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]

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

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.”

[WTE_OzWolf]

Northern England

Bill Reddie had not felt any better when he had come to. In fact, he’d felt decidedly worse. The wound in his leg, which he’d only noticed when he woke up, was obviously infected and this combined with the after-effects of shock to made him groggy and feeling ill. When he had staggered out of the half-destroyed barn, he had run straight into the farmer who owned it. The farmer had taken one look at Bill’s uniform and quickly taken him inside where his wife had looked after him.

It took two weeks but Bill was finally well again. The infection in the wound had only just started to set in so that was put to heel quickly. The rest was reccuperation. And now he was on the road again, heading south towards where the battle would be.

The lack of Russian activity in the region puzzled Bill. With the capture of territory, there was generally a supply line trailing behind the forward army, keeping ammunition, personnel and medical help close at hand. But Bill only saw the occassional Russian-made truck belching its way past. Either the troops were coming in from another direction or the Russians were hedging all their bets on this one offensive.

From the destruction that Bill saw along the way, he saw what such a combined force could do. On his second day on the road, Bill came across the smoking remains of Colonel O’Donnels tank barracks. Out of the fifty tanks that the colonel had under his command, Bill estimated nearly thirty stood where they parked, now blackened and charred husks. Around the base were scattered the other twenty tanks of the colonel’s forces, with perhaps ten Russian tanks alongside them. Bill just shook his head as he walked past.

It took eight days for Bill to finally reach far enough south to hear gunfire. He was worried by this time, because he was nearing Coventry, the northern most English city; his home. Gradually over the next two days, the gunfire got louder until eventually, Bill crested the mountain range north of Coventry and was able to see what lay before the English city. And what he saw chilled him to the bone.

Coventry was burning like a massive candle. Scattered Russian troops, obviously a mop-up force, were in skirmishes with other soldiers. As Bill made his way towards the city, he saw that the majority of English fighting were women and children. People who had picked up a rifle from a dead man’s fingers and taken up the fight. Bill couldn’t blame them either. Their homes were gone; the Russians had literally raped the city of life and then moved on.

Anger seethed in the very depths of Bill’s heart. His very being cried for him to do something, anything to inflict the pain felt by his countrymen onto the Russians. But common sense prevailed. For all he knew, he was the only survivor from the battle in the Wastelands and he needed to find somebody to tell them of what he knew. He had recon data for the north that he doubted anybody else could have.

Giving one last, longing look at his home city, he started heading south again, unsure if London or anyone would still exist for him to tell his story.

Northern Fleet, North Sea

The RES Repulse looked nothing like it had done before the first engagement against the Russians. Her upper decks were peppered with holes from shrapnel. Great holes were torn in her upper decks from shell hits that had simply been roped off and sailors worked around. One of her funnels was missing from where a Russian shell had taken it off at the base. But still she sailed proudly as the flagship of the Northern fleet.

And now, Harry Jackson carried the extra rank insignia of Rear Admiral. Admiral Edward Collins had unfortunately been caught in the wheelhouse when it had taken a direct hit. His last words were to promote Harry and place him in charge of the fleet. Harry doubted that the promotion would stick if they ever got back to port, but the fleet’s orders were simple: the only way it was coming home was if it was short of fuel, ammo or not at all.

Stepping over the torn metal in the middle of the bridge deck, Harry raised his binoculars and looked at the approaching vessels. Powerful, sleek and decidedly Russian. Harry sighed.

“How many vessels do they have?” He asked.

Captain David McLennan snorted.

“Infinite sir.” He replied. “The bastards are probably running them off a production line, along with their crews.”

The vision of such an occurence seemed strangely funny to Harry and he started laughing. It became infectious and soon the entire bridge was chuckling. It was a sound that had been greatly missed since the war had started and it was welcome to Harry’s ears. If they should die now, at least that had had one last good laugh at the world.

So far, the Northern Fleet had kept the Russians at bay, but at great cost. The Western Fleet no longer existed, being disbanded to replace the losses of the Northern and Southern Fleets. The pristine tactics used in the first engagement were also gone. Now, all engagements were slugging matches, straight and simple.

It wasn’t long before the Repulse began receiving reports of sonar contacts. It was expected. The Russians always brought a large contingent of submarines with their intended invasion fleets. Even as the sonar reports came in, one of the forward destroyers was lifted bodily out of the water by an exploding torpedo. Water geysered up through the superstructure of the vessel as the resulting shockwave broke the ship’s back. Quickly, the vessel sunk below the surface.

Any despair Harry felt at that was shortlived however, when the forward batteries signified the recognised start of a battle with a deafening roar. He smiled tightly as the first rounds straddled the leading enemy battleship. Countless engagements had honed the skills of the Repulse’s gunners. With a second roar, the main batteries fired again. This time, flame and debris sprouted from the lead battleship, signifying a magazine hit. The enemy warship stopped dead in the water and began to list. Without prompting, the gunners traversed and began firing on another target.

The sinking of the Russian battleship would be the only clear cut victory for the Repulse on that day. The battered warship, even more battered after running the Russian gauntlet of fire, finally took a round that penetrated below decks and pierced the boiler room. With a screaming hiss, the boiler’s vented steam freely through the stacks and the hole below decks. Eventually, the sound died away, but the Repulse was dead in the water. Smoke billowed from her as destroyers moved in like jackals and picked at the carcass of the slain beast.

Harry stood on the bridge, watching proudly as men remained at their positions, doing enough to keep the enemy distracted from the more operational warships. But slowly and surely, the Repulse’s guns began to fall silent as her crew died at their posts or had their weapons destroyed.

Just as it seemed that the Repulse could not cause anymore damage to the enemy, one of the destroyers erupted into flame and immediately began to keel over. Even before Harry could phrase a question, a Spitfire of unknown configuration roared by overhead, closely followed by its squadron mates.

The one remaining lookout called out to him.

“Sir!” He cried. “On the horizon to the south!”

Harry lifted his binoculars and what he saw sent a thrill up his spine.

“By god!” He exclaimed. “They got the Ark Royal afloat!”

On the horizon, steaming at full speed from the south, was the unmistakable silhouette of an aircraft carrier, surrounded by the equally unmistakable outlines of English warships. The RES Ark Royal was the last acquisition made by the English Empire before its vital resources had run dry. The might warship, prolonged by construction delays and the war, was now afloat and its squadrons of Seafires were roaring amongst the Russian warships with reckless abandon. Caught with a scenario they had never faced before, one of facing two types of opponents, the Russian fleet began to scatter and lose co-ordination. The arrival of the Ark Royal’s escort only sped up the inevitable.

But the Repulse was never going to leave this battle. It’s engines were gone and the explosion of the boiler opened the hull below the sea line. Harry remained staunchly on the bridge until he was certain every living member was off of her. Then with Captain McLennon, he stepped onto the last lifeboat and saluted the mighty warship as she slipped beneath the waves for ever.

Sighing, Harry sat down. The loss of the Repulse was not the highlight of his career. England needed every battleship it could put to sea. There was no way that the Repulse would be replaced. On the bright side though, they had stopped another Russian invasion force.

Manchester Military Airbase, Mid-Northern Engand

Charlie Gray blew on the wood fire and was rewarded with a face full of smoke and soot. He coughed and spluttered before giving his room mates a withering stare that stopped their laughing.

“Laugh it up guys.” He said. “Otherwise we sleep in the cold tonight.”

Any remaining laughter died instantly. Charlie turned away, hiding his own smile. When faced with the cold of a northern england winter, Charlie almost wished he was south fighting jerry fighters again...almost.

The Russians had basically no airforce. Raids against Russian forces were proving deceptively easy, which was lulling the English forces into a sense of security. The edge the pilots had had was being dulled from lack of challenge. This worried Charlie because he knew the Russians wouldn’t ignore the need for a larger airforce for long.

With a triumphant cry, the fire lit...and the klaxon blared. Charlie stumbled to his feet and ran towards the door. Any sign of having their edge dulled was apparently gone as the English pilots scrambled for their fighters. In the dying dusk, Charlie could make out silhouettes of enemy aircraft coming from the north. Nothing in size like the Germans had, but still it was a formation.

Charlie’s Spitfire refused to start and he kept punching the starter futily. The other fighters around him spluttered to life and made takeoff runs either straight down taxi-ways or from the runway proper. Charlie pumped the starter button again, and this time he was rewarded with his engine firing to life. Grinning, he gunned his engine and began roaring down the nearest taxi-way.

“Blue Two!” Screamed one of his squadron mates. “Get clear! You’ve got a bandit bearing down on you!”

Charlie cursed as he saw the vibrating image of a Russian fighter bearing down on his aircraft in his rear-vision mirror. He quickly popped the top, climbed out and dove off of the moving plane. As he hit the ground, he heard a painful crack from his right ankle and it gave way. Luckily, he had enough presence of mind to roll away before he was clipped by the tail wing. In pain, he scrambled away as cannon rounds pounded the runway around his fighter. He was knocked flat on his face when his fighter exploded.

Biting back the pain, Charlie hobbled, limped and crawled his way to a nearby anti-aircraft gun nest.

“Need any help guys?” He asked with a wry grin. “Those bastards broke my ride. I want to return to favour.”

“Sure you can help buddy.” The nearby sergeant said. “Grab a seat behind this here gun and pull the trigger.”

Careful not to knock his ankle, Charlie climbed in behind the Bofors gun and adjusted the sight for himself.

“Ready?” He asked. The sergeant gave him the thumbs up.

“Locked and loaded.” He said. “Let ‘em have it.”

Charlie pulled the trigger and his world was obliterated by the roar of the gun. Black puffs signified where his shell were exploding. With his pilot’s skill, he lead a bomber as it approached the airbase and with a satisfying puff of an explosion, the bomber wheeled over and plummetted earthward.

Charlie let out a war cry as he kept tracking aircraft. By now, the sky around the airbase was thick with flack as the defenders were fully alert. The adrenaline pumping through Charlie’s body made him temporarily forget about the pain in his ankle.

Finally, after what seemed like eons, but was in fact only twenty minutes, the attack was over. The Russian aircraft were in full retreat being harassed by English fighters. Charlie sat back, his gun now quiet.

“Anybody got a smoke?” He asked. The sergeant smiled and handed him one.

“You kinda need it after that.” The sergeant commented.

“Yeah, I ‘spose you do.” Replied Charlie. “But I was thinking that I might not get another chance for a fag until I come out of hospital...and I want to enjoy it before the pain returns.”

The sergeant and his men laughed, as did Charlie. He’d survived by the barest of margins and it felt too good not to laugh.

London Palace, London

“Welcome Invictius.” Winston Churchill said as the Roman Ambassador entered his office. “Please, take a seat. Brandy?”

“Please.” Invictius Trenibus, First Ambassador to Caeser, replied. He nodded his thanks as Churchill gave him a decent shot of England’s finest.

“Now, Ambassador, what can I do for you?” Churchill asked.

“Mr Prime Minister, I first wish to thank you for your efforts in ensuring I made the treachourous trek across your countryside from my homeland in one piece. As you know, every country has elements that do not like to see supposed enemies meeting diplomatically.” Invictius said.

“Are we enemies Invictius?” Churchill asked. “Or merely two people caught up in the ambitions of others?”

“Ah!” Invictius said with a smile. “How I have missed your musings Mr Prime Minister. You always seem to shade what is otherwise a black and white world.”

Churchill smiled politely, but kept quiet, allowing Invictius to continue.

“But you are more right that you probably know.” The Ambassador continued, his tone changing to more serious. “To be frank Mr Prime Minister, Rome wishes to leave the Quadrant Alliance and ally herself with England.”

The statement rocked Churchill back. This was the last thing he had been expecting. Completely lost for words, his mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water. Not knowing what to say or do, he gulped down his brandy in one swallow. The fire that burned its way down his throat cleared his thoughts.

“This has taken you by surprise?” The Ambassador said, obviously amused by the fact the the English leader was for once without anything to say.

“You could say that, yes.” Replied Churchill. “But let me ask, what does Rome have to gain by leaving the Alliance?”

“It is more about what we have to lose.” Invictius replied. “It is not publicly known, but Rome did not wish war against England. Rome entered the Alliance initially to protect itself from the possibility of Russia or England invading it.”

Invictius raised a hand to cut of Churchill’s protestations.

“Mr Prime Minister, what you may see as impossible is something that we saw as a real threat.” He continued. “Rome is one of the smaller nations on this planet and yet we share borders with the three powers on this continent in Russia, England and Germany. When we entered the Alliance, we did so believing that having Russia and Germany as allies would protect us from England and our allies would not turn on us.”

“But they have?” Churchill asked, curious.

“Not yet.” Invictius said. “You may have already summised this, but General Stalin has taken control of Russia through a military coup. Catherine is but a puppet Head of State. Stalin's ambitions are somewhat more destructive and single-minded that Catherines ever were.”

“What is his ambition?” Churchill enquired, now leaning forward with interest.

“He wants Europa for Russia and Russia alone.” Invictius said. “Rome is no longer safe with her allies. Bismark probably has similar ambitions to Stalin, but before they face off against each other, they will be content to share the other nations on this continent among themselves.”

Pieces were beginning to fall into place for Churchill.

“So the attempted invasions of Greece were to try and get on equal footing with Russian and Germany?” Churchill said. “In the hope that when the day did come to fight either of those two nations, you could possibly stand up and fight for yourselves?”

“Exactly.” Invictius said. “But we were wrong. The cost in man power to gain Greece as our own would not be worth the final result.”

“What does England get out of this?” Churchill asked, realising he possibly had the upper hand in this bargain.

“We will stop any further aggressive acts towards Greece.” Invictius replied. “You will get more troops because you will not required to fully man the England-Rome border.”

Invictius paused before continuing.

“And Caeser will trade you excess oil for your excess rubber.” He finished.

Churchill simply looked dumbfounded. Mentally, he thanked god, any god, for the gift that the Romans had brought him. Externally, he looked newly labotamised. Shock, surprise and relief literally rolled off of him once he regained his composure.

The Romans had never been close friends with the English Empire. In fact, diplomatic relations had barely existed until the Quadrant Alliance had been born. Many might see the Romans as untrustworthy, but there were factors at play that couldn’t be ignored, the least of which was the possibility of oil.

“Ambassador,” Churchill finally said, “I need not consult anybody on this. I formally accept Caeser’s offer and enter into an alliance with Rome. May god spare us and may we live to see happier times.”

And god hope that oil comes in time for redemption, he finished mentally.

[civman2000]

great!!!

[WTE_OzWolf]

BUMP

It is in the finals, so thought I'd be egotistical and push it to the top.

[dexters]

Bumperoonie

Is there more coming?

[WTE_OzWolf]

Yes there is...from what I can tell about the story, it is not even half way through...just hope my ideas don't run up short.

[dexters]

It's fantastic. Your story is very much like one of those Band of Brothers episodes

[dnassman]

You write awesome stories and this is great as well. Doing us Aussie boys proud.

[WTE_OzWolf]

The Cost of War - Part III

Northern England

If somebody had asked Bill Reddie how he was feeling, he would most likely have shot them with the Springfield rifle he had liberated from a dead soldier. His current world consisted of how much road he had to walk and how much road he had walked. Two months of trudging south had yet to bring him within sight of the frontline and frankly, it was starting to piss him off.

He had spent years training to defend the Empire, only to get knocked out of battle and spend all of the time chasing a frontline that moving south faster than he was. Initially, this had been alarming to the point of distraction, but two months of seeing the same fate befall any person in front of the Russians had just left a burning rage in the pit of his stomach. Liverpool was nothing but a charred pile of ash when he had arrived there. Charred bodies had scattered the ground and it was obvious that women and children were amongst them.

The Russians were committing genocide against a people that just wanted to live in peace. What right did they have? What right?!?!

Bill suddenly realised he was on his knees, babbling to himself softly, his hands clenched tightly around his rifle. He opened his eyes, allowing the bright sunlight to penetrate the fog of his thoughts. It was only then that he realised that the sound of battle could be heard.

He looked around trying to guage its direction, but it sounded like it was all around him. He stood there confused. And then he looked up.

Wheeling and flashing across the skies, fighters fought each other. The sounds of explosions and gunfire filtered down to Bill who stood entranced at the beautiful, yet deadly, ballet being played out in the sky above. He stood there and just let the image cleanse him, ignoring the obvious implications of what was happening up there. He chose to see it through the eyes of a child.

Blue Lion Squadon, Northern England

Eight thousand feet above Bill Reddie, Charlie’s world was somewhat more clear, a lot less tranquil and completely unforgiving. The English Air Force had begun sorties into captured land in a hope of attacking Russian convoys. Their first such sortie had essentially been ambushed and the squadron was fighting for its life.

Gritting his teeth, Charlie threw his new Spitfire into a vicious spiral in an attempt to shake the two pursuers on his tail. Tracers raced past his fighter and he tried to slip through them. A couple of round punched holes in his wings but the damage was only superficial. Luckily, two of his wingmates came to help.

“Thanks Blue Leader, Three.” Charlie breathed as he levelled out and went looking for more prey. The sheer numbers of aircraft the Russians had was breathtaking. Charlie really wanted to see what the manufacturing cities of Russia looked like...then he’d have to bomb the living daylights out of them.

Latching onto an enemy’s tail, Charlie let loose a burst of cannon fire and watched it walk along the length of the fighter. With deceptive gracefulness, the figter rolled over and headed earthward. The lack of fire or smoke suggested to Charlie that the pilot was dead at the stick.

He wheeled his fighter about to attack another and was suddenly thrown forward into the flight stick as something struck his fighter with great force. Dazed, he fumbled to regain control of his aircraft, but it failed to respond. He shook free the cobwebs in his brain and tasted blood in his mouth. Just as he was getting some sense of what was going on, the fighter was slammed hard again.

Fire poared from the engine and land filled the cockpit’s vision. Charlie fumbled with the canopy release catch, but it failed to work. He slammed his hands futily into the glass with no effect. He couldn’t get out.

The plummet from the sky had put out the engine fire, but Charlie doubted that would prolong his survival much. He’d lost an elevator and was dead-stick and going vertically downwards. Any faster and the fighter would break apart.

Grunting with effort, Charlie pulled back on the stick. Adrenaline flowed through his veins and a new surge of strength burst through him. He kept pulling on the flight stick, and with slow, shuddering pain, the nose began to pull towards horizontal.

With a crash, the tail fin ripped from the fighter and fluttered away. Not that Charlie cared. He wasn’t going to really land this fighter again. His goal was to crash it in such a way that bits of him might walk away from it.

The aircraft was groaning now as the g-forces pulled at its entire structure. But the good news was that he had the plane more or less flying horizontally and he was continuously bleeding off airspeed. He kept nursing the fighter, willing more airspeed to drop before he found a flat area to belly it on. He also kept worrying that he would run out of airspeed before such a flat area appeared.

Then to his relief, he saw a field. Caressing the fighter downwards, he brought it in. The sound of tall strands of wheat cracking against his wings filled the cockpit moments before the lower air-scoop touched. And then all smooth flight stopped. Charlie was flung forward and his head bashed the console as the Spitfire piroetted on the spot where a wing had dug into the ground. A couple of more hits and finally the Spitfire was on the ground, perfectly still admist ruined wheat and a large dust cloud.

Charlie tried to think what he should do but all his mind wanted to do was sleep. A bash on the cockpit didn’t even startle him. The face that appeared in front of his did. It was smiling.

Northern England

Bill Reddie had watched the Spitfire plummet from the battle and had watched as the pilot successfully pulled it out of the dive. Bits were flying off the aircraft and he kept willing the pilot to jump but he never did. Eventually, the Spitfire had whistled overhead and crashed in a nearby field.

He reached it quickly enough that the dust cloud still surrounded the crash site. He tried the cockpit but it appeared to be stuck. Bill saw the pilot moving inside and called out to him but go no response. He didn’t know if the fighter would blow, but he had to get the pilot out.

Grabbing a rock, he smashed down on one of the latches and kept smashing until it was a mangled mess. Dropping the rock, he grabbed the cockpit and lifted. It came open with surprising ease. He leant inside and smiled at the pilot until the pilots eyes registered him.

“Nice landing.” Bill commented. “Might want to try it on a runway with wheels sometime.”

The pilot’s mouth split into a smile showing a bloodied mouth.

“I doubt they’ll let me out again.” He said. He tried to rise.

“Here, let me get you out of this thing.” Bill said, hooking his arms under the pilots and lifting. The pilot let out a blood curdling scream. Bill almost dropped him.

“Just kidding.” The pilot said, laughing then coughing. “Sorry.”

Bill cursed something about flyboys as he helped the groggy pilot clear of the fighter and moved him away. Without warning, the Spitfire exploded, throwing both men to the ground.

“Look mate.” The pilot said. “We’ve only just met. Don’t get fresh with me.”

And then the pilot fainted.

Bill lifted his nameless companion and carried him to a nearby clump of trees before collapsing there. He set about examining the pilot. He noticed that he wore a plaster cast around his right ankle and lower leg. Maybe he wasn’t so weak kneed after all.

The pilot let out a cliched groan and opened his eyes.

“Ow!” He said.

“Something hurt?” Asked Bill.

“Yeah, my head.” The pilot replied. “Feels like I’ve been drinking all night and decided to start a pub fight with the ten strongest guys there.”

“You’re lucky that’s all that’s hurting.” Bill commented. “You should have been dead.”

“Yeah, I know.” The pilot agreed. “Strange, isn’t it? People get run over by a bus in London by stepping out into the road and I walk away from an uncontrolled crash into a wheat field. Be buggered if I can figure out that.”

“Well, I wouldn’t walk into anymore streets if I were you.” Bill said. “You’ve used up all your luck as it is.”

“You don’t know the half of it mate.” The pilot said, before casting his eyes to Bill and offering him his right hand. “Charlie Gray’s the name. Getting shot down appears to be my game.”

Bill smiled.

“Bill Reddie.” He said, shaking the offered hand. “Let’s just rest here for a while.”

“Sure.” Charlie replied. “Got any brandy?”

Chuckling, Bill rested his head against a tree and closed his eyes. It was good to talk to another human being again.

London Palace, London

Standing on the balcony of London Palace, Winston Churchill could hear the gunfire to the north. Reports were also filtering in that the southern sector was about to collapse. The parade of dead was nearly a continuous flow through the capital’s streets as the population mourned the loss of loved ones and the possible loss of the Empire.

A knock on the office door brought Churchill out of his reverie and off the balcony.

“Come in.” He ordered.

General Bernard Montgomery strode in and saluted.

“Ah General.” Churchill said. “How goes Operation Sea Serpent?”

Montgomery looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“Mr Prime Minister, the operation proceeds well.” He paused before continuing. “However, I am unhappy with my position in charge of this. I should be leading the defence against the invaders.”

“Bernard, if the population discovered this, there would be mass hysteria. We will ensure everyone is safe, but they will not believe us.” Churchill said. “I need you in charge because it is your plan and you know the intracacies of it. There is nothing more I would want than to have you defending our Empire, because you would do a splendid job, but the Empire needs you here more.”

Montgomery sighed his resignation and nodded his acceptance.

“I do not want to lose you when we will need great leadership on the battlefield in the future.” Churchill said. “I do not intend for our situation to last forever.”

“What of the Romans?” Montgomery enquired.

“The rubber we have been supplying them has allowed the Romans to bolster their forces enough to stand alone for a reasonable amount of time.” Churchill said. “They took a great risk by leaving the Alliance and I intend to have them remain present on this continent. Please, sit Bernard. We need to discuss the future of England.”

Montgomery sat down and relaxed.

“The French are effectively gone.” Montgomery stated, matter-of-factly. “The Iroquios have attacked and are taking their remaining cities at a constant rate. The Greeks are starting to show signs of growth now that the Romans have stopped attacking them. For some reason, the Germans do not seem too worried about the Greeks. Perhaps they are focusing all of their efforts on us.”

“We should feel flattered.” Churchill grumbled. “No ill intentions to the Greeks, but if the Germans were somewhat distracted by them, we wouldn’t be overwhelmed on the southern front."

"Can't disagree with you there sir." Montgomery nodded his affirmative. "However, we are getting extra forces now that we don't have to worry about the Roman border, though that is probably a mute point because at the rate the Russians are advancing, we won't have a Roman border."

Churchill chuckled mirthlessly.

"What a pretty mess we're in." He said. "The Americans are of no use to us because of their war against the Aztecs; the French will soon be but a footnote in history; the Greeks are of no use because they are still trying to rebuild themselves; and the Romans are still trying to find their feet now that they're out of the Alliance. We may have a supply of oil again, but we're still effectively on our own and we can't get weaponary built instantly. All of our treasury was used to get the Ark Royal afloat. Tell me friend, what do you see becoming of our once glorious Empire."

"We will survive sir." Montgomery survived. "We may not be alive to see the Empire return to its rightful glory, but the plans we have in motion will mean that some generation will have the chance to strike back at our enemies. The English people have stood at the gates of hell before and walked away."

"I only hope you're right Bernard." Churchill commented. "I only hope you're right."

The two men fell into silence, contemplating the path they were on and where its ultimate end would be.

Protection Fleet, English Channel

The RES Olympia was a far cry from the Repulse but it was still a battleship. Rear Admiral Harry Jackson stood on the bridge of the elderly warship and scanned the horizon. The English Channel was also a far cry from the blood-soaked North Sea.

Once Harry had returned to Dover and Fleet HQ, the Navy had conferred on him his field promotion to Rear Admiral. However, the Ark Royal and her commander Admiral Sean O'Lachlan were now the leaders of the Northern Fleet, so Harry had been posted to the Olympia and placed in charge of the Protection fleet.

The English Channel was peaceful, like it had always been. With the two main fleets guarding the North and South Seas and massive minefields at either end of the channel, no enemy ship tried to come anywhere near the channel. And it was getting boring for Harry. After three months of flatout action, he was suddenly baby-sitting Channel Convoys and the slowdown was too sudden for his liking.

The Olympia and its associated flotilla of one battleship and eight destroyers had the duty of protecting the transports that were constantly flowing between the mainland and the English Isles. Harry had been told he was assisting Operation Sea Serpent but what it exactly meant, he had no idea. All he knew was that he escorted the enclosed transports to the Brighton Harbour, where his flotilla waited outside. Then the transports came out and he then escorted them to Portsmouth on the other side of the channel and the same deal happened.

What Operation Sea Serpent was about, he didn't have a clue. But he was a career navy man, and he knew when to follow orders and when to ask questions. He was pretty damn sure this was a time for following orders.

"Aircraft sir!" A lookout called and Harry's pace quickened slighty. "Awaiting visual recognition."

Before the lookout to recognise the aircraft, the radio operator stuck his head onto the bridge.

"Sir, we're receiving radio transmissions from incoming aircraft." The operator reported. "They are stating that they are here to provide air cover. They gave the correct security codes and countersigns."

Sighing, Harry nodded.

Air cover? From what? The only airborne assault they had had to face was from seagulls. But the sudden extra forces intrigued Harry. What was this Operation Sea Serpent and why did it require such a large force to protect its interests? And were the aircraft here because the enemy land-borne forces getting closer to striking range?

Yes, he would definitely have to look into this further.

[WTE_OzWolf]

Northern England

Two men in differing uniforms walked along the road in silence. One was a relative veteran of land battles and had been chasing an accelerating frontline for five months. The other was a fighter ace who had been shot down behind the frontline and had been chasing it for a month.

And they were currently silent because they were having a contest to see who could stay silent the longest. It was a stupid contest, but it was just one of a long line of stupid contests the men had created to keep their minds occupied.

"Bugger it." Charlie Gray cursed. "I can't do it any longer. I'm used to having radio chatter in my ear or be joking with someone. Ok, you win."

Bill Reddie smiled.

"Damn right." He replied. "That makes it 13-15 your favour. C'mon flyboy. Your turn."

"Let's just walk." Charlie said. "I've had enough of playing stupid games for a while. So tell me, why did you join the army? No co-ordination for flying? No sea legs? Your mother and father were brother and sister?"

Bill shot a hot glare at Charlie.

"For your information, I joined the army because it was family tradition." Bill replied. "My father was in the army, as was his and so on. It was expected of me. And I haven't regretted a moment of it since."

Charlie arched his eyebrow at Bill.

"Ok, up until I met you, it was pretty damned perfect." Bill said. "Seriously though, you do question why you joined when you see a massacre like you do in the Wastelands or at Coventry. But you quickly realise it is so as you can at least stop one person from inflicting that pain on somebody who doesn't have a chance to fight back."

"You do realise that they still have no idea what happened in the Wastelands or how the Russians pushed south so quickly and easily." Charlie said. "Before I got shot down, we were actually supposed to be starting recon missions to the north."

Bill snorted.

"I can tell 'em what happened." Bill said. "The Russians rolled over us like we weren't even there. And we..."

Bill stopped as they crested a hill and the city of Wolverhampton came into view. The city was destroyed, but that wasn't what surprised Bill, because Coventry and Liverpool had been destroyed as well. What shocked him was the fact that the city had simply been partially knocked down.

"C'mon." He said, breaking into a trot.

Charlie ran alongside him until they finally reached the the outskirts and began moving through the partial rubble. It was eerily silent.

"Is it me, or does it seem like nobody actually died here?" Bill asked, stepping over a suitcase that had spilt open and deposited its contents on the footpath.

"Yeah." Charlie said, pivoting as he walked. "And it freaks me out."

The wind whistled through the empty buildings and rubbish fluttered along the ground. Charlie felt a shiver run down his spine. It was too surreal to describe.

"They just packed up and left." Bill said. "It's like the entire city knew what was coming and simply left. It's unbelievable."

The two men stood there, amongst the deserted city, trying to comprehend what the hell it all meant, and neither of them liked what they were thinking.

Moscow, Russia

If winters in northern England were cold, then winters in Moscow could be classed as bordering on insane. Sam Smith was just glad that the summer had come. Now it felt like a brisk day in Liverpool rather than the inside of an ice-box. But the weather was only a secondary concern for Sam.

Sam Smith, a.k.a. Sergei Vladakov, was the first spy that England had successfully inserted into the Russian capital since the war had started. As far as he knew, he was also the only spy that the English had successfully inserted into the Russian capital and he had very good reason to believe this.

The Russian capital was locked down tighter than the Bank of England's vault. It was nearly impossible to get in and trying to find information was like trying to use a brick wall for a shake-down. Combine this with the constant cold and Sam was starting to get extremely frustrated.

It had taken a good four weeks of nosing around and being kicked out of Military Clearance Zones (MCZs) for Sam to finally discover that Stalin was in fact in charge of Russia. With mission one complete, and six weeks later, Sam still hadn't got close to finishing mission two, which was to estimate the Russian's overall production capability. All information of that nature was locked away in the Kremlin and the only way Sam was going to get into there was to join the Army and that was a last-resort method and one he wasn't too interested in using.

Sighing his frustration away, creating a plume of steam from his breath that mingled with the steam from the train at the platform he was standing on, Sam climbed into one of the Second Class carriages and found a seat. Second Class cars were not heated, but it was better than being crammed into a cattlecar like the poor buggers in Third Class got.

Sam was heading to Kiev, supposedly one of the biggest ship building cities in Russia. With nothing coming from his searches in Moscow, he had decided to visit some of the bigger cities around Russia and visually see if he could find their production capacity. He had some information on Moscow, but as the oldest city in the world and one of the most industrial, it was already estimated by London what that city was capable of.

Sam sat back in his seat as the steam train pulled out the station. It was dangerous for a spy to go travelling across the enemy countryside away from the immediate vicinity of their safehouse, but Sam saw the risks as acceptable. His country needed that information. They needed that information so they could go to the countries in Americana and try to get them on her side, otherwise they could be the next stepping stone between Stalin, Bismark and their ambitions.

Sam must have fallen asleep because the next this he knew he was being poked with the muzzle of a rifle. His eyes shot open and he nearly cursed in english before he realised where he was and checked himself.

"Papers?" The soldier standing over him asked in russian.

Sam dug out his forged papers and handed them to the soldier. The soldier looked them over and then looked at Sam.

"You are on leave?" The soldier asked.

"Yes." Replied Sam in russian as well. "I am returning to Kiev to see my mother before I must return to my post."

"You are a clerk?" The soldier asked. This worried Sam as to why he was being asked this before he realised that the soldier was possibly wondering why Sam wasn't wearing a uniform of a soldier.

"Yes I am." Sam said. "Not everybody can fight, but we must serve mother Russia as best as our abilities and our country's needs require."

The soldier held Sam's gaze a little longer before nodding and handing him his papers back.

"I agree comrade." The soldier said. "Enjoy your leave."

The soldier moved on, but Sam restrained himself from letting out a pent up sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted to so was make it seem to a casual observer that that had been nothing but routine.

Keeping an outwardly calm expression, Sam looked out at the passing countryside and thanked god for surviving his latest close call.

Brighton, England

The first that Harry Jackson knew he was in trouble was when two MPs arrived at his sides.

"Excuse me sir." One of them said. "Could you please come with us?"

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Do I have much choice?" He asked.

"Not really sir." The other MP said. "We have orders to subdue you if necessary but we'd prefer not to."

Shrugging, Harry fell into step behind them. He already had an idea what this was all about and getting himself knocked unconscious wouldn't help him in anyway.

For a month Harry had spent every spare moment he had trying to determine what Operation Sea Serpent was about and without much luck. He had never seen so many doors close so quickly and so abruptly. With the obvious amount of logistics being carted across the channel, Harry would have thought somebody, anybody would have been willing to tell him what the hell was going on, but everytime he got close to finding out the oppurtunity was slammed shut.

And his escort told him that somebody had taken an interest in his nosing around and did not appreciate it. Well, he would at least give himself the satisfaction of finding out what the hell was going on before they threw away the key and forgot about him.

A car waited by a nearby curb and Harry climbed in. The back door was closed behind him and he noticed wryly that the insides of the doors had no handles and that a mesh cage protected the front compartment from the back. His enquiries to his captors about their destination was met with with stony silence, so Harry simply sat back and enjoyed the ride.

After six hours travel along the road between Brighton and London, the last place Harry expected to pull up to was London Palace. He looked out with disbelief as to Palace Guards opened the doors and then escorted him up to the central office. He stood nervously in the office, knowing exactly who was going to walk through the door.

When Churchill did walk through the office door, Harry snapped to attention and saluted.

"At ease Admiral." Churchill said. "Please, have a seat."

Harry took the offered seat and waited for Churchill to ready himself.

"You pose a difficult problem Admiral." Churchill finally said, leaning on the desk. "I knew that Sea Serpent couldn't stay a secret for ever. It never would. Eventually everyone would become involved with it, from myself all the way down to the youngest newborn child."

Churchill sighed.

"I have had many of your superiors calling for you to be forcibly retired." He continued. "But I cannot and will not do it. England owes you a great deal of gratitude. Your efforts in the North Sea helped keep the Russians at bay long enough for the Romans to join our side and for us to actually conceive the idea of Operation Sea Serpent. So, I'm doing the only thing I can think of doing. I'm making you part of the team."

Harry was about to protest.

"Admiral," Churchill said, cutting him off, "you already know too much. You don't have much of a choice here. Join the Sea Serpent command team or go have a holiday in the Luton Military Penitentiary."

"Well, if you put it that way Mr Prime Minister." Harry replied, wishing that his curiousity hadn't got the better of him.

"Good." Churchill said. "Now, to tell you what Operation Sea Serpent is. It is possibly the biggest undertaking by any civilization ever on this planet. We never stood a chance against the combined assaults of Germany and Russia. The Russian forces and apparent production might meant they could easily overrun us. We've still yet to find out what happened in the north exactly. It's obvious that the army up there was destroyed, but we have no true intelligence of the enemy.

"In the south, the Germans have been advancing more slowly, but none-the-less, their superior forces were eventually going to overrun our forces again. Every month we lose contact with another city or town. York is a smoking ruins and we can summise Coventry and Liverpool are the same. The Russians weren't merely interested in conquest but complete annihilation."

Harry's mouth begun to drop open as the full import of what Churchill was saying began to strike home and the first ideas of what Sea Serpent was all about began to take root in his mind.

"You're retreating the entire Empire to the Isles?" He asked with disbelief.

"Yes we are." Churchill said. "We've abandoned Wolverhampton, Manchester, Preston and Edinburgh. Even as we speak, London and Brighton are being evacuated. Apart from our rapidly dwindling defensive line of troops surrounding these two cities, the other regions of the Empire have been lost."

Harry sat there silently. The fact that Churchill had managed to pull this off without a mass hysteria was beyond belief.

"I want you to take command of the fleet operations." Churchill said. "General Montgomery is in charge of it overall at the moment, but as we near the completion of Sea Serpent, which effectively means we've completely lost the mainland, I want him to look after specifically the land operations. It will be up to you to fully co-ordinate the fleet logistics and make sure our people arrive on the isles safely. Can you do this?"

Harry simply nodded.

"Good man." Churchill said, extending his hand which Harry shook hesitantly. "The car outside will take you to your new centre of operations in Brighton. Good luck."

As Harry made his way down to the waiting car, he so wished he had been content on the Olympia.

Northern England

"Took 'em long enough." Bill commented dryly as another convoy of Russian trucks ground past them where they hid in bushes. "Looks like the Russian's logistics have finally managed to catch them up."

Charlie looked at him.

"You said you were layed up for two weeks." He observed. "How come it has taken the Ruskies so long to organise their supply lines."

"I doubted they expected the English defences to crumble so fast." Bill said. "I definitely didn't. But whoever is in charge of 'em decided to press home the advantage. Damn!"

"What?" Charlie asked of Bill's curse.

"My method for getting message to command was all wrong." Bill explained. "I was too busy city-hopping that it's taken me twice as long to get where I should have headed for in the first place. If I'd struck for the coast and headed straight for Brighton I would've already been there."

"And I would be a char-grilled bit of toast in my fighter if you had of." Charlie said. "I don't know about you, but I'm bloody glad you happened to take the 'long' route."

Bill smiled.

"Now you've just made it worse." He said before nodding towards the road. "C'mon, they've gone past now. We better make some tracks otherwise we're going to be stuck here until winter."

Crawling out from under the bush, the two men quickly ran across the road and into the field there. The sound of gunfire could be heard and had been noticeable for a good three days now, signifying that possibly, finally, they were nearing their destination.

Suddenly, something whistled past Bill ear and thudded into a nearby tree and was closely followed by the crack of a rifle shot. Spinning around, Bill saw an enemy patrol running from the south towards them.

"Damn, all this way just to get done by the parents." Charlie said, hefting his "acquired" sub-machine gun and letting of a quick burst. "Better run before they call in something heavier."

"Will that do?" Bill asked, pointing at the mechanised anti-infantry vehicle grumbling down the road towards them.

"Good enough." Charlie said as the two men broke into a sprint. The whistle of bullets and the crack of rifle shots pursued them as they made a bee-line for a nearby forest. "Good thing these guys can't shoot."

Once they had reached the tree, Charlie gave another burst of sub-machine gun fire to keep their heads down.

"Make sure we're still heading south." Bill commented. "Last thing we want to do is run all day and end up five miles back from where we came."

"Oh, that would really cap of this holiday, wouldn't it?" Charlie quipped. "Which reminds me, I'm never going on holiday with you again."

They ran through the forest, hoping that they weren't running in circles. Bill visibly shivered when the sound of howling dogs could be heard.

"Oh great." He cursed. "They've got their pets with them. Look for a creek. We need to throw our tracks."

They ran in silence, each concentrating on keeping the flatout pace going. Lack of proper food or sleep began sapping their energy quickly. Bill was beginning to wonder if they would ever get out of it alive when Charlie pointed at a trough of flowing water. The two men waded in then began walking up-stream.

After ten minutes of this, they finally emerged from the creek, soaked up to the knees but a good 500 metres from where they go in.

"This way." Bill said as he started running again down an embankment. "Let's just hope there isn't a welcoming party when we finally get out of here."

They could see daylight in front of them. They had lost track of how long they had been running but they were both hoping it wasn't for much longer.

When they finally burst from the forest, there was no sign of pursuing enemy. But that wasn't what stopped them in their tracks. What stopped them was the fact that Brighton lay in front of them. Bill let out a sob of relief before noticing the more intricate details. The first one was the ten transports now steaming under full power for the ocean, escorted by aircraft and warships. The second one were the numerous Russian columns within the city. And the third was that Brighton looked exactly like Wolverhampton had.

"Hands up!" A decidedly English voice said to them.

"Thank god!" Bill said, turning to face the young soldier standing behind them. "At least we're not on our own."

The other soldier relaxed.

"We might as well be." He commented. "The bastards have left us to rot. There's nobody left. Those transports out there are the last ones leaving this god-forsaken place."

"What about London?" Charlie asked.

"Same deal." The soldier said. "Completely abandoned. The next transport to come from England will be carrying an invasion force and that might be in 10 years time."

"You have to be..." Before Bill could finish his question, rifle shots rang out and the young soldier pitched forward. Both Bill and Charlie looked at each other before breaking into a run. "Head for Brighton!"

"What?!?" Charlie asked between pants. "With the Russians there?"

"If you haven't noticed, there's Russians here as well." Bill replied. "We can hole up in the city until we can escape to open ground."

"Better plan than nothing." Charlie said. "Not like we're gonna get any help wherever we go."

The two men ran towards the deserted city and to an unknown and possibly short future. Only time would tell.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What will happen to Charlie and Bill, stranded in hostile territory with an enemy bent on the annihilation of their race? Will England rise again or has it doomed itself by abandoning its allies and its homelands?

Stay tuned for the next installments of The Cost of War.

[civman2000]

Wow!

[dexters]

Civman2000, I think we should get WTE_Ozwolf to take some screencaps and reprint his story on a website with high production values

[civman2000]

hmmm...well, when he finishes this one he'll have written 3...let's wait until there are ten and then publish them as a short story collection!

[beno]

keeping me inspired Oz Wolf.

[sgrig]

Hey Oz! Where is the next part?! I can't wait!

[DarkCloud]

Since this won, will there be a next part or has he accomplished all he needs to?