The Cost of War

[WTE_OzWolf]

That's right. I'm back and finally have the first installment of my story to give.

Here is a world map...was gonna use the game map, but this one portrays locations, etc. better (though somewhat more sloppy presentation).



Hope you enjoy.

The Cost of War - Part I

Prelude

His breath burned in his throat and roared in his ears. His legs screamed in agony as he clambered up the slippery surface that was the hillside below the enemy stronghold. Comrades, friends and vague acquaintances fell beside him, barely registering in a brain that shouted for him to flee. With a concerted effort, he pushed those thoughts aside and simply ordered his legs to take another step. And another. And another.

With automatic precision, he shot at enemies that made themselves seen. Bullets hummed through the air past his head but failed to make contact. He could see the crest now. With a sense of triumph he was the first to stand atop the hill that he and his countrymen had spent so long fighting for. For a split second, he was enraptured by the stunning vista of mountains, forests and plains spread out before him. Then his life erupted in pain as a volley of rounds from a second line of entrenched soldiers hit him in the chest. Then there was nothing. Only blackness.

This soldier requires no name. His willingness to fight for his country already made him a hero. His sacrifice on the battlefield made him a legend. He was a warrior of the English Empire.

Four years earlier...
London Palace, London

Prime Minister Winston Churchill massaged his temples where a headache was threatening to take camp. It had been a long day of negotiations with his fellow leaders and he feared the English Empire had come out the worst.

Situated on the Europa Continent and the English Isles, the English Empire shared borders with Russia, Rome, and Germany and none of those nations were willing to negotiate peacefully with England, not after the centuries of conflict that had plagued the continent.

England's only true ally was the only other occupants of the Europa Continent, the French and the Greeks. But Churchill could not rely on them for help anymore. The Thousand Year War between France and Germany had finally been brought to a close only a decade earlier and the French were now only a shadow of their former glory. Stunning military successes in the final decades of the war had seen the Germans nearly sweep France from the continent entirely, leaving them with only a couple of small cities. Paris was under German rule and looked to remain that way for a good deal longer. And the Greeks had never been a strong nation.

The French could possibly have survived on the Southern Isles had they been only fighting the Germans. However, and Churchill always winced at this, the Iroquios attacked from the Americana Continent and steamrolled through five French cities before meeting any resistance. The French gladly signed a peace agreement when Germany and the Iroquios Nation offered one.

Churchill found himself leading a country that was increasingly surrounded by enemies with fewer friends. America, a long time trading partner, was too occupied with its own growing tension with the Aztecs to offer assistance while the Quadrant Alliance of Russia, Rome, Germany and the Iroquios Nation were all arrayed against England should it so much as step out of line by a millimeter.

The recent negotiations had been two-fold in nature. The first was to try and de-esculate the tension building between the English Empire and the Quadrant Alliance. The second was to try and trade rubber from England's vast plantations in exchange for Russian oil. Churchill should have know it wasn't going to work. Russia, though the only country of the Europa Continent that England hadn't been a war with in the past, was extremely protective of its resources and what it gave out. Churchill wouldn't be surprised if Catherine wouldn't even trade with her closest allies.

Englands lack of oil was proving alarming. The ability to produce the destroyers and battleships needed to patrol the waters of the Empire had disappeared with England's one and only supply of oil nearly five years earlier. The English Army was one of the largest standing armies in the world, but it contained pitiful amounts of armour. The Quadrant Alliance had armour to spare.

Sighing a heartfelt sigh that had built up over the day, Churchill rose from his desk and walked out onto the balcony of the London Palace. Once home to the English Monarchy, the palace had become the equivalent to the American Whitehouse when England had overthrown the monarchy in exchange for a democracy.

The view before Churchill covered the expanses of the English capital plus the coastline that was the edge of the Europa Continent. He wondered just how long he would have that view with the barking dogs of war nipping at his heels.

Normadic Wastelands, Northern England

Sergeant Bill Reddie pulled his overcoat closer around him. Most Englishmen found the harsh winters in the north energy sapping and impossible. Bill Reddie thrived in them. Having been born and raised in the nearby city of Coventry, Bill felt uncomfortable in the relatively warmer climate of central England. Here, he was in his element.

“C’mon Sarge, you going to ante up?” Corporal Jack Smith called to him from across the table. Like Bill, Jack was also from Coventry and seemed even more comfortable in the cold than Bill did. Their two other companions did not.

“For chrissake, Bill, do something before my fingers freeze to the cards.” Sergeant Thomas Edmonton cursed. Also colourful with his language, he was from York, which was south of London and virtually on the equator. His teeth chattered and he could barely move under the clothing he wore.

Corporal Dennis Vincent simply sighed his resignation, releasing a large plume of visible breath as his did so. Dennis wasn’t much for words, but it was obvious the London lad wasn’t finding it too comfortable up north.

“The least the brass coulda done was build us some bloody huts.” Thomas observed. “These tents wouldn’t keep an Eskimo warm in the tropics.”

Smiling, Bill pulled a coin out from under his coat and dropped it into the pot with a satisfying clink. He looked at his cards after they were dealt and tried to suppress a grimace. Jack-high. He just hoped his second hand would be worth something.

The sound of sporadic gunfire interrupted the card game. Cold, card values and general fatigue were instantly forgotten as all four men exited the tent and ran towards the commotion. Bill Reddie ran straight to his platoon commander.

“What’s happening sir?” He enquired of Lieutenant John Marsh.

“Russians.” Lieutenant Marsh replied. “Nothing serious. They strayed too close to our lines and wouldn’t withdraw when we ordered them to. Looks like we persuaded them though.”

“Gunfire generally does sir.” Reddie agreed, but inside felt the first stirrings of trouble. Why would the Russians push their luck over a useless piece of land. Snowbound and without vegetation, it had provided a natural border between Russia and England since the dark days before literature and written records. Ancient drawings discovered on cave walls had shown that English people had moved this far north long ago but had found the land uninhabitable.

“From the reports I’ve received,” continued the Lieutenant, “we’ve had incursions all along the wastelands tonight, plus our northern fleet intercepted a Russian fleet inside our territorial waters near the English Isles.”

“It sounds like the Russians are begging for a war.” Bill observed.

“More like the Quadrant Alliance wants us off the continent and in the history books, Sergeant.” Lieutenant Marsh stated. “But it will cost them to do it.”

Russian Military Headquarters, Moscow

General Josef Stalin looked at the map. His probes along the wastelands and the North Sea had proven effective. In one maneouvre he had blind-sided the English to the movement of his troops to Germany as well as judged the responsiveness of the English.

The English saw Russia as the biggest threat. His spies had reported that the English had massed their pitiful amount of armour along the northern borders with Russia and Rome, leaving only foot soldiers and a small airforce to protect the southern border to Germany. Sheer weight of numbers meant that Germany could not effectively break the defences of England, but with the added might of Russian armour and troops, the English would be crushed.

An officer marched up to Stalin and saluted smartly.

“Comrade General, our forces have successfully reached the shores of Germany and are currently dispersing along the front.”

“Excellent.” Stalin replied. “Soon, the fertile fields of England shall lay alongside the mineral rich lands of mother Russia.”

“Also comrade,” continued the officer, “Catherine is preparing to sign a military pact with the English. Even so, she has not detected your troop movements, let along made any move to stop them.”

“Catherine is as stupid as she is weak.” Stalin said. “It matters not. We will be in control of Russia long before she has a chance to entertain the wishes of Churchill. And soon after that, Churchill will no longer need to be entertained.”

York Military Airbase, Southern England

Flight Lieutenant Charlie Gray laughed out loud as he rolled his Spitfire over and roared earthwards. The thrill of flying never left him. And the thrill of mock combat was even better. With flick of the wrist and push of the rudder pedals, Charlie pulled out of his dive and levelled out some 2000 feet closer to the ground.

A second Spitfire with Charlie’s squadron markings levelled out alongside him. Looking over, Charlie gave his Squadron Leader, Roger O’Sullivan a thumbs up. His radio crackled.

“Nice move Blue Two.” Roger said. “I had you until that. Over.”

“Cheers Blue One.” Charlie replied. “Do we have to go back just yet? Over.”

“Nah, I reckon we can just stooge around for a while. Out.”

Charlie relaxed back into his seat and enjoyed the sensation of flying. Occassionally he plotted his course, ensuring that they didn’t stray across the border into Germany. The last thing he wanted to do was be shot down by a bunch of trigger-happy jerries.

A glint of sunlight off polished metal caught his attention. Skillfully, he rolled his plane while still keeping it flying in its original direction. With one hand, he lifted his binoculars and looked through them. With a sharp intake of breath, he cursed. Righting his aircraft, he triggered the send button on his radio.

“Blue One, I think we have trouble.” He said, trying not to give anything away. “Suggest immediate return to aerodrome. Over.”

“Roger that Blue Two.” Roger replied. “What seems to be the problem? Over.”

“I seem to be having problems with my communication equipment with the ground. I’ll have to rely on visuals. Over.”

There was a pause. Roger obviously got Charlies code line. He had seen something and they couldn’t talk about it over the radio.

“Roger that Blue Two. I’ll lead you home. Bring her about to zero-two-zero and descend to four thousand.”

Charlie fell back from Roger’s Spitfire and followed him in. They flew in silence, with Charlie worrying all the while. Finally, after what seemed like eons, they finally touched down on the concrete of York Military Airbase. Both men clambered out of their aircraft at top speed.

“What was it?” Roger asked as he neared Charlie. Charlie looked shaken.

“Russian tanks sir.” He replied. “A whole wave of them positioned in no-mans land. You can’t see them unless you look directly at them, but they are there hidden in the forest.”

Roger swore fluently.

“You’re certain of this?” He asked, wishing it to be wrong.

“As sure as an iron bomb.” Charlie replied. “We spent four months having respective tank descriptions being drilled into us. I know what a T-34 looks like. And they look nothing like the Panzers they were parked alongside."

Roger swore again and even some of the ground crew looked shocked.

“The Germans and the Russians are massing secretly on our border with armour? Not good. Not good at all.” Roger said. “And all of our armour is in the north. I need to get this to command immediately. Don’t leave base until further notice Charlie.”

With that, Roger ran off leaving a queasy Charlie in his wake. And for the first time after a flight, Charlie felt like throwing up.

London Palace, London

Winston Churchill looked at the reports flooding in. Since the discovery of Russian and German tanks massing along the southern border, the English military had begun seeking out other possible hiding forces. So far a handful of Russian and German submarines had been found skulking around the English Isles. The Romans had their entire armour divisions lining the English-Roman border, though the Roman armour was numerically less than the English. The French ambassador had reported Iroquios troops moving towards Versaille and spies in Russia had observed mass troop movements south.

And England was effectively on its own. The Aztecs and Americans had officially declared war on each other only days earlier. The Greeks were being effectively strangled by the Romans and the Germans and the French were basically non-existant.

His overtures to Catherine had been making progress in an attempt to bring a long peace between them, but for some reason the Russian leader’s demeanour and tone had changed drastically in recent weeks. Now she was threatening that unless England capitulated to the Russians, it would be crushed mercilessly.

Conscription had gone into full motion when the threat of war had begun to surface. Now England had the largest standing army of any country in the world by far. But men were useless against tank divisions on the open battlefield. The English offensive capabilities had ground to a halt when England’s only oil supply had dried up.

A knock on the door brought Churchill out of his thoughts with a start. A page opened the door and let in General Montgomery. The General marched briskly up to the Prime Minister and saluted. Churchill smiled and extended a hand to his old friend.

“Welcome Bernard.” Churchill said as they shook hands. “I hope the trip from Coventry wasn’t too tiring?”

“Not at all Prime Minister.” Montgomery replied, maintaining Churchill’s respectful title. “Though I’d rather be here under less stressful times.”

Churchill chuckled wryly.

“My good friend, when have we known less stressful times?” Churchill asked.

Montgomery smiled slightly at the reply.

“But to business.” Continued Churchill, turning the large tactical map on the planning table. It showed a map of the world with England dead in the centre with markers showing force positions. Montgomery noted that the amount of German and Russian troops on the borders of England had grown significantly since he had last looked at it. “The Russians have moved a significant amount of armour to our weaker southern border in what looks like preperation for invasion. With our armour stationed in the north to protect against the Russian front there, it leaves the south grossly exposed.”

“Our airforce and foot soldiers could have taken on the Germans alone, but the Russian forces are another story.” Montgomery pointed out. “I will give Stalin one thing, he has marshalled the military production of Russia perfectly. He knew our weakness and he intends to squeeze.”

“Which brings me to my next point.” Churchill said. “Catherine’s demeanour to us has changed drastically recently. I have my ideas on what has happened, but I’d like your thoughts first.”

“She’s a puppet.” Montgomery said immediately. “Plain and simple. Stalin has the backing of the military and he has effectively taken control of Russia. And he intends to use that military.”

“So, what do we do?” Churchill asked his top general.

“Prime Minister, we do what is not expected of us.” Montgomery replied. “We develope tactics suited to our needs.”

[WTE_OzWolf]

...continued...

Normadic Wastelands, Northern England

Sergeant Bill Reddie was awoken rudely as the explosion lifted him bodily from his bed and dumped him unceremoniously on his face in the cold slush on the ground. Mumbling something incoherent about incosiderate Russian bastards, Bill climbed to his feet and brushed the clinging snow off of his trenchcoat. Since the threat of war had begun to loom, Bill had begun sleeping fully dressed. As another explosion erupted nearby, he was glad he’d chosen that.

Bill looked to Corporal Jack Smith to rouse him, but it was obvious that Jack would not be rising again. Shrapnel peppered the younger man and his clothes were already beginning to turn red from the blood. And that was when Bill noticed that the tent was no longer covering them.

In shell shock, Bill looked around the encampment. Explosions, mushroom clouds of dirt and fire and the screams of wounded and dying men filled the air. Soldiers ran back and forth, some with a purpose, most in confusion and shock. One man went running past trying to hold a rifle with two arms that no longer had hands. Bill collapsed to one knee and emptied his stomach.

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he climbed to his feet again. Grabbing his rifle, he moved to the central parade area of the encampment. Men were everywhere. Already the field hospital was overflowing into the parade area and the attack had only been going for a minute. He called out to men as they ran past, but they brushed him off and kept running. The majority of them had the wild-eyed stare of somebody suffering initial battle shock. He had to do something to marshal his fellow countrymen and get them to the picket line.

He physically grabbed a soldier who screamed at Bill before they fell onto the ground. A sharp pain eminated from just below his rib cage but subsided when the soldier scrambled to his feet and ran off. Getting back to his own feet, Bill looked at the cause of the pain: his whistle. Slowly he put in his mouth and took a deep breath, the blew. The sound of the whistle stopped some men. Noticing this, Bill blew the whistle again and again. And with each blow, more men stopped running and began marshalling in front of him. The shrill, familiar sound was breaking through the haze of shock that the troops were in. Training was kicking in.

When nearly one hundred men had gathered in front of him, he handed his whistle to Sergeant Thomas Edmonton before leading the men to the line. Even as he ran away from the parade area, Tom was already blowing the whistle with all his might.

By the time Bill had moved his group of men to the front, it had swelled to nearly four hundred men. The sight of their fellow soldiers moving forward had obviously given other troops something concrete to grab onto and they had quickly fallen in.

When they reached the picket line, Bill was shocked at how quiet it was. No gunfire was erupting. No shouts of orders and organised chaos could be heard or seen. Quickly ordering his gathered group to take up position, Bill made his way to Lieutenant Marsh.

“Sir, reporting in.” He said quickly. Lieutenant Marsh looked past Bill at the new troops taking up position.

“Well done Sergeant.” The Lieutenant said. “What state is the camp in?”

“Pretty beat up sir.” Bill replied. “Jack Smith is currently marshalling more troops to bring down here.”

“Good.” Lieutenant Marsh stated. “We’re going to need them. I doubt they’re bombarding us for the fun of it. The enemy will be coming and we need every man we can get on the picket line. Go see to your men Sergeant.”

With a quick nod, Bill ran off to his designated position. As he did, he noticed another group of about two hundred men pouring into the picket line closely followed by about fifty stragglers. Looking along the line, he saw that approximately two-thirds of the battallion was mustered there. It surprised him, because the mayhem in the encampment had suggested that they wouldn’t have been able to marshal one third of what they had.

With a start, Bill realised that the bombardment had stopped. It also appalled him that in such a short time he had become accustomed to the sound. Even so, he screamed out to his troops to keep their eyes peeled for enemy movement. Everybody fell quiet and only the adrenaline charged breathing of men could be heard. Then slowly above that came a sound that Bill had dreaded ever hearing since he had been posted to the Wastelands: the sound of tank tracks.

It was obvious that Bill wasn’t the only one who had heard it either. Troops exchanged glances but none broke or ran. They simply went back to watching through the mist that accompanied every night on the Wastelands.

“I SEE THEM!” Screamed one soldier, who immediately began firing.

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” Bill screamed back, thankfully stopping the entire line firing uselessly. “WAIT UNTIL THEY’RE IN FIRING RANGE!”

Bill concentrated and looked through the gloom. As he looked, the hulking shapes of T-34’s began to materialize out of the mist. Their engines roared and subsided as they crossed the uneven ground, giving the impression of wild animals champing at the bit to be released against a nearby prey.

A flash of light and puff of smoke erupted from a barrel of one of the enemy tanks and the ground exploded just behind the picket line. Friendly mortar troops began dropping rounds into the path of the oncoming tanks, but the small shells did little but burn away paint on the armour of the tanks.

By now, all the tanks along the front of the advancing line were firing and explosions rippled along the picket line. Bill tried to be heard over the mayhem.

“HOLD YOUR FIRE! YOUR RIFLE ROUNDS WON’T DO ANYTHING AGAINST THOSE TANKS! WE NEED TO USE THE CHARGES!” He shouted to no avail. The entire English line opened fire.

Regardless of how futile it may have been, it still looked impressive. Sparks flew off the armour plating of the tanks and for a brief second, the battlefield was lit like high noon from muzzle flashes. Shadows crumpled behind the tanks.

“THEY’VE GOT INFANTRY!” He bawled. “AIM FOR THE GAPS BETWEEN THE TANKS!”

Slowly but surely, the sparks of rifle strikes on the tanks died down as the English troops directed their fire towards the gaps between the tanks. Shadows that strayed too far from the protective hulks of the T-34s fell, but the tanks just kept coming. Thinking of something, Bill ran up to Lieutenant Marsh.

“Sir, where are our tanks?” He asked. Lieutenant Marsh gave him a disgusted look.

“That idiot Colonel O’Donnell has decided that he is not going to waste his tanks in a futile attack against the Russian forces.” The Lieutenant said. “The moron doesn’t realise that if we fail here he is going to have to fight the Russians anyway without the support of troops.”

Cursing officer stupidity, ensuring that he was out of Lieutenant Marsh’s hearing range, Bill went back to his position. The ground was now vibrating tremendously as the Russian tanks bore down on the waiting English troops. By now, Bill could make out the trench-coated Russian soldiers following in the tanks’ wake. His sub-machine gun roared again and again as he sprayed it across the infantry lines.

He stopped when he made out a second line of advancing Russian tanks just emerging from the mist. With a yell, he jumped out of the trench and towards the enemy. The English troops followed his charge, not wishing to stand still and await the inevitable.

Once among the first line of tanks, the battle became man on man. Even as Bill wrestled with a Russian soldier no older than eighteen, the tanks kept rolling forward. Screams, gunshot, cannonshot and the roar of diesel engines overwhelmed the senses. Diesel fumes permeated his nose and his breath came in hoarse, burning gasps.

He fired a quick burst at one enemy then beat down another with the butt of his sub-machine gun. The man-to-man fighting was out in the open now as the forward tanks continued on, ignoring the troops that had been behind them.

They say you never hear the one that gets you and in this case, it was true. The first Bill Reddie new of the shell was when his world exploded into stars as something smashed into the side of his head. This was instantly followed by the shockwave that knocked the wind out of him before lifting him and smashing him into the ground. Thankfully, unconsciousness was quick to follow.

Northern Fleet, North Sea

Captain Harry Jackson stood on the bridge of the RES (Royal English Ship) Repulse, battleship and flagship of the Northern Fleet, and looked out over the cold expanses of the north sea. He was worried, but did not let that show on his face. Only half an hour before he had received word that the Russians were advancing along the entire stretch of the English northern border. He was also told to expect the Russian navy to steam south with the English Isles in its sights.

Harry Jackson was a career navy man. Born to a fishing family, he had joined the navy when the last of the wooden riggers were still in service and the first ship he served on was the original RES Repulse, a Man-o-War. Throughout his career he had served on ships in a number of minor skirmishes such as the Roman Crisis and the Iroquios Incursion. But this was the first time he could possibly enter into an all-out naval engagement.

To make matters worse, the Admiral couldn’t afford to lose any ships. Without access to the necessary resources to build the iron warriors of the sea, England could just not lose ships to the enemy.

As Harry Jackson stood there deep in thought, Admiral Edward Collins stepped onto the bridge. Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by the Able Seaman’s announcement that the Admiral was on the bridge. Harry turned to the new arrival.

“All quiet sir.” He reported. “We haven’t seen so much as a distant smoke plume since we ran them out of our waters two months ago.”

“Don’t underestimate the Russians, Harry.” The Admiral responded. “They may not have had much need to go to sea in the past, but they have a strong, well-equipped navy, and good sailors to man them. They will attack, because the English Isles is an ideal piece of territory. Central to the world.”

Harry nodded. England was under attack and it had no friends to help. They had helped the French for nearly 500 years during their Thousand Year War, and all it had got the English was a bad reputation with the Germans and an ally that was merely a puppet state.

“If only we could get the Yanks onside.” Harry pointed out. “Their navy is by far the largest in the world. With their help, we could effectively control the seas.”

“There isn’t any benefit in Lincoln signing an alliance with us.” Admiral Collins replied. “We don’t have anything to give them either economically or militarily. We can’t assist them in their war against the Aztecs and all they would get is the Quadrant Alliance as their enemies. Not a worthwhile package.”

Harry chuckled as he thought of a wry comment, but was interrupted by the lookout.

“Smoke!” He called. “Bearing Green Two-Three.”

Harry rushed to the bridge wing and brought his binoculars up to his eyes. Sure enough, there on the horizon to the north was smoke plume.

“Call General Quarters.” Harry said. “Sigs, make to all ships: all hands to general quarters.”

“Aye aye sir.” The Leading Seaman said then disappeared from view to raise the appropriate ensigns. In short time, general quarters alerts could be heard across the water from the other ships.

“Helm, change course to Zero-One-Five. All full ahead.” Harry continued before turning to the Admiral. “Sir, do you want the ship?”

Admiral Collins looked at Harry and shook his head.

“You’re doing fine Harry.” He replied. “I’ll worry about the tactical stuff. Bring the ships into line astern.”

“Aye aye sir.” Harry replied then turned to the sigs Leading Seaman. “Sigs, make to all ships: fall into line astern.”

Acknowledging the order, the Leading Seaman disappeared again. A growing rumble in the deck signified the increase in rpm from the powerful steam turbines powering the powerful ship of war. More plumes of smoke had appeared on the horizon.

“Into the battle men.” Admiral Collins said. “Let’s give ‘em hell!”

A muted cheer went around the bridge. The Northern Fleet consisted of seven battleships and fifteen destroyers. Brute force was its only available tactic.

“Sir, contacts are changing direction.” Reported the lookout. “They appear to be heading towards us. Current count is seven smoke plumes.”

Harry nodded his acknowledgement. The real question was if that was all the Russians had and what ships were they.

“Lookout, tell me immediately when you have visual confirmation of ship types.” Harry ordered.

“Sir!” Called the signalman. “RES Triumph is reporting sonar contacts!”

Harry cursed. The RES Triumph was one of the destroyers in the fleet.

“Order the Triumph, the Diligence, the Vengence and the Vampire to prepare.” He ordered.

“Confirmation sir.” Spoke the lookout. “Counting four battleship-class, seven destroyer-class and five transport-class vessels. Positive identification on one Kirov-class Battleship. Confirmation from all lookouts that they are Russian warships.”

“Thanks lookout.” Harry said. It would get tight. Just to make sure, he also looked at the oncoming warships and agreed with the lookout. “Let’s split them. Let the Triumph, the Diligence, the Vengence and the Vampire loose.”

The four destroyers peeled away from the column of ships and headed out after their respective sonar contacts.

“How many sonar contacts?” Harry asked.

“Eight so far sir.”

Admiral Collins stepped up alongside Harry.

“Hmm...are you reading my mind Harry?” He asked, a sly twinkle in his eyes. “Everything you’ve done is what I was going to tell you to do.”

Harry chuckled.

“Feel free to pull me up at any time sir.” He replied. “Should we go for range or up close and personal?”

“Up close and personal.” Admiral Collins ordered. “Make sure of it. Also makes it more difficult for their subs if we’re running about in the middle of their fleet.”

Harry nodded but kept quiet. The bridge fell into silence. The initial pre-battle rush was over and all that remained was for the engagement to begin. A puff of smoke was followed by a rolling boom as one of the main armaments on the enemy battleships fired. It fell well short.

“Too early.” Admiral Collins commented. “Somebody got impatient.”

“But it did tell us when we could fire.” Harry said then leant towards the gunnery pipe. “Forward batteries, prepare to fire on my command. Gun directors, pick your own targets....FIRE!”

The deck of the Repulse literally healed back as the two forward three-gun batteries roared to life. The massive armaments returned to their loading position. Harry looked through his binoculars. All the shots fell short, but that didn’t matter. They were ranging shots anyway. The main aim was to get amongst the enemy ships.

Harry ordered flank speed and the deck vibrations increased slightly. With the speed at top, the Repulse soon was in range of the enemy, but the speed and single-file approach of the English warships made it difficult for the enemy.

Warning sirens blared again and then the forward armaments roared to life once again. One shot scored on the enemy and a plume of fire and smoke rose skyward. The celebration was shortlived though when an explosion further back in the convoy rattled the superstructure. Harry ran out onto the bridge wing.

The RES Sheffield, another destroyer, was sinking fast, the victim of a torpedo strike.

“Harry, order all destroyers to go sub hunting.” Admiral Collins said, standing at Harry’s shoulder. “It looks like the Russians have been taking lessons from the Germans on naval warfare.”

Harry nodded to the signalman. Soon, the destroyers pulled out of column and went hunting.

More shots were fired and some minor hits were scored. One English battleship fell behind when it suffered a torpedo strike that did some serious damage to the engines but didn’t cause too much problems with hull integrity as a whole.

“Approaching enemy formation.” Harry reported to Admiral Collins.

“Traverse all guns to the sides and at the horizontal.” The Admiral ordered. “Prepare them to fire on my order. All ships following are to follow suit.”

Harry passed the orders on. Soon, they were amongst the warships of the Russian fleet. As the Repulse flew through at flank speed, Harry saw the faces of surprised and perplexed Russian sailors and officers on a battleship to port mere seconds before Admiral Collins gave the order to fire. Nine fifteen inch shells roared across the fifty metres and smashed into the side of the Russian battleship. The secondary armaments accompanied the main armaments. The Russian battleship began to roll immediately. The destroyer on the starboard side suffered no better from the secondary armaments fired at it. The destroyer immediately pulled away, fires ablaze throughout.

By the time the fleet had passed through the enemy formation, the core was a graveyard of damaged and destroyed vessels.

“All vessels to engage at will.” Admiral Collins ordered.

Like titans, the English battleships ponderously wove their way through the enemy, blasting away at the Russian vessels at point blank range. One English battleship was sunk and five destroyers were lost to both torpedo strikes and enemy fire. But overall, it was a route.

The return to the English Isles and the Northern Fleet’s home base of Dover was long and tedious, with Russian submarines harassing them all the way. As soon as they were alongside, Admiral Collins was ordered to refueld and get the Northern Fleet out to sea immediately, regardless of condition.

Harry, fatigued from three days without sleep, had to sit when Admiral Collins told him the news. The Russians were still coming, and this fleet was five times as large as what they had just encountered.

“We don’t stand a chance sir.” Harry said.

“No, we don’t.” He said. “But we stand even less of a chance if we just sit around here and wait for them to sail into Dover Harbour. There are dark days ahead for the English Empire my friend. Dark days and longer nights.”

[dexters]

is this a real game that you played?

[WTE_OzWolf]

Yes, it was (though some poetic license has been taken for some events). I try to set the battles around what actually happened in the game.

In reality, the Russian forces were in Germany because they'd also been attacking the French during the Thousand Year War, but I omitted that for the story's sake. It was nasty, but the story is yet from over.

[dexters]

This is goofd stuff WTE. I just rated this 5 stars. You're a fantastic writer, especially the detail of the military. I like to read about military stuff from Civ games that people actually played

Keep it coming. I'm officially a fan.

[civman2000]

Ozwolf has returned!!

[ChaotikVisions]

Heh, loving the story so far. Reminds me of all those doomed games I kept on playing, despite the fact I knew I was gonna be crushed. Like fighting off Modern Armor/Mech Infantry with bombers and riflemen, heh.

[johncmcleod]

That was great! Better then anything I've read for a long time. It even blew The Hidden Dagger out of the water for me. Yeah, I agree with the others. Stories that are based on actual events in games are much better. Both of my stories are very true, though in A Grand Day I peppered it up a little bit.

[dexters]

bump

[Space05us]

Nice map!

oh yeah, and story...

[Hopdevil007]

you can definately tell this is a story based from a real game. i like those storys best myself. do you mind letting us know who you were? i'm assuming the English. great story and keep going.

[Captain]

excellent!

[dexters]

WTE_OzWolf has your story ended or will there be a final chapter outlining how the war turned out? I sounds like you're in for a pounding, but the stage is certainly set for great drama, win or lose

[WTE_OzWolf]

My stories normally have a number of parts...still more to come.

[WTE_OzWolf]

The Cost of War - Part II

The Cost of War - Part II

Opening his eyes hurt. In fact, anything hurt. But Bill Reddie took that as a good sign because it meant somehow he had survived. With a concerted effort, he pushed the remains of the Russian soldier off of his chest. He had to lay still after that as a wave of nausea threatened to pull him back to the black abyss of unconciousness.

His head throbbed incesently to the point of distraction. Once Bill’s senses had reorientated themselves, he slowly sat up. The newest bout of nausea did cause him to pass out, but he came to quickly. With slow, painful movements, he staggered to his feet. He stood there, swaying as if in a breeze. He looked down at the body that had been covering him. All that remained was a torso. The poor bugger had effectively shielded Bill from the full blast of the tank shell.

He had a new bout of nausea, but this had nothing to do with his current condition, but the realisation that the Russians had knowingly fired high explosive shells into the midst of their own soldiers.

Bill looked around at the desolate scene. The Wastelands weren’t exactly a tourist spot, but now it was simply mud. That was it. None of the sparse vegetation remained. A haze of mist, diesel fumes and smoke hung over the battlefield. Most obvious were the burnt out wreckages of three or four Russian tanks where English soldiers had managed to attack explosive charges, but the worst part of it all was the sea of bodies. Hundreds upon hundreds of bodies lay sprawled and scattered across the battlefield. The khaki of English troops grossly outnumbered the dark brown of Russian troops.

In a daze, Bill staggered south through the destruction. Along the way he recognised faces of people he had spoken with earlier in the day. Some had the peaceful look of a quick, unsuspecting death, but the majority had the pain-filled expression of somebody that had time to consider their mortality before slipping from the grip of life.

The protruding limbs of people crushed by passing tanks lay exposed from the mud. It was obvious that the Russian tank commanders hadn’t cared who fell under their tracks. Bill pitied the Russian foot soldiers. At least the English soldiers knew what could possibly kill them.

He was falling into shock. His body had gone numb and his mind was slowing down. The wound he carried in his leg had yet to register with him and it hampered his movement. With slow, painful steps he staggered southward. The cold bit at him through his torn clothes and his mind screamed for warmth. Some primeveal survival urge forced him to take a step, then another, then another.

He limped through the crushed remains of the English encampment. Bodies littered the ground, which itself was smashed flat by the Russian’s iron monsters. By now, Bill’s brain was numb to it all. He just kept walking.

He couldn’t remember how long he had walked and he couldn’t gauge distance, because the countryside looked the same: peppered with shell holes, smashed flat by tank tracks or on fire. The Russians were blazing a path straight for a city. Which city, Bill couldn’t remember. His mind was beginning to clear, but all it could focus on was the pain coming from his leg. What was wrong with it?

Finally, as dusk settled, he found the near-intact remains of a stable. He stumbled inside and collapsed onto a pile of old sacks. Blackness crept at the corner of his vision, but something kept nagging away in his brain. Then it struck him just as he began to pass out. The city. The city that the Russians were heading for. The first city they would reach. It was Coventry...his home city! No! He couldn’t pass out now! But the blackness won and Bill slumped back onto the sacks.

York Military Airbase, Southern England

The klaxon sounded for the fourth time that day. Before it had even finished its first time through it piercing wail, Charlie Gray was on his feet and out the door. He sprinted across the concrete taxiway and jumped into his Spitfire, which the ground crew already had running.

With a thumbs up from the ground crew, he goosed the throttle and moved towards the runway. He weaved the plane left and right so as he could see where he was going as he made his way to the end of the runway. Without even waiting for breath, Charlie went full throttle and roared off down the tarmac and into the sky.

The forward fighter cover for the German Luftwaffe was already inbound and Charlie made sure he was already weaving left and right as soon as his wheels left the ground. The ping of glancing bullets sounded off of his fuselage as a Meschersmitt 109 roared in for the kill. Charlie immediately deployed the airbrake, instantly stopping the aircraft and bringing it to a stall. The German fighter roared overhead and Charlie pointed the nose of his fighter forward and picked up speed. He levelled out at front-door level.

“Too close.” He commented dryly before switching over to radio. “Blue Leader this is Blue Two. I am airborne...just...awaiting instructions. Over.”

“Two, Leader.” Came Roger’s voice. “We have incoming bombers. Go to sector D5, 5’s high. Over.”

“Leader, Two, roger.” Charlie replied. He wheeled his fighter about and pulled the nose back and began the spiralling climb to 5000 feet. Obviously the Germans were trying low-level bombing. He made out the waiting aircraft of his squadron. He also saw the English Knight’s Squadron engaging the forward elements of the attackers.

“Ok Blue Lions.” Roger said. “Those Heinkels are being covered by FW-190’s. We’re gonna have to punch straight through them and take out those bombers, or we aren’t going to be able to land.”

Charlie chuckled to himself, but more to release the tension than of any humour. The Germans had launched a major air offensive a week ago and the English Air Force was flying close to six sorties a day to stop them. But the Germans weren’t so much as attacking the English Air Force for victories, but to stop the English fighters from shooting up their tanks. Without the fighter cover, the Germans and Russians were matching their northern counterparts in speed. The mainland part of the English Empire was shrinking and shrinking quickly. The only place where the English was showing any success was against the Romans, but the Romans seemed more intent on trying to start a fight with Greece.

“Tally ho!” Shouted Roger as he dove his plane towards the enemy bombers. One after another, the Blue Lions followed him in a dive towards the German formation. Charlie squeezed his trigger as a bomber fell under his sights and was rewarded with a puff of black smoke from an engine. The bomber began to roll sedately to starboard and fell away from the formation.

With terrifying speed, the Spitfires roared through the bomber formation. German bombers blurred past and Charlie pulled back on the stick once below them as he brought his fighter out of its dive. Radio chatter told him that the escorting fighters had joined the fray. He looked around constantly, making sure that no enemy latched onto him without him knowing.

The first pass at a bomber formation was always the easiest. From then on, however, a pilot had to contend with gunners, enemy fighters, the fighter and his own fatigue. Grunting against the strain, Charlie brought his spitfire around in an impossibly tight turn and aimed towards the tail-end charlies of the bombers. He squeezed his trigger again, stitching a line of tracer diagonally across the underside of the bomber, but it remained flying. Charlie did note, however, that the underside gun of the Heinkel had stopped firing.

“Somebody elses toy now.” He commented to himself as he bore down on another bomber. But he never got a shot off. Tracers flashing past his cockpit from behind told him he had a follower. With a quick snap of the yoke, he rolled the plane over and down.

Ground filled the cockpit as Charlie’s spitfire plummeted earthward. The occassional ping against the fuselage and the tracers still flashing past the cockpit told him that the enemy fighter was still on his tail.

Waiting until the last minute, Charlie pulled back on the stick and levelled out. Twenty metres above the York River, Charlie weaved and dodged in an attempt to shake his pursuer. He even flew under the York Bridge to no avail. With warning, he went vertical, utilising the Spitfire’s superior climb ability over the Fockewulf. He levelled out at 1000 feet, having nearly bled off all of his flying speed.

Rolling the fighter over, Charlie rolled his fighter over and dove down again, towards the Fockewulf still trying to chase him. Guns blazing, Charlie roared towards him. Sparks flew off the Fockewulf’s prop and then oil splattered over the fuselage. In slow motion, Charlie watched as his bullets turned the pristine outline of the enemy fighter into a mangled mess.

The Fockewulf was falling now. The sudden counter-attack by Charlie had literally stopped it in its climb. The fighter’s nose fell and began to pick up speed. Charlie followed at a distance. The enemy’s canopy popped off and the pilot jumped to safety. Charlie waggled his wings in salute and returned to the main battle.

London Palace, London

Winston Churchill was snoring loudly when General Montgomery entered his office. The General did not envy the Prime Minister’s job and the man had not left the office since the Russians had attacked in the north. He waited for a minute before coughing lightly.

Churchill awoke with a start.

“What?” He said, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. “Oh, Bernard. Sorry, must’ve dozed off.”

“No problem at all sir.” Montgomery replied. “We must get our sleep when we can.”

“Unfortunately, that is the case.” Churchill responded. “What news do we have from the north?”

“Sketchy, I’m afraid sir.” Montgomery replied. “There are indications that the Russians have broken out of the Wastelands but to what extent we don’t know. Recon has said they have spotted enemy formations as south as Coventry. I would tend to believe their reports. If this is so, then we must assume that our northern forces have been defeated.”

“The lack of communications is disturbing.” Churchill said. “Not a word from any of the northern commanders. Coventry is silent. Recon can only give us ‘possible’ sightings. What the hell is going on up there Bernard?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Montgomery pointed out. “We can’t proceed unless we know for certain what we’re facing up there.”

“Ok. Now the south.” Churchill moved on. “The airforce is being constantly attacked by German aircraft. How do we respond to that?”

“We move them north.” Montgomery suggested. “The Russians have no airforce to speak of and we could better utilise the aircraft up there.”

“But that will leave the ground troops in the south without air cover.” Churchill said.

“No disrespect sir, but they haven’t got it now.” Montgomery explained. “The ground troops are being pushed back at running pace by the advancing German and Russian armies. York is on the verge of capture which means we’ll lose our biggest military airbase in the south. If we move the fighters to the north, then they could possibly cause enough problems to allow us to continue with our plan.”

Churchill sighed.

“You’re right Bernard.” He said. “Ok, do it.”

Churchill stood and moved to the window.

“How did we end up this way?” He continued. “Once the greatest empire on the planet; now merely a kicking toy for the Quadrant Alliance. What of the Iroquiois?”

“They are attacking France.” Montgomery said matter-of-factly. “They are the scavengers of the Quadrant Alliance sir. Rome, Russia and Germany will attack us while the Iroquios will pick at the scraps.”

“Speaking of the Romans...” Churchill said, raising an eyebrow.

“That is the only front that hasn’t moved either way.” Montgomery reported. “Caeser was always more ‘friendly’ towards us and they have the same resource problems we have so it has descended into a stalemate. Some reports have arrived that the Roman armies are actually concentrating on invading Greece.”

Churchill sighed again.

“We seem to be the best off amongst our allies.” He stated. “Which is a bad sign for our people.”

He slapped his hand down onto the desk.

“Well, we will not just vanish into the pages of history.” He said. “I want Operation Sea Serpent underway immediately. Our people will always have an Empire to call their home...regardless of where it is.”