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Deutchland, Wach!

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  • SKILORD
    replied
    I'll try (Halo2 is screwing me up)`

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  • ChrisiusMaximus
    replied
    for the last two parts well done mate

    Superb story this hope to see more soon

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  • SKILORD
    replied
    No Probbem

    Election tomorrow, gotta go do my part to bring down the establishment parties

    Go Libertarianism!

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  • Paddy
    replied
    thank you

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  • SKILORD
    replied
    Chapter 23: Fallen Angels

    ((NB: Whow, I'm glad I waited until now, this is way better than what was there the other night. Coincidentally, any of you guys know the Trans-Siberian Orchestra? I cannot imagine being able to listen to TSO and not being inspired to write. I had to stop it where I did because I really should be asleep, so its short, but I really like it.))


    There are moments that hold such hope that one cannot help but smile. Days that seem so ripe with the promise of a future rewritten and of destiny changed, hours that the feeling of humanity’s strength pounds proudly against the breast. There is sunshine that we fiercely pray never dips below the horizon, and yet even when it does we are confident in these moments that we will forever stand and triumph.

    These are the days in which there are no insurmountable odds, in which every tyrant will fall forever and that the logs of history will frame the sunshine of these moments for future generations to cherish. Smiling there in the Oxford sunshine Johan von Bismarck knew these things and felt each emotion coursing frantically and hopefully through his veins.

    “Bismarck, I presume?” the man smiled rakishly, his beret tipped at an odd angle.

    The smile couldn’t fade, “Indeed, you would be?”

    “David Jones, British Independent Militia.”

    Johan’s grin grew, “I thought it was an army?”

    David laughed, “The press misnamed us, Armies don’t fight for freedom.”

    Johan offered his hand to the other man, and a firm and confident shake received it.

    “Thanks for the help out there.”

    David laughed again; he had a melodious and cheery laugh that only added to the grandeur of each passing moment as they passed bountifully through the fingers of the assembled, “It was a pleasure.”

    They stood together for a moment, smiling to everyone and observing each passing smile as the people of Oxford worked with the Germans on the wall, one of the few damaged parts of the city.

    It was easy for them to forget the pale bodies stained with their own blood that had been shoveled out of the city to lie fermenting in their own filth as the flies gathered for an orgy of feasting and breeding. It is easy in these moments of triumph to turn ones back on these fallen foes to whom the battle was ever so less victorious, the blood that stained so many hands could be so easily ignored and so quickly wiped out of view.

    Johan and David smiled at each passing soul, working and struggling to rebuild.

    “What’s after this?” David turned to Johan.

    Johan frowned, casting his mind deep into the future where his plans lay in their holy beauty, undefiled by the realities that would so quickly encompass them, “We’re moving out to the countryside, our tanks can’t help much in the city, we’ll leave you some supplies but it’s a big city, you can get your own, and the walls will keep you safe.”

    David frowned ferociously, “So you just plan to abandon us here?”

    Johan was taken aback, “If you can’t keep this city, if so many soldiers pledge their allegiance to Rhodes and so few to your armies then who is to say you deserve it?”

    “You’ll turn your back on Oxford?”

    “I have no vows to fulfill to Oxford, I serve freedom.”

    David snarled cruelly, his face contorting itself violently, “Oxford is free.”

    “Yes, but there are others to be freed.”

    “I thought you came here to serve the British people.”

    “I came here to light a fire, not to burn.”

    “If the Germans leave this city then who will defend it?”

    “You and your militia, we aren’t so much better at the arts of war than you.”

    “And if they retake it?”

    “Then you have let them.”

    David’s face was forced into a growl, his glaring eyes searing into Johan’s flesh, “So be it, German,” David Jones cast the spit cruelly out of his mouth, “You are of no use to me.”

    Johan von Bismarck stared amazed at the spit which sat, expectantly on his sleeve, staring aggressively upwards to him, he turned his back on the revolutionary and returned to his army. The sunshine was shattered, the moments had fallen apart and a frown stole his lips.

    -

    The tanks were rolling out of the city and the children cheered triumphantly, waving their arms excitedly as the tanks crawled from the city, the women often smiled hidden smiles to the tankers, the men cast their eyes to the ground and remained silent, David had spoken to them, Bismarck assumed. It was a mixed departure.

    “Oi! Krauts!” a man was running to Bismarck’s tank, where he sat in the cupola, he turned around quickly.

    The man hopped onto Johan’s tank, David Jones glared from a doorway far behind, “I need to get outta ‘ere, these blokes aren’t much better than old eddie.”

    Johan had to smile, the man stayed perched on the tank.

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  • SKILORD
    replied
    nothing came...

    I'll keep trying.

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  • Micha
    replied
    You won´t let the Brits win, will you?

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  • SKILORD
    replied
    Let's see what comes now, eh?

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  • Golden Bear
    replied
    Thanks!

    Carlos

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  • SKILORD
    replied
    Chapter 22: The Victors of this Age

    ((The battle scene is not good enough for me, I might redo it))

    The stories were told that the countryside hid an army, men at arms who came not to conquer, but to free, to break shackles, not to enslave, the stories burned through the ears of the long parched Englishmen. The hope was enough to feed a million souls who lived without freedom; the hope was enough to nearly break the shackles itself.

    The stories were told the most in Oxford, in the few pubs that stayed alive as the Lord Protector stamped the others out, as being havens of rebellion. The eyes would dart to the door with every creak, hoping against hope as the rebellious stories were traded within the darkened enclave.

    The hope flitted like a bird, sharing its luminescent glory with all as it soared to ever greater height. The children would smile to see it in the eyes of their parents, the eyes could only be lifted from their desolate investigation of the dirt when it was in flight, when the whispers came.

    And as the walls to Oxford were closed the stories were told even more, they gained speed and intensity, pouring from every lip, the Germans were coming.

    It was not a comment of ethnical significance, the Germans were coming, there are dreams without respect of the artificial borders that we impose upon ourselves, and such a dream is freedom.

    Guns slipped from every secret crevice into dirty, calloused hands with cracked fingernails, hope flew high in Oxford as the Germans approached.

    -

    The binoculars dropped from Johan’s eyes, “There are sentries, the British know we’re here.”

    Rommel nodded, “Had to happen sooner or later.”

    “It’s a walled city.”

    “We’ve never doubted.”

    They stood on a hill, staring silently into Oxford, the grass had gone brown in the harsh rays of the sun.

    “It won’t be an easy battle.”

    “Was Berlin?”

    Bismarck looked back to the city, “will we have to occupy it?”

    “No, I promise you that this will spark a fire and bring Britain aflame.”

    “A bold promise.”

    “After we win here we will only have to go to the countryside and shoot at the British if they try to retake it from the Independent Army.”

    “We plan to win?”

    Timothy glanced at Johan, “I was once a major in the British Army, my father was a lieutenant as was his father before him. No man who has bourn the name Rommel has ever lead troops into battle to be beaten back. I have yet to loose a battle, I do not intend to make my grave here and I do not intend to shame my family’s name.”

    “We plan to win.”

    “Indeed.”

    -

    Chris limped up to the bar and lifted his hand, summoning a drink from the bartender.

    The bartender smiled to him as he passed the drink across the bar, Chris was one of two who sat at the bar, the other man lay, nearly sprawled across the bar, on the other side, Chris lifted his glass in salute to the other man before downing it.

    The bartender smiled more genuinely, chuckling softly as he poured Chris another.

    “What happened to your leg?”

    Chris glared up, “I’d rather not talk about it.”

    “Are you sure?”

    “Positive,” Chris tilted his head back and swallowed the drink.

    The bartender smiled, “You realize that a few more of those will have the story out?”

    “I don’t give a damn,” he slid his glass back to the bartender.

    “If you don’t give a damn then why not answer my question?”

    Chris was quiet, sipping slowly now on the new drink, “I suppose I could tell you.”

    “Magnificent.”

    “You remember the riots the other night?”

    “You don’t mean to tell me…”

    “I lost a friend out there, he had wanted to go and fight for freedom. What’s he got now?”

    The bartender smiled, “He isn’t here with us, checking the door every minute to see if a bobby is going to come in here and demand that we close down, he doesn’t have to obey curfew anymore. Afterlife or no, the dead are the only victors in this day and age.”

    Chris frowned, “So you say.”

    The bartender nodded, “So I do.”

    “And my wife and kids? I can’t help them much like this, can I?” he pointed fiercely to the limp leg that hung from his hip, “I’m less good dead.”

    The bartender frowned, glancing painfully at his nearly empty tip jar, only a few scattered bills lay there. The frown deepened as duty commanded.

    The bartender spilled the tip jar, pushing its contents to the wounded man, “I know that we didn’t win that battle out there where you fought, I know that it was more a series of executions than a battle. But I do know that it took more courage than I have to stand there as they wave guns to you, to shout defiance even as the bullets scream, thank you.”

    The bar was silent for a moment save for the moaning of the fellow sprawled across it.

    “I can’t take this.”

    “From what I’ve heard you can’t afford not to.”

    They stared at each other for a moment and the bartender took the money in hand and pressed it firmly into the wounded man’s hand, “Thank you. The debt I owe you for taking that bullet far exceeds any tip jar.”

    The bar was silent as the other man began to slide down into a heap.

    -

    The tank opened fire on the walls, its cannon roaring defiantly as the wall exploded, gunshot was fired against the men who stood atop the wall, and they fell as the bullets slapped against them.

    The cannons roared again and the wall shuddered as pieces were exploded away.

    “Forward!”

    The Germans poured out and ran across the field, the tanks rolling imposingly behind them, the battle crept towards Oxford.

    British troops appeared in the huge cracks in the wall, opening fire on the virtually unprotected German line, the smarter threw themselves under the bullets or behind the tanks, even as the first of the antitank rockets slammed home. Explosions and gunfire rocked the small field outside of Oxford as the Germans tried to creep ever slowly forward.

    British bullets slammed into unprotected flesh, digging deep and tearing themselves out, leaving every reminder of their presence.

    Then the gunfire slowed, and dripped to a stop. The sound of shots came still from the town, but the bullets which had pressed the Germans to the ground slowly stammered to a stop.

    The Germans stood and rushed forward as the British Independent Army began to triumph in Oxford.

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  • SKILORD
    replied
    There should be a chapter coming soon.

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  • Golden Bear
    replied
    I only just tuned into this story yesterday and I am riveted! Hopefully there is still more to come. If not, it stands as an impressive work.

    I forgive any grammar errors or misuse of words because the tale is so powerful. Writers usually take a few hundred pages to develop so much plot. The movement through this story has been incredible.

    A gold star for this one.


    Carlos

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  • SKILORD
    replied
    You'd think that the online translators would know that...

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  • Micha
    replied
    Originally posted by SKILORD
    Ahhh I try to bring back the German and I get slammed.

    I do like it very much!!! It gave me a good laugh Keep it on, please!
    I'll fix it. (what exactly does that literally mean?)
    Well, your "Gefährtedeutschen" is just wrong because you cannot mix those two words (my fellows-Germans or something like that...)
    "Meine Deutschen Mitbürger" translates to "my German (fellow) citizens", and without the "Deutschen" it´s simply "Fellow citizens"

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  • SKILORD
    replied
    Ahhh I try to bring back the German and I get slammed.



    I'll fix it. (what exactly does that literally mean?)

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