Deutchland, Wach!

[unscratchedfoot]

Originally posted by Micha

Sorry, didn´t read too thoroughly yet, just flew it over. If that is said by Germans ("von Holtz"?) they´d probably use the real name of the city, München, not Munich (as the latter is an insult to the German language )

Micha, you make misunderstanding. "Munich" might sound bad to German people but in the international community it is the name of that city, so better to accept it. If you say, "I am from Munchy." no one understand you and think you are on glue or just bought snacks from convenience store. Its the same in japanese language they make western names sound like half-dried glue paste for the sniffing. Example is conbeeny for convenience store, eeraki for Iraq, niyu yooku for new york, bankuba for vancouver etc...

So when I speak japanese i use their goopy pronounciation too, not correct western names, because it is way to be understood. No one here understand "Iraq", especially their name for 'Gulf War' which is "One Gun Sensoo".

[Metaliturtle]

Yeah, you'll have that...

[SKILORD]

Sorry Micha.

-

Honestly, turtle, I really wasn't to clear on those specific lyrics myself, I had originally intended to use something from Metal Millitia, but upon inspecting the lyrics I found them wholly unsuitable.

[Micha]

“And well so, do you know what happened in the siege of Munich?”

“No, sir,” Vonholtz admitted.

Sorry, didn´t read too thoroughly yet, just flew it over. If that is said by Germans ("von Holtz"?) they´d probably use the real name of the city, München, not Munich (as the latter is an insult to the German language )

[Metaliturtle]

Well, gotta say mad props on any use of Metallica in a story, I'll have to admit that I always kind of mumbled that part though...

[SKILORD]

Chapter 17: Fangs of Rage

I dunno about the quality here.

-

“The city of Leipzig seemed on the verge of surrender, apart from a few disastrous tank battles and ambushes performed by Timothy Rommel and his small one tank crew the British were facing an overwhelming victory, handing the Germans, who were never so united or strong as in Berlin, a crippling defeat.
“Then the news of Bismarck’s survival reached the city. The British had tried to quarantine it, fearing the psychological effects of such news but even they knew that they couldn’t keep it quiet forever, Johan von Bismarck lived. Timothy Rommel, the desperado of the Reich, turned from villain to hero in a night, and dozens flocked to join him in his private theater of war.”
- The German Uprising and its Principle Effects by Sir Edmund Barnes

Timothy Rommel stared out into the small crowd of volunteers who remained, he had spent all night poring over the scratched up lists of accomplishments and qualifications he had had the recruits write up, and dividing them into squads, each led by the more competent men, with whom he had had breakfast that morning and acquainted himself with, trading stories from the old Army. He had given each of these men the battered supplies to make Molotov Cocktails, the few guns in his possession and maps to the British Armories to pass out to their Squads.

He himself had taken both men who had claimed experience with tanks and a handful of raw volunteers to form the Reich’s first Mechanized Company, with the commandeered tank from Berlin and a half operational tank formed from the broken and salvaged pieces of British tanks that Derik and Karl had managed to mold together in ways that had rarely been conceived, save in nightmares, by the tanks original designers. The main turret was gone, and what was left was a tank base with a light armor dome where it had once been, a salvaged left track, and a pair of machine guns mounted on the dome. Much of the space that had once stored ammunition had been cleared out, and the tank had somehow, in a way that not even Derik and Karl could explain, been extended three feet and hollowed except for the motor to become an APC. It looked like hell, as many scars came from battle as came from the sloppy surgery of a pair of men who were well acquainted with tanks, but little acquainted with their construction.

Rommel finished listing the Squads, strangers bound together under men he knew little of. He looked into the frightened eyes of those who hid with him, preparing themselves solemnly and fearfully to battle an Empire.

He grinned at them, it seemed irreverent to their fear, ignoring it and putting it aside to make room for his own determination and optimism.

“I remember an American poem I read once,” he laughed, to speak of poetry while he stood before them, “It was by Hetfield, a few of you know who I’m talking about.

“I can remember it clearly, I was in the desert with the British Army, leading my Division through routine training exercises. I had been there a thousand times, and the entire thing was a cakewalk for me, I had seen it all already, I had been in that desert a thousand times on the same exercises, leading on occasion, as I was that time, and often following the lead of Generals whose eyes were as bored as my own with the desert. I took the poetry book with me to keep myself occupied in some fashion. The poem went a little like this, ‘Liberty or death, what we so proudly hail, once you provoke her, rattling of her tail, never begins it, never, but once engaged... never surrenders, showing the fangs of rage.’”

Rommel grinned even wider as a few of the men uttered the famous poem with him, “The next day I saw something in that desert that I had never seen before, something I had never permitted myself to see before. I heard the screams I had never permitted myself to hear before, the terror of a Fatherland endangered. I felt like a traitor, I had turned my back and shut my eyes for too long and that very day Karl, Derik, I and a handful of others, long since dead, left. I promised myself that I would become those fangs of rage. But I lacked faith in Germany, I never imagined that this power, this…” he stared out, awed for a moment, “revolution was still in Germany. I was the fangs of rage on my own, mistrusting the nation I had vowed to serve after that day. Even when the evidence was there, in the streets of Leipzig and Berlin, even then I lacked faith. I took a contract to end the revolution and I was promised all of these lives would be saved. I stood there to deliver on the contract when I finally was given the faith, it was given to me by a man who never lacked faith in Germany, a man who I am proud to serve. You know the man, a man who believes in you as much as you apparently believe in him, the man whose life brought you here. Let’s take this for the Kaiser, Berlin is hardly a Reich, and every Kaiser deserves a Reich. As Mr. Hetfield would say, Liberty or Death.”

The room was quiet, solemn, but the fear of a few moments ago had dissipated and in the quiet eyes of Germany there was a strength that could hardly be equaled by tanks.

-

The German banner flew freely outside of the headquarters, what had been an excavation site a lifetime ago, where Johan von Bismarck had met his destiny and where she stalked him even now. The Kaiser stood in the battle armor of his ancestors, in front of the grave of the greatest of them, the last who dared call himself Kaiser. The armor was steel, the full regalia of a knight, with the German Eagle painted in fading yellow across the breastplate. It was an anachronism, much like the nation that it represented.

The past haunts us all, promises never fulfilled, hopes never achieved, troubles never vanquished, guilt clings to us as we submit to vices throughout our troubled lives. But the past held more than guilt for Britain, a thousand mild trespasses had built a fury in the heart of her ghosts, and lent those specters substance. The heart of the past kneeled before the grave of Otto von Bismarck, the revenge of a nation fermented itself in his heart, growing ripe with age and planning.

The battered uniform of a former police officer intruded itself into the gravesite, breaking the spell of the past, bringing it into the cold and heartless present.

“Sir, we’ve found something.”

Johan stood, opening his eyes, “You could, perhaps, have chosen a better time Jacob.”

“Sir, we intended to wait for you sir, but you’ve been in here for hours.”

Johan checked his watch, shaking his head, “It’s all as well then.”

The Kaiser stepped out of the tomb, not waiting for VonHoltz to follow him.

“Sir, we’ve found something in the armory.”

“The Armory? I’ve been there, nothing but relics. I can’t lead men into battle with swords and pikes.”

“Sir, you can’t lead the unarmed either. This war isn’t about weapons, it’s about tactics and…”

“Thank you kindly, Jacob. I had forgotten how to run the war.”

VonHoltz glared at the Kaiser, “Mein herr, the catapults. We imagine that they could be quite useful.”

Johan shot his eyes over his shoulder, “We aren’t here to imagine anymore. Imagination gave way to planning, and that’s given way to action. We are well past imagining.”

“Sir,” VonHoltz gritted his teeth, “We started moving the catapults out an hour ago, there’s ammunition for them in storage as well.”

“And the tanks, how will the British Armor measure up to this?”

“We’ve found a few ignitable projectiles, they must have been experimental then.”

“And well so, do you know what happened in the siege of München?”

“No, sir,” Vonholtz admitted.

“The Germans made a drive to recoup what they had lost to the British, they besieged München and started to fire, out of desperation, those very ignitables, only to end up burning down their own artillery, their own camp and loosing an entire army to their own ammunition, leave the ignitables behind, I don’t care how well you think they would measure up to tanks.”

“Yes, sir.”

Johan shook his head, “Do you realize that we’re grave robbing?”

Jacob shook his head, “I prefer to think of them as gifts from the past.”

“Gifts? When did the past ever give them to us? We’re stealing from the dead.”

“Stealing from the dead? Do you know where your banner came from?”

“It was sown by a grateful refugee.”

“The design.”

“The seal of the German Kaiser.”

“When did he give it to you.”

“It’s my birthright,” Johan was still walking ahead of the former policeman, keeping his eyes forward and pointed away from VonHoltz.

“And the catapults? How are they different?”

Johan grinned, he turned to show it to VonHoltz, that they could both bask in that rarity that was his humor.

“Ahh, the smile of my Kaiser, I can die happy now.”

Johan’s smile didn’t fade, “Excellent, If only there were more of you.”

-

The velvet cape floated down the stairs, billowing behind its owner.

“Prince Richard, it’s a pleasure to have you here my liege.”

The prince looked down his nose at the groveling MI6 man, “Get off of it Edward.”

Edward Rhodes grinned, standing up, “All is according to plan in London, I presume?”

“Yes, Edward, of course, I never fail to achieve my goals. I leave failure, apparently, to you.”

“All will come to pass in our favor, My Prince.”

“All will come to pass in our favor,” Richard took a mocking tone, “have you heard the news from Leipzig?”

“There’s nothing happening in Leipzig.”

“There’s a German Army in Leipzig. A f***ing army. Here we have rabble, unorganized resistance. In Leipzig their divided under officers and organized, there’s something big happening there and you still aren’t sending reinforcements.”

“Sir, Berlin is getting out of hand, if I had more forces then maybe I could help Leipzig, but they’re bleeding us away out there.”

Richard glared at him, “There’s nothing to be done about that as long as mother is on the throne, she has decided not to reinforce you, she has no intention of wasting more British blood on this rabble, and I don’t blame her.”

“Sir, I warn you not to underestimate this, as you said, in Leipzig they have an army, in Berlin they aren’t as organized, but there are more of them. We’re falling apart here, and I need more forces.”

Richard stepped fully off of the private jet, “We’ll talk about that later. As I said, as long as Mother is on the throne.”

Edward laughed, walking with the prince to the headquarters.

[SKILORD]

it's a failure on the part of Microsoft Word.

I think I'll sue.

[Metaliturtle]

Duuuuuuuuude.... awesomesauce, what's reploading? ;-)

[SKILORD]

Chapter 16: The Eye of the Tiger

Unless there are continuity errors between this chapter and previous ones that I simply didn't notice then you are about to witness one of the most remarkable revivals, one of the nearest catches, everin the history of Literature. Sorry if the dialouge is imperfect.
-

Several days Earlier.

Johan von Bismarck lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, a wound wrapped on his side, “You think you got enough blood?”

The other man grinned, “Quite enough, mein Kaiser.”

“You sure this is the only way?”

“They meet rarely now, they won’t meet me to discuss the terms of the contract, only to pay when I collect.”

The blood was being splashed across the wall, splatters that even a trained detective couldn’t tell that they were spread and not shot, but that wasn’t necessary since there weren’t any police coming.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“There have been occasions, remember to drink a lot of fluids.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“I have a safehouse, you should be able to come back in about a week, you’ll know when.”

Johan grinned, “I hope.”

-

Johan von Bismarck squinted in the sunlight, he had grown a ragged beard while in the battered old cellar, a pistol hung alert at his side as he squinted into the alley, unless the radio had been wrong it was safe.

The British were cheering on all of the official channels, an entire German nationalist group had been found dead, brutally slaughtered, in Leipzig.

The Volk.

Johan ran his dirty hands through his now ratty hair. He realized how much he needed a bath.

“Hello Berlin,” Johan grinned, “Let’s see if there is life after death.”

-

The tank peered down the street, a German eagle on its side, “Derik, load up.”

Derik was a professional, he was already ready to perform the command, “Fire in the hole, sir.”

The British tank still sat there silently, not bothering to look into the broken down storefront with its miraculously surviving glass. The inside walls hadn’t been so lucky, they had needed to be removed to allow Karl to navigate the tank into, and hopefully out of, the store, Karl wasn’t there now.

“Derik, I think it might be almost time to make this rat dance.”

Derik grinned, “Fire?”

“Wait for it.”

Another tank rumbled loudly down the street, three up, Rommel figured that that would leave at least two more behind, they drove blithely down the middle of the street, Rommel shook his head, “Amateurs,” he muttered to himself.

“Fire.”

The storefront exploded, and the shell lodged itself right between the tank’s body and the cupola, “Load.”

The word was calm, as was Derik as he smoothly reloaded the gun.

“Fire at will.”

The second shell left little of the first tank, the rest of the group was beginning to notice the ambush, the first tank commander decided to take his chances without the rest of the group and immediately shot off. Rommel grabbed the top mounted gun. Letting it loose into the commander of the second tank who had yet to get down from his hatch.

Outside, an explosion rocked the storefront again, rattling the remaining shards of glass that hung futilely to the panes.

“Karl’s made his move,” Derik noted, sliding up from rotating the tank’s cupola.

Another round had already been loaded and even through the limited drivers slit he had been able to guess the position of the second tank, its commander hanging limply from the hatch.

The shell drove itself where Derik knew the shell case to be, the shattering of glass betrayed the Moltov cocktail that had just been thrown into the street, Rommel figured that that would be the end of the last tank.

“Take her out into the street,” he commanded.

“Sir, I’m not even sure we can make it.”

“Damnit, Derik, take it out there, we aren’t about to leave a survivor.”

The tank growled forwards, crushing toppled mannequins and shattering already broken shards of glass.

The tank crawled up the display window, tearing down the flimsy metal bars, before hopping out onto the street.

Rommel squatted before the cannon, shooting his head up to perceive his target, “Take us to him.”

“He’s turning down that street, sir, he could loose us pretty easily, or even lead us into an ambush.”

Rommel shook his head sliding down to the cupola and sending off the shell, loading another one.

Derik rotated the cupola.

The second shot didn’t miss, it tore out most of the other tank’s left tread, leaving the other tank motionless, Rommel pushed the cannon up a bit, finishing the job.

“Derik, go back to those other tanks, see if there’s anything we can salvage or siphon off, we’ve got a ways to go.”

“Berlin, sir?”

“Yeah, there’s a revolution to finish.”

-

Johan von Bismarck crouched behind a checkout counter as the Brits went into the supermarket. He realized that they were probably as hungry as he was, and there for the same purpose. There was no law in Berlin, only guns. Johan’s pistol was in his hand, there had been a shotgun back in the cellar, but he hadn’t thought that he’d need that to reach the rebellion’s base.

But the Brits probably hadn’t counted on him either.

A grenade was in his jacket. It had seemed compact enough to be worth his while as he had been loading up for this expedition.

He pulled the pin out and tossed it towards the produce section, where he had heard the noises of boots.

He ran down the nearest aisle, staying low and hopefully under the sights of the British guns.

The Grenade exploded as he reached the other side of the aisle, turning quickly to the right.

The Brits were predictably firing into the smoke of the explosion, Johan’s pistol took three of them without a pause, the fourth turned quickly enough to get off a couple of shots and causing Johan to dive for cover before finishing him.

The door to the back room swung seductively open, bothered by the noises and hassles in the produce section, Johan stood and dashed towards it, bullets kissed the wall behind him as he dove in.

There weren’t any soldiers in the back, but he could hear them coming. He fired bullets into a storage rack filled with aerosol cans of bug spray, filling the room with the spray.

He slipped out the back door to the sound of British soldiers coughing and sneezing.

Right into the arms of James VonHoltz, one time officer in the British police force of Berlin. His uniform was stripped of insignias now, except for a German Eagle that had been panted on a sleeve.

A machine gun hung in his arm at his side, and a group of German rebels stood behind him.

[Paddy]

indeed... sounds interesting

hope it comes together for you

[SKILORD]

Well, I'm having trouble taking this anywhere, now that I've killed off my main character, and I'm considering doiung something really sleazy with the story....

Anyway, I'm working on it.

[Metaliturtle]

;-)

[SKILORD]

yeah.

[Metaliturtle]

bumpiddy bump bump bump hey SKIMEISTER, we gonna see some more activity soonz?

[SKILORD]

?

I know, I'm still slumping, give me a break, but I'm getting good at forcing it out anyways, curing my Conrad disease. (Conrad would never write when he didn't have his 'a' game so it took him a loong time to write anything)

Sorry, anyways, for the lack of spice, I'll see what I can do.