NationStates Jolt Archive

This Thread is for nations participating in the E20 RP which can be found here. (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=472407)

This is a place where you can post ‘mini’ RP’s based on you E20 experience. This is not meant to be a place for RP’s in the E20 sense but more of place for you to put personal stories of those people from your nation, past or present, important or insignificant.

IC:

Somewhere in Hunan Province, Republic of China--

Damn socialists. I wanted some fun time with the wife...

Plainclothes Officer Chiu checked his watch, and twirled his Mauser broomhandle pistol, inspecting it for every and any chance of breakage, rust, etc. Ministry of State Security had provided these guns free of charge to their officers, and it was pretty much the only distinguishing feature of Plainclothes.

He asked the man standing next to him in his Toishanese Cantonese accent, "Hey Hong, y'all know the plan, right?"

The other agent, a fellow Plainclothes Officer named Lin Hong, said in standard Cantonese, "Damn hillbilly...you asked me that five minutes ago. Yes, I know the damn plan. We trail the asswipe after his union meeting, run him down, read him his rights and what he's charged with, and stuff him in the back."

Chiu replied, "Well, his rights ain't much, I would suppose?"

Hong said, "You don't shut up, do ya hillbilly? Let me be."

Chiu shrugged, and then sat back, proceeding to nap. Hong then woke him up, saying, "There he is."

He pointed to a man leaving a warehouse, and leaving with some others and walking down the street.

Hong then thrust a manila folder to Chiu's face, and said in a hushed tone, "It's our man! Wong Honghai! The damn socialist! Get that damn pistol ready!!!"

Hong and Chiu began trailing them, hiding in alleys and walking nonchalantly following their every move. All the while, their guns were never faraway.

The union men looked behind them, and suspected something was happening. Chiu then said, "Hong, herd them off at the pass."

Hong said, "Agreed."

Chiu then split up with Hong, Hong moving into an alley and running through side streets to try and flank the prey from one side. Hong drew his broomhandle, while Chiu continued to follow the union men.

The union men suspected something, but thought it was just a consequence of walking at night. Well, it was a good thing they were in groups....

...until Chiu saw them entering a restaurant for some late-night munchies. As they sat down to eat, Chiu then met up with Hong near the front of the restaurant, saying, "Hong, they're inside."

Hong then said, nodding, "I know. We go inside and arrest them, we make a scene."

Chiu then said, "We go inside, and eat. Then, we get out, and apprehend them as they go outside!"

Hong then said, "I love it..."

OOC: keeping in the spirit of things...
IC:

A dozen soldiers and several plainsclothesmen stood around a small map, and several photos. "remember men, these people are dangerous, and should not be trusted. If they move, shoot", said Captain Shiro Hotaka. The detail was a normal one, several intelligence agents and 2 squads of soldiers to back them up.

The detail would not be easy however. The men inside the small dingy house were known to be ultra-nationalists, ex-boxers, and would probably rather die than surrender.

When everyone was in place, Hotaka nodded. Two soldiers smashed open the front door, and rushed in, bayonted rifles at the ready. The rest of their squad rushed in, followed by 2 intelligence agents. Several shots rang out, then the second squad rushed in, and moved upstairs. Several more shos could be heard, then silence. The two squads and 5 intelligence agents filed out, one of the soldiers had been hit in the arm. The soldiers dragged out 4 dead bodies, and two live one.

Hotaka appreaoched the small group gathered around the two prisoners. One had been hit in the chest and was badly wounded. The other was very much alive.

"Where are you compatriots? There should be more" Hotaka asked the badly wounded man. The man spat on Hotaka's polished shoes. Hotaka belw his brains out, and the unwounded man recoiled in shock and horror.

"Take him away, he can still be of use to us, and bury the dead", Hotaka ordered.

"What of the building?" asked an intelligence agent

"Comb for information, then burn it", ordered Hotaka

Excellent way to start it off Haneastic!

A couple of hours later, the men walked out, lively, half-drunk, and full of food. They chatted long and hard, and one could be overheard planning to score later that night.

Chiu then said, "Now."

He then walked up to one of the men, and said, "Excuse me sir, can I talk to you for a moment?"

The union man immediately got a look of horror on his face. Chiu then grabbed him and threw him against the others before pointing a gun at them and saying, "In the name of the Republic, Wong Honghai, Hui Bing, Poon Jinli, and Wong Tsui-Lo, you are under arrest for conspiracy to distrupt the peace and for treason against the Republic. You will come with me, or face death."

Hong then said, "Put your hands behind your head. Get up slowly."

Wong said, "I have rights! This is a Republic!"

Hong and Chiu then threw Wong into the alley, and Chiu slammed him against the wall. Chiu then put his gun to Wong's head, saying, "Man, shut the fuck up. You ain't got no rights. This Republic doesn't got enough room for Socialists and I could kill ya right now, boy. But I may just let you live and let the others get you."

Hong then said, waving his gun and screaming at the men to "STAY DOWN!" said to Chiu, "Hey dumbass! Stop playing with the prey and get him back here. We need to call in the cavalry!"

Chiu then dragged Wong over, and then threw him down, before saying, "I'll watch these guys. You get the boys."

Hong then ran to the local call box, and radioed for help. Five minutes later, a nearby paddy wagon came in, and uniformed men with Mauser rifles came out, throwing the men in the back of the rickety truck and then spiriting them away.

Hong and Chiu then stood by as the commander of the uniformed men said, "Agents, good job. The Republic is proud of you. Report to HQ for your next assignment."

Hong and Chiu then said, "Well, let's go then. I wanted to relax, but I guess we can't stop."

Excellent way to start it off Haneastic!

OOC: why thank you, I suppose I'll continue this saga
IC:

Captain Hotaka walked into the interrogation room, and looked at the prisoner. he clearly had been "softened up", and perhaps he was ready to talk.

"Do you wish to help Japanand lead us to your compatriots?", Hotaka asked
"Go to hell" responded the prisoner. Hotaka backhanded, nearly throwing the man out of the chair.

"Tell me what i need to know", Hotaka said calmly, "where are you compatriots?"

20 Minutes later, Hotaka emerged from the room, and a pair of medics rushed in. Hotaka looked at the two intelligence agents waiting for him "We have new targets"

OOC: quite dark if I do say so myself

Captain Hotaka walked through the crowded market, trying to follow the suspect. It was getting harder as they neared the center of the market. He could occaisonally catch glimpses of other agents as they moved to follow the suspect and his 3 followers.

The Hatako saw the suspect and his followers peal of from the crowd and head toward a back alley. Hatako grinned so widely a nearby shopper moved away from him. He signaled to the other agents to follow him after the suspect. No one noticed the men following them.

They continued to tail the men until Hatako knew everything was in place. "Halt in the name of Japan!", he shouted

Immediately a dozen agents poured out of the old buildings brandishing clubs. The 4 men drew their own clubs and rushed the dozen men, seemingly unafraid that they were outnumbered.

Suddenly a shout erupted from the buildings around him, and a score of men and a few women holding clubs, bricks, and a wide assortment of improvised weapons. A man wielding a plank or wood with a nail driven through it rushed Hatako, as he futiley attempted to draw his pistol.

Out of the nearby doorway, a hooded figure charged out. With a mighty swing of a katana, he severed the mans hand, and while the man was looking in shock at the stump, ran him through.

Gunshots rang out as more dark figures appeared on the roofs, and the men battling Hatako's agents were hit repeatedly, falling left and right, until onyl Hatako's agents and the original suspect were left alive, the suspect having been hit in the shoulder.

Hatako whirled around to face the darkly hooded figure. "Who are you? What are you doing?"

The man grinned, "we are the kokuryūkai, we are here to help you rid the empire of malcontents and subversives. We can be here or there, but npt when we aren't required. You haven't heard the last of us."

Hatako grabbed the man by the shoulder, but the katana appeared again on his wrist. "Do not think we will not kill you if you get in our way"

With that the man left...

Kiev, October 1911

Serzhant Viktor Sokolov led his men through the rubble and chaos of the city of Kiev. Once it had been a beautiful city, the pride of the Ukraine and Russia. Now it was rubble, pounded into dust by the German's heavy artillery. The fighting in the city had been vicious over the past few months, at times becoming hand-to-hand as the Russian and German lines were, at points, only yards from each other.

His squad was on a night patrol, looking for prisoners and trying to discover enemy positions. All of his men wore padded winter jackets and clothing, as well as jackboots. Their wool caps were snugly on their heads and all of them carried Mosin-Nagant rifles with a vicious 18-inch bayonet on the end. Several carried sharpened entrenching tools, preferring them to the longer and clumsier weapons.

The darkness of the October night was lit in places by burning buildings, but his squad, all veterans, moved ably and quietly though the shadows. The point man held up a hand as he peered forward into the darkness and the entire squad stopped, dropping to their knees or bellies. A few moments later, they were waved forward again. As they crept closer to the enemy lines they could begin to hear whispered conversation in German. Suddenly there was a faint pop and the entire area was lit up by a descending German flare.

Everyone froze, hurling themselves to the ground, not daring to even breath. Had htey been spotted? If they had, their lives would be ended very quickly by enemy machine gun fire. For over two minutes they waited, completely still as the flare burned itself out. As the light finally faded they began to move silently forward again. Ahead, an enemy outpost.

With a few silent signals they fel upon the outpost, using bayonets, knifes and entrenching tools with deadly effect. After a short, brutal and silent combat they had managed to secure two prisoners, leaving two Germans dead behind them as they slipped back to their own lines.

OOC: Episode III of our entrepid tale
IC:

Somewhere inside the Republic of China

A half dozen men clad in all black and wearing robs crouched outisde a walled compund. Inside was a band of ex-boxers, men who were guilty for slaughtering Japanese innocents here, and inciting others to do the same. The men of the Black Dragon Assasination Squad were here to put an end to it.

"Is everyone ready?", asked Isamu Kuro, the leader of the assasination squad. They all nodded. "Let's go".

3 men were propelled up by their comrades, and then pulled the other 3 up. They all silently dropped to the ground. Kuro saw a single sleeping guard at the front of the door, and it was the easiest thing for Kuro to stick his knife into the mans eye, and watch his last spasms before he died. A Black Drgoan oiled the door to make sure it didn't squeak, and they all silently filed in. "Spread out" Kuro whispered, 'kill anyone you find" the men nodded, and broke off into teams of two

Kuro and his partner treaded softly on the mat as they walked toward what appeared to be the dining room. Kuro's partner slid open the door, and Kuro rushed in, Katana ready. Two men were sitting and eating and looked up in shock. Kuro beheaded one, and his partner plunged his katana thorugh the other man's chest. The dying man managed to grab his revolve and fired a round, warning others. Kuro cursed and finished the man, but the dead was done.

The two of the quickly stood next to the other door, and it crashed open as 6men armed with jian's rushed in and saw the two dead boxers. They didn't notice Kuro and his partner.

Kuro and the other Black Dragon assasin moved quickly, striking down the two men in the back, and Kuro killed a second before they could react, but the other assasin's target managed to bring up his sword. Kuro faced off against the survivng two boxers, and stell clased together, Kuro drove them back, ran through one man and slashed the throat of the other as he attempted to stab Kuro. He looked over at his partner, who had by then finished off his enemy.

The other assasins emerged. "They're all dead, 21 in all", reported his second in command.

"Good" repleid Kuro, and the assasins slipped out into the darkness...

Report on the Disposition of the Chinese Soldier


Sirs,

It was with trepidation that I first recieved this assignment, that is the role of liason officer between or forces and the Imperial Chinese troops generously donated to us by the Emperor's government. I expected them to be much like other Asian or colonial auxiliaries: lazy, slothful and with a lack of fighting spirit. However, to my pleasant suprise upon arriving at their positions along the Baltic Sea, during a time when a German assault upon our capital of Petrograd seemed imminent, I found that they were busily employing themselves in the production of breastworks and setting up outposts.

They had dug themselves in nicely and, although they lacked the amount of artillery usual to a European unit, they had an abundance of small-arms, machine guns and other weapons. During drill they responded well to command and morale was high. Their esprit d'corps was phenomenal.

In addition, they braved the elements and the especially harsh winter of 1911 with a solidness normall only expected of our own men or Siberians (I expect it is because they too suffer from harsh winters in their home country).

It was then that we were transferred to the Southern Front. I was wondering how well they would hold under combat conditions. My fears proved groundless. They preformed very well under fire, acting aggressively and moving forward despite losses. They responded extremely well to orders from their officers and our liasons.

They are superb wilderness fighters and are fierce in close terrain.

So, in review the Chinese fighting man, when given equal training and when well-lead by either native or European officers, are excellent in combat, quick to obey orders and able to labor under harsh conditions, despite the size differences.

It is my fervent hope that you will accept my recommendation that the Chinese fighting men under our command be given the highest possible honors and that we hasten to aid our esteemed ally in the East.

[signed]
General Aleksei Maksimovich Kaledin
Middle Eastern Sector, Officer Commanding
Baghdad

Somewhere in the North of Bulgaria, July 1912

Dust rose in clouds as the 300,000 men of the Rumanian 3rd and 1st Armies marched southwards. Private Mihai Cazakul coughed took a drink form his canteen. His home in a small town on the outskirts of Bucharest was almost certainly gone, destroyed by enemy gunfire or some other action. He could only hope his family was alright...

Damn the Germans and damn the Austrians and damn the Bulgarians. Their country had been brutally invaded. And for what? Seeking to insure its neutrality. He was certain that much was true, having been assured so by his superior officers. He sighed. He hated marching in this damn, dirty dust. But he had gone into the regular army last year because he had wanted to help defend his country. And now they retreated! Retreated! He hated that/ It would be better to fight.

Of course, the officer talked about the 'overall strategy' and the 'grand breakthrough' that the would achieve. All he had seen was the dusty road and a few frightened looking Bulgarians. No combat yet. He sighed, hoping that something, anything would happen to break the monotony of the march.

His sergeant, Nicolae Viteazul, nudged him in the shoulder. "C'mon. The Lieutenant wants us to do some foraging. Besides, it'll be good to get away from this damn dust."

Mihai nodded in agreement and split off from the main column with the rest of his squad, heading towards a small farmhouse about a kilometer away. Hopefully, it hadn't been foraged by previous passers-by...

After a short hike, the sergeant knocked on the door, then nodded to the well that stood a few meters away. "Lacusta, Haidaul, take canteens and fill them up." The pair nodded, takign canteens from the rest and heading to the well, when the door was opened by a disgruntled looking middle-aged Bulgarian farmer. The sergant smiled and spoke in his rudimentary Bulgarian.

"We requisition food, water. You understand?"

The man scowled at them, but nodded. There wasn't much he could do anyway. The remaining 10 soldiers split into two groups, one going to look through the house, the others going to poke around back. Mihai found himself at the ear of the house, eyeing some of the chickens that clucked and pecked about the yard. Nudged by one of his compatriots, he began scurrying after one, frantically trying to catch the fowl, much to the amusement of his fellows, who roared with laughter at his futile attempts to grab the chicken.

He shot them a glare, reassuring himself with the thought that he would have a tasty chicken dinner. After a few more minutes, he finally had himself a chicken, carefully wringing it's neck and standing back to watch another soldier try his luck.

----

45 minutes later, they were trudging along that damn, dirty, dusty road again. But this time, carrying four chickens, full canteens, and a roasted ham that the farmer had thought to hide down the well. Things were looking up.....

North of Amman, Ottoman Empire
Late July, 1912

First Sergeant Aviv Moss of the Légion Étrangére looked around the edge of the boulder he hid behind, watching the dust cloud in the distance grow larger. He grinned widely. "Think about it, Alex. Fifty thousand Turkish horsemen riding down upon us."

Aleksandr Gjergj, a young private from Albania looked out nervously. The man had signed up for the Legion in the early months of 1910, before the world had gone crazy and before war had consumed Europe. In hindsight, it was foolish to join the Legion expecting to make it through without seeing war, but such thoughts had not occurred to Gjergj. He was now somewhat regretful he had not listened to his mother and entered the clergy.

Moss straightened from behind the rock, standing and stretching his legs. When Gjergj suggested he stay down, Moss laughed. "Don't worry, kid. No bullet from a damned Turk's rifle is going to kill me." At that moment, the crack of rifle fire erupted a few hundred yards from their position, and Moss dropped to the ground, his look of supreme confidence gone, replaced by surprise. He hid it well, and within half a second was back to an irreverent grin. Even so, his Albanian comrade chuckled for a moment, before shouldering his rifle and firing towards the Turkish horsemen.

The battle continued this way for several minutes, with the Legionnaires calmly firing and reloading, adding to the growing mound of dead men and horses in the valley. Runners from the Brigade Command Post arrived, informing the officers that a full Turkish cavalry corps was assaulting the Legion position, several valleys in southern Lebanon and northern Transjordan held by a few thousand Legionnaires. When the Turks showed no signs of withdrawing, First Sergeant Moss began to grow anxious, as no French reinforcements were arriving.

Another hour had passed, and the Turks kept trying to force the valley, dismounting some of their men and trying to flank the Legionnaires. The Legion had inflicted almost four times as many casualties on the Turks as they had suffered themselves, but they could afford to lose so many that the strain was starting to show.

It was not midday before the French machine guns towards the head of the valley began to fall silent, one at a time. Within a minute, Lieutenant Adrien Nicolas was running along the Legion lines, yelling for men to fix their bayonets. There was a great shink-click as the Legionnaires collectively drew their bayonets and attached them to their rifles. Captain Renard held his saber at the ready, standing defiantly before the oncoming Turkish cavalry. Lifting his sword, he swung down and shouted "Honneur et fidélité! Vive le France! L'avant, Légionnaires!"

Lang Son, Vietnam
10 August, 1912

"I'm surpised you stayed with us, Vibol."

Vibol Samnang was a man of Khmer descent, who walked quietly with his French and European comrades as the Siamese soldiers stood to the sides, watching the prisoners go by. "I took an oath when I signed onto the Legion, Franz. Legio Patria Nostra."

The Swiss legionnaire nodded. The Legion and loyal Indochinese troops had given the Siamese a bloody nose in Saigon, and again in Hanoi, but for now the Siamese were the victors. For now, the war was over for Franz, Vibol, and the others who saluted the tricolore when it flew. "What do you think will happen to us? Think they'll try to use us as bargaining chips with Paris for keeping Indochina?"

Before the Cambodian could answer, John Morgan, an American and a lieutenant, spoke up from behind them. His deep voice, fair skin, and Anglic accent were horribly out of place among the dense jungle and mostly Asian soldiers around him. "Quiet, you two. Mars ou meurt."

Late August 1912, Syrian Desert

Captain Stepan Ivanovich wiped his brow, cursing the heat. He wished he and his men were back up north, fighting the Germans instead of in the middle of a god damned Turkish desert. But orders were orders and here he was. Patrolling this god forsaken place, looking for Turkish hold outs and cavalry patrols. It was damn stupid. At least the army had sensibly adapted a khaki uniform for the heat.

He took another swig from his canteen and looked around at his platoon. Three squadrons of horseback cavalry. He lifted his hand and waved forward. They broke into a trot, going forward in a column. The sun continued to beat down at them. So far all they had encountered was a few nomadic tribesmen, who had sold them water at probably exorbitant prices. Ah well. He thought back to a week or two ago, when they had been passing through Kurdish territory. They had been welcomed as heroes and liberators there. Men, women and children turning out to cheer them and ass them spirits...

Then there had been the Kurdish militia, armed with a hodge-podge of Turkish weaponry and older firearms. He had even spotted some flintlock weapons which looked like the kind of weapons his great-grandfather might have used against the French!

Suddenly he spotted a line of dots on the horizon. Turkish cavalry? He signaled his bugler, who blew a series of notes, ordering the patrol to spread out into a line. Men fingered their carbines and revolvers nervously. Ivanovich drew his sword, examining it. Probably would be useless here, but you never knew.

He squinted into the sun as the two sides approached each other. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw...Yes. Yes, it was the distinctive shape of a kepi. And the Turks didn't wear kepis.

He turned to his men with a shout of excitement, "It's the French!"

The tension drained away as the men cheered, celebrating their link up with their allies.

Ivanovich spurred forward, waving his hat in the air and shouting greetingsi n French (he had taken it at the university in Petrograd), indicating for his men to follow.


OOC: If Malkyer would like to, he could write the French side of this encounter.:)

Syrian Desert

Captain Maximilien Hervé spat collected dust from his mouth, and drank from his canteen to restore the lost moisture. The water was warm and brackish, but at least it was wet. That was more than could be said for the rest of this backwater desert in the hinterland of a backwater empire.

His troop of Chasseurs d'Afrique, peid-noir cavalry recruited from Algeria, had been patrolling the desert for days, searching for remnants of the Turkish Army, or the advance patrols of the Russian Army, whichever they came across first. He shifted his weight, trying to make his ass hurt a little less, but spending days sitting on a horse made a man sore; that was that. His boredom was alleviated when Gawdat Tarek, a Spahi from Oran assigned to the Chasseurs as a translator and guide, rode up alongside him.

Tarek's status as a translator and guide was largely formalty; most peid-noirs in the Army spoke decent Arabic, and were adept at desert navigation and tracking. However, High Command had felt it important to have Muslim troops in every Armée d'Afrique unit in the Ottoman Empire after the Caliph had declared a jihad, to convince local Muslims that the French had no interest in repeating the Crusades. Before Tarek could speak, however, a rider in front of Hervé shouted and pointed in to the distance; the outlines of several horsemen were just visible through the heat shimmers.

The cavalry troopers readied their carbines and Captain Hervé drew his saber, silently cursing himself for not paying better attention to his surroundings. After a brief, but tense, moment, he was startled to hear the unknown riders shouting in French. He listened, and then turned to his men, shouting happily.

"C'est bien! Ils sont des Russes![i]" With that, the French cavalry patrol rode forward to meet their comrades-in-arms. Russia and France had been fighting as allies these bloody three months, and their soldiers would finally meet face-to-face.

After reaching the Russians, Captain Hervé swung down from his horse and ran the last twenty yards, estatic upon seeing allied troops. Extended his hand to the Russian officer who had been calling, he spoke in French:

"[i]C'est si bon voir des soldats amicaux après le si beaucoup de temps dans le désert! Je suis désolé, mon ami, mais je n'ai jamais appris Russe. Votre puits français est-il, ou vous faire plutôt anglais ou allemand?"

Ivanovich, for his part, had swung out of his saddle and met the Frenchmen halfway, shaking his hand heartily. His men dropped out of their saddles, coming forward on foot to meet their counterparts, although most did not speak a word of French.

Ivanovich paused before responding, “De même, mon ami ! Il est si bon de voir les Français ! Votre gouvernement s'est finalement trié, hein ? Je suis désolé, mais seulement je parle français. Je suis allé à une université, vous voyez.”

At the mention of German he spat into the dust and shook his head, “Bah ! Les Allemands…”

His men began mingling, communicating with gestures or limited French and pidgin German.

It was tense, Lt. Franco gulped down a little water from his canteent. He pulled a pocketwatch from his tunic, feeling the heat of a German summer. It was wet too, the wool of their uniforms making it stick onto their skins. He looked at his watch again.

The Captain had been killed before, and now it was his company. THe men wore little postboard notes in their hats. All stated "Recuerden Alfonso". Many of the men had stolen dead German bayonets. They saw that they did some use in trenches. Spanish trenches were small compared to German trenches, but much more alaborate than French ones. He sighed as he put the whistle to his lips.

Attack after attack had gone around the city. Now the men expected eath as they were ordered to assault into the city. They knew this was it.

Oddly enough, though harsh, the attack proved much less than they'd expected. They pushed, shoved, and with angry firing and artillery support pushed the Germans out of Archean. (Sp)

Franco sat heavily on the stones that had once been someone's house. German cities seemed pock marked with such examples. Such a sad experience. Though he continued to think about why the Germans didn't want to defend their homes better. This was another German industrial point destroyed by Spanish guns. Odd. He took a pack of makings and started his cigarette. Virginia Tobacco, the men joked. Alot of American products were getting into Spanish stores. But nothing like American cigarettes. It seemed that SPanish soldiers couldn't get enough of those.

Shiraz, Islamic Republic of Free Persia (South Persia)

"Bloody hell..."

Colonel John Birmingham threw down his paper in disgust.

"How the hell are we supposed to build this damned railroad when there are damned Russians, damned Chinese and damned Frogs in the way! Damn it! Who let the wogs get this far south anyhow?"

"Well, sah, it appears the Turks did."

"Damn it, Charles! I know the damned Turks lost their damned Empire. It was a damned rhetorical question, damn it!"

"Apologies, sah."

"Oh well, I assume we will have to deal with this in other ways... at least we got Kuwait before the damned wogs got here. I just pray the same will happen for those Hun lands we got down south."

"Hey Lt. you got to see this." THe private grinned one wide grin, his youthful face filled with amusement. Their regiment had been transfered to some god for saken little area to the sides. They'd dug and dug into the dirt to get the entrenchments. THe smell of unburied bodies from the earlier actions pervaded. Thankfully the Germans weren't anywhere closer to wanting to attack the Spanish than they were in return at this moment.

Lt. Franco looked at the private with a little disgust. He was a veteran, he should know better than to show his head above the trench. That was a good way to get a sniper's round in your ear. He didn't collapses into the trench, so it made the situation curiouser. "Father, you might want to see it to."

Father Sanadrino had been preparing to join the priesthood before the government grabbed him, and put him into a uniform. Now, everyone called him father for obvious reasons. He looked up, glaring at the boy who bothered him while he cleaned his rifle. Both men did as they were offered, looking over the trench towards the German's lines.

Out in the middle of the field, stood a man with what looked like a bucket of water. He was rambling in Latin, his black priests garbs making him look funny in the myrade of uniforms. He kept rambling, ignoring stray shells, or rifle bullets that were the norm here.

"What's he doing father?" The private asked as the older man listened. "Absolution. He's giving them absolution and last rites. Seems a little late. They've been dead for months. I guess he's got holy water in that bucket." Lt. Franco sighed. A sniper was probably already going to take the crazy father out.

Strangely they didn't hear a cry or anything else. An hour later when they looked up, they could see the siluette of the priest in the distance, still following his routine. Odd war is. The Germans probably didn't fire simply because it was such a strange spectacle. And murdering old men must have been beyond them. Strange little war.

December 25th, 1912: 12:45 AM

"Sir... Sir" The young man sounded frightened as he started to shove Lt. Franco awake. He opened an eye in annoyance, glaring at the young man who dared to wake him up. "What is it?"

"They're doing something funny sir." He got up for that, anytime the Germans did something funny, it wasn't good news. They might be ready to unleash something nasty on the Spanish, holding a quieter sector of the line. Every man was awake now, their heads slightly elevated over the parapet of the trench. They'd tried to put trench logs for head cover, but those had been splintered by artillery earlier. He peered out into the darkness. A few beads of light were just able to be seen.

Lt. Franco reached for the phone. Hopefully they'd buried it deep enough so that the wires didn't get wet, or the other million of things that went wrong with phones at the front didn't go wrong. The foward observer picked up. "What's going on?" He whispered into the phone.

The forward observer hushed back. "Sounds like they are singing. Wait a second. Something is happening." Everyoen got onto the small firestep, men putting fresh clips into their rifles as they peered out.

Lt. Franco put his binoculours to his eyes, trying to get a better view. A single German soldier, something lit in his hands was peeling around the barbed wire. Spanish troops put abatis in front of their line, and then crisscrossed barbed wire. They could be placed much easier in front than the wood stakes the Germans used. And they also turned into one big mess when artillery hit them.

The German kept coming, carrying what looked like a small tree with candles on it. Lt. Franco lowed his hand slightly. The men in the trench lowered their rifles to the previous drilled space. THey could lift them again quickly if needed.

"Frohe Weihnachten." The boy yelled out as he waved towards their lines. Lt. Franco blinked as he looked at Father. THe older man had spent some time in Morocco, and you picked up a little German when you spent time in the enclave. "What did he just say?" He asked the man who was trying to get a cup of coffee going, not too concerned with the perdicament. "I think he means Feliz Navidad Lt."

The German had a white scarf tied around his arm, still waving, now seeming to want someone to join him in the middle of no man's land. "Father. Go see what he wants." Father looked like he thought that his officer had gone insane. "Go. And do the same thing. White scarf on the arm. And bring some of those sweets we got in the care packages from home." THe older man grumbled, doing as he was ordered, and making his way out of the trench and towards the German.

The wait was tense, all of the SPanish troops looking nervous as Father discussed things with the German. From his position, Franco could see them exchange something. And it didn't seem to be going bad. Two men standing in the middle of the lines. That was an odd sight. Father returned after what seemed like forever, and sat down next to Franco. "He wants to parley. Seems they want a nice CHristmas this year."

Franco grimaced, this could be a trick. And he also knew his own higher officers wouldn't appreciate an armistice made between soldiers without permission. His eyes roved to the dirty members of his trench. THey all looked haggard, the stress of their predicament showing on their faces. Fuck high command. THey needed this. "Alright. What do we do?"

"They said to meet in the crater made by one of the heavies. Says to meet him there in a few minutes." Franco nodded, looking over the parepet again. If this was normal, he'd have a sniper clear his ear out. No bullets came. Quickly he scurried out at the appropriate time. He kept low, much from practice. And slid with Father into the trench. The young boy from before, maybe 18, and an older man in his 30's sat in the trench already.

Father translated. Oddly enough they didn't need to think about it much. BOth sides agreed to a sieze fire. THough the officers involved were a Lt. and a Captain. They didn't need to really do it formally. Lt. Franco learned that the instant the sun rose. German and Spanish soldiers, looking dazed as they walked forward over rubble, and what must have been a suburb of Aechan. Both sides walked forward in even lines. If they had carried rifles, they might have looked like two sides about to fight.

But it didn't end like that, Spanish soldiers in dark, almost black, gray shook hands with Germans in field gray uniforms. A smattering of Spanish and German crossed, as the men started to talk with what little of the other's language they had. Both lines disintergrated. Germans and SPanish mixing in one large group. The young boy from the morning sat with his breakfast, one of the SPanish sweets. Others with clearer heads started to the grimmer tasks ahead: burying the dead. The land between the lines was covered in them, and SPanish and German spades started to go to work.

It seemed strange for a Spanish in dark gray, a German in field Gray, and a Frenchman in light blue to be buried together. But it didn't seem to matter.

A young private ran towards Lt. Franco as he was sharing his cigarettes with the German. It seemed that Germany didn't import as many American cigarettes as the Spanish did. "Hmm yes?" He seemed mullified in the temporary peace. The soldier looked distrought, making the Lt. jump up slightly. His eyes were filled with tears, not able to say a word as he led him towards another pile of rubble.

Artillery didn't take names, or make any differences between soldiers and civilians. It killed with immunity. A little girl, not older than 7 lay in the rubble of what must have been her home. She'd been dead for a couple months, and a group of diggers had found her when moving some rubble. Lt. Franco gulped. She was definetly a German civilian, and how the German soldiers handled it could end this little Christmas quicker than it occured.

Strangely nothing happened. The little girl's body was prepared. A German carpentor worked on a rudimentary coffin made of German duckboards and Spanish nails. A dozen young soldiers volunteered their blankets for her to lay in. A Spanish soldier whose mother had sent him a pillow rested her head on it before they nailed the lid shut. Lt. Franco didn't have to tell him, as Father started to say a sermon over the child's new grave. The soldiers digging it, had made sure to make it extra deep. That way no artillery could get to it. It was a false hope, but maybe this CHristmas burial would be undisturbed.

No soldier had dry eyes at that moment. As Father's rustic Latin swayed, and a German translator transferred it to German, Germans and Spainards cried. The dirt laying over the grave with a dusky hue.

Burial took half ot CHristmas Eve, making the next celebration even more ectatic. Germans and SPainards celebrated with gusto. Both sides agreed to protect their trenches, and only meet in no mans land. Franco was sure that the enemy sent over spies to his trench, as he sent his. And they guarded it with a friendly turn as his guards did to the Germans.

The SPanish couldn't get enough of the CHristmas trees. Little ferns from trees cut down in artillery fire had been put with candles. Germans roared with laughter as Spainards set up a large bonfire with spare wood and started to attempt to jump it. The custom escaped them, but both sides laughed as one poor soldier got the seat of his pants caught on fire, and had to roll around to put it out. Thankfully he got away with just a little red bum, and a pair of burned trousers.

Trading went on everywhere. Germans were seen with the Spanish cap, the black gray and blue facing seeming odd with their lighter gray. And Spanish soldiers couldn't get enough of the caps with the spikes on the ends. Some SPanish men were talking about issueing helmets, but nothing compared to the pikelhomme(sp) Both sides cooked in the middle too. Butchers of both sides compared what they made. TUrkey, ham, and a dozen other ethnic foods mixed together, to override the death smell of no man's land, for just a little while.

"Hey Lt." A young soldier walked up to Franco as he smoked his cigarette. "Do you have any idea who this is?" He pointed towards the soldier locked arm in arm with him. "My uncle owns a millinery in Cadiz. And he always eats at this deli across the street from him. HIs aunt is married to the guy who runs that. SMall world huh?" He laughed, dragging the other soldier with him. (Actually happened with British and German troops. Except it was a barber.)

Some soldiers were trying to work out a proper gift giving thing. The Germans just couldn't get their mind wrapped around the Three Wise men giving presents. And the SPainards couldn't understand anything about a St. Nick.

Either way, many spent times mingling. Until night finally fell. Men seemed reluctant to leave their new friends. Most of them were only 18. And now that they'd met, it seemed a shame to have to return to their trenches. But like good soldiers they went.

Christmas Day started with an informal football game between Barcelona and Bovaria troops. The whole regiment eventually got into it, kicking and falling into the mud. Lt. Franco didn't pay attention when the regimental commander came up to him. "Lt." He coughed, his long black msutache making a huge difference on his face. "You realize come night, that high command isn't going to stand for this? They're already preparing the bombardment."

Franco nodded. "I know. How long do we have?" The officer sighed. "About 4 hours to get everything ready." He nodded, the officer leaving, and making sure that SPanish guards were on post.

Franco nodded, taking one long drag from his cigarette. A german officer was talking to his counterpart, probably giving the same answer. Franco held up his fingers. "4." The German nodded, holding up the same amount. At least the men could finish their game.

Leaving 20 minutes before happened to be a good idea. THe respective bombardments came at least 5 minutes early. Spanish and German went into bombproofs, sighing at not even being able to finish Christmas Day in peace. Many Spanish soldiers at in the dugouts, looking fornlornly as they munched on German chocolate, trying to remember what home was like.

(If Safehaven wants to talk about this from the German point of view. Go for it.)

Oberleutnant Erhard Werner turned to his men “Schnell! Schnell! Get under cover; they have a mortar in the area” The Czech and Bosnian troops he commanded proved themselves able fighters in the tough Russian campaign and their experience proved key to smashing the Coalition forces in the Balkans. The occupation was taking a toll on their discipline however. He already had to break up several fights between the Czech and Bosnian troops who just weeks before called each other friends.

Erhard dived next to some rubble just as a mortar round came screaming down on his men’s position. For the most part the Serbian occupation was going good, but every once and a while the Police Garrison needed a little help. The Serbs might not have done much to protect their country, but they were fighting tooth and nail now that it had actually been defeated. Erhard’s head whipped around as the sound of the gunfire erupted behind him. “Halt!” He screamed as he realized what was going on. As military discipline broke down, his men had become increasingly violent towards Serbian civilians. In war, one knew what the enemy looked like, in an occupation, the old man you passed could be carrying explosives for the resistance and the strain was manifesting itself in the men Erhard commanded.

“Idiots!” Erhard shouted as he knocked one of the man’s rifles out of his hands. “What do you think your doing?”

“Sir!” said one of the men, coming to attention, something that was rather awkward for a man half hunched behind a wall to avoid snipers. “Hauptmann Hans said we were to shoot all Serbs in the area, Sir!”

Erhard snorted. “I’m sure he did. Does this order extend to innocent civilians as well?”

Another of the troops, a Bosnian this time, responded. “Hauptmann Hans said that all civilians had fled to the countryside and that only partisans and enemies of the state remained in the city Sir!”

“Hauptmann Hans is not your commanding officer, I am! And as long as you are under my command, you shall NOT shoot at unarmed citizens. Understood?”

“But Sir-”

Hans drew his service pistol and pointed it at the soldier. “Private, do you know the punishment for disobeying my orders is? I can assure you, you won’t like it.” The protestor sat down. “Good, now does anyone else have any objections?” Erhard asked as he holstered his pistol.

Most of the men muttered acceptance but Erhard carefully noticed those who didn’t respond. The longer the occupation continued, the more likely the damned Slavs would fall back into their old ways. An old joke that Erhard hadn’t heard since the beginning of the war floated back into his head as he walked towards the command post. He tried to remember the whole thing. It went something like, how many Slavs does it take to fire a machinegun? Two to fire it and a half dozen to ask the priest if the machine was the work of the devil. Erhard shook his head. No one said Austrian comedians were any good.

A Brief Summary of my Travels in the Nation of Siam and Our Former Colonies in Indochina

Monsieur Delcassé:

Taking leave from our embassy in Bangkok, I toured the areas controlled by Siam, and wish to inform you of the state of the nation.

I began my journey by taking a full tour of Bangkok itself. Far from the quaint town of years ago, much of the city is now dominated by noisy factories that have polluted the air. Using an interpreter, I spoke to many, from both high and low classes. The people all seem to be of the opinion that recent developments here have been for the worse. Many dislike the idea of being ruled by an Emperor of Vietnam.

After finishing with Bangkok I elected to travel east, towards Cambodia. On the way I passed through the Siamese countryside. There the state of affairs was woefully underdeveloped, and the people bemoaned their poverty. Many young Siamese men have gone to the cities, another fact bemoaned by the peasants here. Cambodia itself seems to be mostly untouched except for Phnom Penh itself. There many of the graceful buildings that the French constructed have been torn down in favor of new ones. The Cambodian I spoke with seemed to care little for the government here. The local Cambodian government, ironically, is trusted less than the central government. I also spoke to some of those who recognize how beneficial the French administration was to the region. One former official said, "After the Siamese army came through, I lost my job and my house was taken by their soldiers. I would rather have the French, they were at least fair."

Finally, I ventured into the mountains of Laos for the final part of my journey. The Laotians live under mean and vile conditions. Many of the young men join the military or travel to a large city to seek their fortunes. In Vien-tiane, I toured the city and found it old and decrepit. The industry that has seized the rest of the nation has left Laos behind, and it shows in this city. A group here even openly denounces the Siamese government and calls for a return to French rule! I spoke with Hung Duc, a former bureaucrat and the leader of this organization. He said that he preferred the French over the Siamese, and in hushed tones told me that most of his countrymen felt the same. At this point my funds ran short and I returned to Bangkok.

In conclusion, I feel that if the French Government launched an effort to retake Indochina and Siam with it, the people would welcome us as liberators. Such an expedition should be seriously considered.

Prosper Germain Garnier, Aid to the French Ambassador to Siam