Germans have sieged it.”
“Really, eh? There’s a road which goes north east from it. Steep hills around the area, the Extremadura region, so we will have to ditch the car. Madrid is a bit on from there.” He informed.
“Madrid?” asked Fred.
“Yes.”
“That’s German isn’t it?”
“It is monsieur. We can evade the Germans easily, take two nights sleep then we observe our situation.” It seemed sound to Fred so he made no more arguments about it. Though if Madrid was British he would never get through alive. Thankfully, or rather unfortunly, depending on what way you look at it, the place was German. So they drove the 15 miles from Badajoz to Mericda.

The car puttered through the barren place. Fred knew the war had hit this place very hard in the stomach, and it was on its knees begging for life. Less then a thousand people lived here compared to the rich 10 000 from beforehand. The Secret Services had ripped this place dry. Fred felt eyes watching them and felt uncomfortable and was grateful Richeaul was driving.
“This place has seen some hard times. It was alive when I was last here.” Stated Richeaul sadly.
“When were you last here?” said Fred as he lay back down amongst the guns in the back so the watching eyes wouldn’t watch him.
“Hm? Oh… probably 1902, when the Legion was heading from Lisboa.” Fred wondered what they were doing in Lisbon, let alone Portugal but Richeaul wasn’t going to say anything more. Fred was thankful when Richeaul put on the burst of extra speed which got them out of the town. He sat up and saw the tall mountains trying to touch the horizon, but couldn’t.
“Is that where we are heading?” asked Fred lamely.
“It is monsieur.”

It was another 15 miles to the mountains.
“We’re being followed” yelled Richeaul down at Fred. Fred glanced back and saw the car at the bottom of the mountain slowly ascending.
“How do we get rid of them?” asked Fred
“Easy, monsieur. We drop the car on them.” Said Richeaul in utter joy. This made absolutely no sense and Fred stayed silent to this madness.
“Get out.” Ordered Fred, who did. Richeaul got eight guns, put two over his arms, two over Fred’s arms, one on his and Fred’s back and they both held one. He pocketed one Webley, several grenades and several to Fred gout out and they both stood in front of it. He kicked the front once and it shattered the plate, kicked three more times and it squealed, or so it seemed, and rolled backwards picking up speed. It was finally basically flying down the road. Fred saw two men launch themselves from the car, but fell of the edge to their deaths, and the car flew sky high in a ball of flame. Richeaul laughed.
“And now, we can move peacefully.”
And so they did. They went fast and only seemed to climb, climb, climb. Fred only saw the back of Richeaul’s shoes until they finally reached the top. The sun was boiling them like they were a recipe in an oven but a breeze rustled Fred’s hair.
“That, monsieur, is beautiful.” Said Richeaul. Spain stretched before like it was a map before a studious general. Thing’s moved through the countryside. To their west was Portugal, free of any German invaders and head held high. To their east was German held Spain. This land seem tormented to Fred. To their south was a free, peaceful Spain and a sea washing its shore like a patient baby sitter, and to the north was war torn Spain. Where Salamanca was Fred could see bright flashes of light and thick smoke wafting high into the air.
“War. God I hate it but he feeds it to me like an addiction. Lets go monsieur.” Said Richeaul bitterly and they climbed down the steep hill. They hired a car in the next village, it was not a bargain certainly, but Richeaul was full of money. The village was called Trujillo, and their destination was Talavera de la Reina, a name Fred took several nights to learn. They certainly took several nights and days to reach the place with 60 miles to travel. They reached there, slept a night then drove on. Richeaul explained to their west was Toledo, old capital of the Spanish Empire.
“An amazing Empire Frederickson. Not even Napoleon’s French Empire matched it. Millions of dollars, much money then, flocked to them like beggars to a rich man! Argued with Spain and you got a mailed punch to the face. The Romans couldn’t beat them, the Moors couldn’t beat them, not even us French!” he said in amazement like Fred could not believe such a thing.
“But we British beat them?” tormented Fred. Richeaul paused,
“A moment of unseen skill.”
“Yet we toppled an Empire surpassed not even by Napoleon. What would Victoria have to say to that? Or the other great ruler’s of the British Empire?” mocked Fred. Richeaul was silent before gaining a foothold.
“An Empire built upon the breaking backs of Frenchman. You should be ashamed of yourself Frederickson!” scorned Richeaul and they both laughed loudly. They were nearing Madrid, their stop to observe the situation and joyous about this. But Fred knew one slip and they fell to the hateful hands of the Germans.

That slip was guaranteed not to happen when Fred was with Richeaul. The man was a perfectionist. Though not a dictator, his way or no way, he still had to have everything right. This annoyed Fred who, there was no other word for it, lazy. They drove through the magnificent gates of Madrid easily but hard stares of German troops followed them. Fred was excited at this danger; it was like crawling under the skin of the enemy. They drove through the streets and people cowered before the high wheels of their modern car. German soldiers brushed past the car and nodded politely to them, and Fred was convinced they would’ve entered conversation if they didn’t think Fred and Richeaul were two Spanish noblemen. They were respected by Germans due to the rank they received with a car, though they weren’t the only ones with a car, and hated by the people who thought them cold blooded traitors by betraying Spain to Germany. Fred hated it the first time he wiped away the spit from a Spanish woman, or when he looked for the source of a flying comment. Richeaul looked stressed as well but knew what he was doing. They drove silently down the streets before going up a steep hill and parking in front of a hotel with the words of
HillOpinión Hotel
They brought up the suit cases stuffed with guns and Richeaul started speaking in Spanish to the grumpy owner. The foyer was carpeted in red and hanging lights and was well looked after, though everything was dusty as Fred found out after leaning against the bench. Richeaul and the manager were arguing loudly before Richeaul yelled loudly:
“Multa!” slamming down some coins and notes. The lady spoke quickly, and dismissed them with a turn of the back.
“The top floor, monsieur. I attempted my best to appear cheap… did I pull it off?” he asked hopefully.
“You did, I was quite convinced.” Said Fred in a confident manner. As he puffed and emerged to the final floor. They walked the hallway and Richeaul fumbled with the keys as Fred stared. A large window stood at the end of the hall with a magnificent view of the city. They door opened and he walked in impressed. Two fine beds (Better then what was in Badajoz) a decent bathroom, several tables and a good view with a wooden table.
“Choose a bed, monsieur. We sleep here for three nights and plan where to go next.” Said Richeaul as he flipped pictures, chairs, tables and other small items.
“What are you doing?” asked Fred after dumping his guns on the bed. Richeaul looked back,
“What does it look like? One click of a bomb and the Brits need not worry about us!” he said.
“In Madrid?” asked Fred skeptically. He was doubtful the MI6 could reach this far into German held lands.
“The Spanish border, monsieur, is weak due to the fact Salamanca holds, or so we know of, so agents get in all the time. They’ll be following us all the time here if we don’t keep our heads low.” He said matter-of-factly. Richeaul was satisfied and brought forth one of the bags. He pulled up maps and markers and covered the table with them.
“Come here, Frederickson. Let us plan where we go next.”

Andrew grabbed a nearby building as the ground shook unstably. It was an instinct due to the closeness of the hit. A German shell had hit nearby, and it worried him insanely. He edged into another street, his destination forgotten, and saw the large crater. A Spanish woman was kneeling at the edge bawling like a baby.
“M-m-my husband! He is gone! Where did he go!?” She screamed hysterically, leaning forth and scrabbling the dirt. She was in shock, no harm coming to her from the blast, but it had obviously claimed her husband. A kind British soldier draped a cloak around her, and arms around her shoulder, walked her away as she cried into his shoulder. Andrew closed his eyes as if the sunlight blinded him, then took a gulp of air and walked away. It took several moments for him to remember what he was doing.
“Ah; I remember.” He said aloud. He was heading for where the 51st Regiment was housed. Major Stevens was rumored to be RSM there and Andrew had to find where Fred was. As he set off he felt better then before the battle. He had now successfully led his Company in battle. Given that ceaseless drill to fire fifteen and fired the fifteen himself. Deep in his mind he knew it wasn’t a real battle. He knew they simply stood in there trenches and mowed them down like wheat on a farm. What would happen when they broke through with those feared Stormtrooper’s? Yes, the rumor itself made Andrew shiver. The dreaded Stormtrooper regiment of the German Army, the ones who were rumored to outmatch the Coldstream Guards and the best of the Footguard’s even, was here with siege weapons. Andrew didn’t know what siege weapons meant, or even what a Stormtrooper looked like, only they could kill with one shot. Andrew backed off when he found himself in front of some Spanish apartments, knocked and went in. He ignored the owner’s walked to a nearby room and found three soldier’s gambling around a smoky room. He knocked.
“Yes?” welcomed one of them.
“I am looking for a Major Stevens.” Asked Andrew.
“That is I. Excuse me gentleman, be so kind to pause while I attend to this young fellow.” Said a middle aged man who had just stood with cards in hand.
“Go off, knew we’d beat you, didn’t you?” teased the other. The major gave a booming laugh.
“Don’t cheat you scum.” He called back to laughs. The two of them walked down the street.
“So?” asked the Major, looking at Andrew. Andrew took a breath of air,
“Sir, I know you know Frederickson Hamburg.”
“Yes.”
“I need to know where he is.” Andrew told him.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?” Andrew asked.
“Why do you need to find him?” The Major asked interested.
“There are certain… difficulties with the Company. I need him back to help me sort them out. I don’t know the answer.” Said Andrew in a frustrated tone. The Major watched him before replying.
“What’s your name boy.” He asked.
“Andrew Blair, for now I’m Captain of B Company in my regiment.” He replied simply.
“You look too young for a Company, what are you, 19, 20?” guessed the Major.
“Never to young to handle things, 22.” Said Andrew defensively.
“Captain, how can I trust you?” asked the Major bluntly.
“I can tell you anything. I was born in Aberdeen, Scotland and lived there my whole life until I came south for the army in ’15…”
“I don’t care how you go too the army, why should I tell you about Frederickson if you might be, uh, spying.” He inquired.
“Well I met him in Southampton as he left for Portsmouth.” Andrew swung his mind around. What could he say to get the Major to trust him? He remembered suddenly, “When we were down at the docks Fred was hit in the back of knees by Colonel Whitby. Medium sized man with a fine white moustache and about 50.” Andrew described. The Major’s eyes scanned him like some sort of machine before he spoke.
“I trust you, Andrew. Unfortunly I am on limited time. Meet me down in the trenches in a week or so. I’ll explain everything there.” He shushed Andrew with the wave of a hand.
“Be there, get your answers. I have matters to attend to. If you’re not there then I won’t care… no information.” The Major tipped his cap and dipped his hands in his deep pockets of the great overcoat he was wearing and stormed off. Andrew stood there like stuck in the middle of the ocean before turning and walking off. Answers had finally arrived… but so had the Germans.

“Damn it man, don’t you realise!” yelled Richeaul in frustration, backing away and holding his head in annoyance.
“I realise a lot more then you think so!” roared back Fred, pointing a stabbing finger at Richeaul. Richeaul brushed it away and pointed at the map of North Spain.
“We can go to Barcelona, oui, monsieur…”
“Well, let’s go!” said Fred.
“Let me finish! If we go, we might make it. Peut-être! The Germans though have a tightened stranglehold on it more then the rest of the place.” Said Richeaul knowledgably.
“Prove it then! How did you get information so fast, and how can you trust such source?” asked Fred doubtfully. Richeaul glared at him,
“If I can’t trust myself who can I trust?” he said coldly and Fred backed off fast, “I saw it with my own two eyes. Madrid is well defended, oui, but Barcelone is very well so due to the fact it is a sea port. Busy, oui? Massive amounts of trade pour into the place, so they strangle it of any Spanish influence, or for the matter, Britannique influence.” Fred thought it made sense so stayed quiet. Richeaul detected a victory so continued more leisurely.
“So, we find a less obvious path.” He said scanning the map. Fred looked as well from the other side of the table and saw a fine route.
“Valencia, perhaps?”
“Expand on the idea, monsieur.”
“Take a ferry to Sardinia or Corsica, then skip straight to Italy.” They were heading to Italy, which was definite; due to the fact it alone remained neutral.
“We have to go by Toulon.” Highlighted Richeaul.
“Why?” asked Fred suspiciously.
“We are meeting some other Legionnaires there, and they have agreed to escort us. Remercie le Seigneur, best troops in the world, monsieur.” Said Richeaul like it was an oath.
“Fine then, cross of Valencia.” Said Fred gloomily, annoyed at his lack of say. Richeaul knew it but ignored his annoyances.
“The second obvious route is through Zaragoza.” Fred stared at where Zaragoza was. It was in between the two major cities of Pamplona and Barcelona, but it itself was probably the most important.
“It’s massive! That place is bigger then Barcelona!” said Fred in a high voice. He stabbed his finger at Pamplona.
“There! Go up through there then north east to Toulouse, east from there to Nimes and then Marseille and to Toulon!” he waited for the rejection and sat down.
“That’s a good idea, monsieur.” Complimented Richeaul. Fred waited for the ‘But…’ but nothing came.
“Yes, I think we will.” Said Richeaul after some consideration. Fred stared at him then grinned.
“Excellent.” His spirits lifting.
“It will avoid the Pyrenees. There will be medium German patrols near Donostia-San Sebastian of course, but nothing hard for us. I have several sources of information in some Spanish and others. Let me run it by them tomorrow.” He said staring out the darkening sky through the window. Fred collapsed on the bed entirely tired, and fell asleep after several minutes.

Fred was wide awake; Richeaul was already at the door preparing to find his Spanish source of information. He seemed confident and cheery, as did Fred (Maybe not confident)
“Take your Webley wherever you go. You’re probably going to be trailed today or tomorrow.” Lectured Richeaul. Fred didn’t like the thought of having to deal with them alone.
“When can we lose them?” Fred gloomily asked.
“We’ll lose them in the mountains easily. Now, falsely lead them then kill. I repeat, kill then move very fast, monsieur. The Spanish police will move like flies to butter, so make yourself seem innocents and run.” Richeaul wished him luck and Fred returned a nod and Richeaul left smartly. Fred pulled up his Webley and loaded it and hid it in his boot for good luck. He then pulled forth the Colt and loaded it and placed it deep in the overcoat pockets he was wearing. Fred stood in front of the large window and watched the streets. People did their everyday thing, bickered, argued, discussed, and persuaded another to buy something. He looked at the hills beyond Madrid, and made a mental note to ask Richeaul what they were called. He still needed to process the enormity of what had happened over the last week or so. He, Frederickson Hamburg, had been arrested because… he had family in Germany? It was possible, but that thought was tossed away when the stupidity of it came to life. What if someone was framing him? And someone else, or the same person, was a traitor and they lived in the heart of the British defense in Salamanca. Which might have fallen by now. Fred stared absently at a dark alley before he saw it. Two men were dealing over something, by the looks a pistol, but were being surrounded by German troops. Fred barged against the window and watched ever more focused. A German sergeant sprang from around the corner surprising the men. Fred’s eyebrows raised when he aw what happened next. One of them drew a handgun and shot the Sergeant straight in the forehead and the other pushed him behind him and shot randomly around the corner, straight into the other Germans who fell in confusion. The men burst around the corner and away. Fred sighed in relief a she saw them run wildly to a safe house. He realised how exposed he was on the streets and considered one of the Lebel rifles propped against the wall next to him. He shook his head in pity, loaded it and slung it over his shoulder before leaving and locking the door quietly behind him. He was soon emerging into a busy Madrid street.

His grey overcoat portrayed him as German, which suited him fine among this Spanish crowd. He trotted down the street gently and felt the large roll of money Richeaul had handed him kindly this morning.
“Monsieur buy something. Ammunition for that Colt or your own gun, but ditch the Webley or keep it somewhere discreet, if the Allemands catch you with one they will shoot you dead, oui?” So he could keep the Colt, a fine American handgun sure. He could shoot quite a few dead, but a wider range of weapons seem more appropriate. He wanted something easy to hold with hardly any recoil. He approached the markets and was bombarded at once. People selling fruit, animals, carts, transport, seats, beds, cars, and everything else. He found everything… but soon found no one stocked guns. He didn’t know if it was because they dared not in fear of the Germans, or if a decree was out not letting them so. He asked one old lady who shooed him away frightened. Fred frowned in frustration, he had more money then he probably would ever have and he couldn’t spend it properly. A hand grabbed his arm and steered him away from the crowd. He looked and saw the outline of a man wearing a bowler hat and a black overcoat similar to Fred’s but his face was shadowed.
“Señor, I happened to overhear you.” Stated the Spanish man.
“That’s good to know. What do you want?” asked Fred in a bored fashion.
“Easy, easy. I do not mean to anger you, senor, but I know some friends who can provide you with the weapons you ask for.” Said the man sharply in a deep Castilian voice. Fred considered, and accepted it. The man led him away.
“What are you looking for, senor? Rifles, automatics, revolvers, sub machine guns?” he asked interested.
“Automatic, preferably something mainland European.”
“Not interested in anything Japanese? American? They produce fine guns in both countries.” Stated the Castilian man.
“No, mainland Europe. What guns do Japan produce?” asked Fred as the Spanish man led him into a deeper alley.
“Arisaka is popular, that is all I know of senor. Here we are.” He welcomed Fred into a much gloomier crowd. The area was shaded and dark and definitely not welcoming.
“All selling things illegal to Madrid.” Greeted the Spanish man, essentially, he meant, it was the black market. Fred immediately observed one of the stores. He had long thin rifles. Fred skipped him to the nearest pistol owner. The man eagerly greeted him and asked him what type of gun he was looking for.
“A sturdy gun, something easy to fit into my hand and no recoil. Automatic.” Said Fred to the mans queries.
“Senor the main pistol maker nowadays is Germany. Thy produce fine guns there, one of them, are the Bergmann.” The man introduced him to a strange looking pistol which had enormous space where the trigger was but looked like it’d break at the puff of wind. It was firmly rejected by Fred.
“Okay, not your taste. Luger, Mauser?” he asked desperately. Two guns looking similar, both had long thin barrels and much trigger space but small grip. Rejected. Desperate measures then, let me show you…” he rummaged in a box and brought out a gun.
“The Steyer gun. Fine model, second in a series and perfected by famous Austrian gun maker, Mannlicher, modern, 1911.” Marketed the man. Fred loved the look of it. As the saying goes, ‘Love at first sight’, and unfortunly this was the case with a pistol. It had a fine grip, long but large barrel which definitely packed a punch with a small tip at the end. Strange, yes, Austrian, yes, but very slick. Fred slipped the man some rolls of money for it and some ammunition and dipped it into his pocket, tipped his hat and left (Also flicking some money to the man who helped him.) A fine purchase, he thought leisurely.

As Fred walked the streets some more buying several things he noticed the same man following. His senses alert he tried to think like Richeaul. If he was Richeaul he would duck into an alley and watch the man coming. Or hide in a shop. So he ducked into a book shop some time on. He knew the shelves would provide some cover and he hid behind one, flicking through Aleksis Kivi’s Seven Brothers to keep the shop owner satisfied and help him from any glaring looks. Sure enough, the door opened and a man entered. He had a coat wrapped around him hiding everything but his head. He nodded politely but didn’t speak and looked around. Fred was well hidden and watched as the man approached the shelves. He paused and entered Fred’s row. Fred though was moving when he entered the row and was out of the shop by the time the man realised he wasn’t there. He ran then stopped and watched as the man left the shop.
And looked straight at him.
And the man walked straight for him so Fred bolted away hiding. He drew the Steyer gun, loaded it and kneeled aiming it on his raised knee. He swore as the man checked the corner first then disappeared. Fred rolled sideways as a gun barrel emerged from around the corner and spat tow shots at him. People screamed and ran, covering there heads as a third shot fired. The man, gun aiming at the ground now as he advanced, ducked wildly as Fred shot four times with the Steyer. It lightly etched into his hand every time he fired and it felt comfortable in his hands. It was has if it was made for Fred. He kicked in a door nearby and eyes surveyed the scene. A family of Spanish people were screaming and cowering and one was retrieving a gun, and he soon raised it. Fred kicked dit from his hands and aimed the Steyer at the now cowering man.
“I mean you no harm!” yelled Fred, knowing they wouldn’t understand him. He ran to the door, shot three times, reloaded and kicked in a second door leading to a lounge room. He heard more screams meaning his pursuer was close behind so he kicked out the back door and ran into the street. The man followed content at simply chasing Fred. Fred glanced wildly behind and saw the mans coat fall away into the mud. Fred’s eyes widened with recognition as he saw the bandage wrapped around the mans waist. Sprinted into an alley, into a second then a third before stopping with a raised gun. His pursuer stopped short.
“I have you cornered.” Fred observed. The man nodded weakly then yelled in fright as Fred shot the pistol from his hand.
“So… why did you choose to follow?” Fred asked, “Why not just stay where you were, protected in the hands of friends?” His only answer was a shrug.
So Fred raised the pistol.

Andrew threw away the overcoat he was wearing and straightened his khaki uniform before snapping into the street. The ground constantly shook, though very slightly, and yelling and screaming was coming from the east. They had learned to ignore the sounds of war by now, listening would dishearten them. Andrew hated it, he couldn’t block out the noises. He shivered as he heard a dying man scream, and always hunched slightly when that deep boom of a siege gun came from outside Salamanca. This time, he had reason. There was a sound like ripping paper far above them and everyone in the street ducked and stared into the sky, wondering if that cone tipped shell was going to smash into the ground nearby and snatch, or ruin, their life. The whole street full of people fell back as it landed further up the road, making dust and dirt fall from the building over Andrew. Cobble and mud flew high into the air, tearing holes and muddying nearby buildings. Someone started screaming. Andrew hurried his pace and walked towards the crater up ahead, dreading what was about to happen. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as people walked the opposite way, trying not too look. He walked towards it as a woman kneeled beside the crater. She was covered in mud and smoke and was bawling to the heavens. She held a singe hand in her hand, and it dripped blood as he shook it to the sky. Andrew froze at the scene, stunned by the ferocity of it. A soldier rushed past and touched the lady on the shoulder, before dragging her to her feet. He put a comforting arm around her and led her away, and Andrew watched as he patted her on the back and she cried into his arms. Two medics were at the crater and Andrew walked closer. They were looking into it, and Andrew saw only rubble.
“Poor bugger.”
“Wrong place, wrong time” The medics observed sadly, pulling a sign forth to stop traffic from falling into the hole. Andrew went around it and shook his head like a dog. He stopped; the building in front of him was his destination. Andrew knocked several times and heard something bang from inside.
“If you’re…. a bloody… Hun, I’ll shoot you like a chicken!” wavered the voice, and a drunken officer ripped open the door with a pistol in his hand. He was hunched sideways and waved it towards Fred.
“Are ya a Hun?” he demanded.
“No.”
“Good enough, what’da ya want?” he said cross-eyed.
“I’m looking for a Major Stevenson.” The drunk laughed a rolling laugh.
“The bloody Major, eh? Right here mister! Stevenson! Some old…” The drunk looked carefully, “young chap wants ya, ya gambler!” he said, before clutching his belly and laughing. The major, looking somber and alarmed, passed the drunk and pushed him back before shutting the door. He followed Andrew to the middle of the street. Andrew saw his eyes widen as he saw the large crater.
“We felt that before.” He said, pointing at the crater.
“Yes, I saw, heard and felt the bloody thing.” The major looked at Andrew.
“Scottish, eh?” he queried.
“Yes, sir, Captain Blair. From Aberdeen.” He responded to the unasked question. The Major offered a handshake and Andrew took it.
“Major Stevenson. So… please excuse the behaviour of the Captain beforehand.”
“You have a drunk as a Captain?” asked Andrew incredously. The major smiled,
“Yes… at heart, Mister Blair, we’re all drunks at some point. That Captain though, going to lose his damned Company if he doesn’t shut up and stop drinking.” Said the Major, he glanced at Andrew, “So what did you want?”
“Well, I am sure you’ve met Captain Hamburg, before.”
“Frederickson Hamburg?” he asked. Andrew’s mood picked up.
“Yes, that’s the man. Well, I am looking for him.”
“Why, Mister Blair?”
“Andrews enough, sir. Well… there are, uh, some problems with the Company.” Fumbled Andrew.
“Technical problems? Problems with the Colonel? Surely the Colonel would know, he was there!”
“He was!? Didn’t say a dammed bloody thing to me, just referred me to you.” Said Andrew angrily.
“Whitby’s an arrogant fool, Andrew. I’ve met him before, he believes too much in the past, and sees people’s first impression as their overall impression.” Drew away Stevenson.
“So why do you want, Mister Hamburg?”
“Well… problems, sir, with…” Andrew didn’t want to voice his concern.
“Problems leading it?” asked Stevenson quietly. Andrew nodded. They stopped.
“Andrew… what is to doubt about it?”
“I didn’t want to be responsible for another man’s life.”
“I am sure you’ll be a good leader.”
“I’m not! I know, I repeat, know, that I will lead them to their deaths.”
“How? No, you’re right, not every mans a leader. But hell, we don’t know ‘till they’ve stuffed up!”
“I don’t want to stuff up, major!”
“Well you’re gonna have to. You stuff up, Army boots you to a lower position, or higher or equal like aide. Doesn’t matter, one mistake is easily learnt from. You go well, they keep you, and you rise in position!”
“I wo’t be good.” The Major placed a comforting hand on Andrew’s shoulder and spoke in a low voice, “In battle it will come to you. You will know in battle, if you’re a leader or not. You will be able to tell, Andrew.”
“How?”
“You will, trust me.” He finished, tipping his hat and walking away.
“Good bye, Captain, good luck in your search.” He walked away and Andrew looked forward as a shell rattled overhead.

“Shooting me’s going to get you no where, son.” Spoke the endangered man.
“Prove it!” replied Fred.
“You’re a lost cause obviously. You’re’ dead, once they get you.”
“Army is useless as, proof of that in the fact of your false accusations.” The man laughed at thus.
“False? Do not josh with me, Fred!”
“I am not joking! Who are you?” demanded Fred in a roar which scattered the birds above them.
“I’m the man who is going to kill you.” A pebble cracked behind Fred and Fred drew the Colt in his pocket shooting behind him before realizing the imprisoned man had ran into the building next to them. The door flapped invitingly. He stepped to it before pausing. Should he chase after the man, who would run straight into the main street and into the crowd? Or perhaps be waiting for him behind that door… Guns cracked from the other side of the building and this made Fred’s mind. He sprinted down the alley just as a group of German soldiers appeared behind him. The German officer in his iron grey uniform pointed and roared at Fred as the group lined up in two rows.
“Feuer!” He roared and the two rows fired in unison. Fred barged into a building next to him as they skipped past before turning. No one was there so he kicked down several doors before finding the front door which he crashed through into an innocent street. Ignoring the screams of alarm he ran down it as the Germans once again followed. He ran through several alleys before stopping. He was facing a dead end but he had two pistols in his hand. He felt like a statue. The bowler hat covered his forehead as the wind picked up the the tailcoats of his overcoat. His arms were straight as they held and aimed the Colt and Steyer. Boots were thumping nearby and he swallowed heavily. Is death was in those hands, coming closer every second. Just as a nozzle of a Mauser split into the deadened a gun fired from the second floor of a nearby building. It was followed by seven more shots from other buildings. There were panicked cries and a grey covered body fell forward. Fred ran, covering his head and felt the wind part as bullets whished past. He finally made it too the alley opposite and then into the main street which was empty. He ran forward along it, glancing nervously behind his back as the firefight continued, though slowing down. It stopped as he reached the next street and cried out in alarm as someone grabbed him. He noticed the calm face of Richeaul.
“What happened?” he demanded, pulling Fred behind him and looking down the street.
“Someone was following me…”
“Who?”
“I…I, don’t know.” Fred replied.
“And then?”
“I ran, ended up nearly shooting him.”
“And you had a moment of kindness, monsieur? Or too weak?” said Richeaul expectantly.
“No.” said Fred after a pause, just as Richeaul swore in French.
“Tell me later, the Germans…” his voice trailed away, “Damn it.” Fred tried to look but was brushed back by Richeaul.
“What?”
“Run like hell wants you.” Ordered Richeaul, and he turned and sprinted the fastest Fred had ever seen him run (Not very often.) Fred heard thumping boots and sprinted after him. He heard the…
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Fred didn’t know whether it was his boots, heart or Germans. Richeaul looked back to see if Fred was coming, and Fred looked back to see if the Germans were coming. No one. He was scared, they were nearby, and he knew it. He expected a volley of bullets to sweep Richeaul into the next street; he expected to be gunned down by a passing German scout automobile. Silence was what answered his dangerous thoughts. Fred puffed as he ran up a hill and felt relief when he saw Richeaul enter the hotel. He entered after him then fell to his knees.

Andrew felt better. His was much more confident the coming battle would swing in his favour, almost looking forward to it. He, as always, shuddered as a shell blew up somewhere in the city. He yelled and stepped back as a massive split ripped through the cottage next to him. It shuddered then the concrete slipped from its foundations and tumbled into the street. Andrew jumped out of the way and a large rock skipped over his head.
“Bloody hell!” He yelled as a hand drew him up. A soldier stood there,
“Need a medic?” the man asked kindly.
“No, thanks. Bloody thing just split like a bloody log.” Commented Andrew after brushing away the dust which had thrown itself high into the air.
“Yeah… heaps of buildings doing that lately. Spanish man got crushed the other day after being punched into the wall.” Andrew snorted,
“Don’t let anymore buildings attack you.” Said the man, grinning and walking away. Andrew laughed and went into the next street. People passed him, doing their daily business as if the place wasn’t being sieged. The ground shaking reminded them though they weren’t alone in this lovely old city. Andrew sighed. He hated living here. Day after day there nerves were tested as shell after shell flew for them. What if the Lord had drawn his name? Was it his time to die? Would he die in this very street, or perhaps have his leg blown off in the next and bleed to death, all alone… It was then Andrew realised what was happening. For the first time in weeks…
There was silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I may have made mistakes with several references. Things such as names for the places (I didn't know if it was Mercila or Mercida) and words foreign to me like feuer.

The story is quite large now; large enough to be considered a short novel. The books about halfway finished now; and the next two Chapters are (Hopefully) to be the best of the whole book.

It is quite big so I divided it into Two parts for easier reading. The story switches between Fred and Andrew for about one more Chapter, then all Fred for several more. Any opnion's on the characters so far? I'd like to hear about Fred, Andrew, Richeaul and Major Stevenson.

There's also a problem with the numbering of Chapters. Techincally VI is actually V, because the first part with Mons is part of CHapter I. Its quite confusing posting the stuff here.

[Baby Boomer]

Does anyone wish for me to continue this story?

[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...