Where the Sun Never Sets

[History Guy]

Hello. This is my first attempt at this sort of thing, so bare with me. Please tell me what you think of it. It shan't be too long, probably not more than 4 parts...but I hope it'll be interesting.
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WHERE THE SUN NEVER SETS

“Oh Lord, it’s Winston, early again,” said Mr. Yardley (who was trying to hold the phone and yank off another date of his 1927 desk calendar at the same time) “talk to you again later, Sally.” With this parting line, Yardley hung up, and walked to the oak door, which he promptly yanked forward, allowing for the Prime Minister to enter. “Ah, good morning, Mr. Churchill. It’s good to have you back again, sir.” The man who entered was short, bald, and had a bull-dog-like face. He was dressed in a gray coat, and he wore an equally gray hat on his egg-like head. This man was, without a doubt, Winston Spencer Churchill, Prime Minister of Great Britain. Mr. Churchill entered the room, and made his way to his bookshelf, from which he spake in his normal brusque-sounding voice.

“Well, Mr. Yardley. Have you heard the news?” he asked, in a rather unusually fidgety fashion.

“The news, Mr. Churchill? Bare with me, sir, as there is so much news flooding my papers these days, and so it is rather hard to pick out exactly which topic you are speaking of, sir.”

“Why, that the British Empire is dying!”

“Is it, sir? I know we aren’t really on top anymore, but I’m not sure if dying is the word for it…”

“Why, yes, of course, Mr. Yardley, it is dying. I spend two days out exploring the battlefields upon which my heroic ancestor, John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough fought, and I come back, and I read that what is left of the woefully tattered British Empire is already beginning to die. This Mohandas Gandhi chap, over in India, is vying for independence! The Persians and their inane ‘Shah’ are blowing up our ships in North Africa! The British Empire, upon which we always supposed the sun never sets, is on its last legs!”

“Yes, I see, sir. It is quite distressing. Still, I suppose we’ve been stuck like this since the War…” The War always brought rather nasty memories for Mr. Yardley. He still had a bit of shrapnel in his leg from it. Nasty stuff.

“No, Mr. Yardley,” said Winston sadly, placing his right hand on his side, “I believe that we have been falling for a longer time than that. However, the Great War did not help, I must admit. There are times when I wish I was out of this ugly old office, painting, writing my History of the English Speaking Peoples, and the like…”

“But sir, you have worked so hard to get yourself in this position!”

“Yes, I know, you are right, my friend, Mr. Yardley. However, I must say that what Great Britain needs is a remedy for this. We must grab some land, and clutch at it, in order to secure ourselves a grip on some other spot besides our own Isles, simply so that the English-speaking peoples are not trampled over at some future time. I couldn’t bare the thought of the death of the English-speaking peoples.”

“Yes, sir.” Poor old Winston, thought Yardley, he is in the doldrums again.

“You know, Yardley, that as old as our dear old Queen Bess is, she still has fight in her…and though the extreme whiteness of her skin comes from cosmetics, and the redness of her hair comes from a bottle, she is still young at heart, and she doesn’t want to see our Empire crumble any more than you or I do. Perhaps she’ll see us back into our former glories as, so long ago, she saw us into glories we never dreamt off.” As Winston spoke, he eyed a portrait of the Queen, which hung from the far wall, near the large, square window that revealed the Houses of Parliament.

“Perhaps, Mr. Churchill, we shall find some relief in the Babylonian affair. They are still at odds with Persia, and the fact is, everyone knows that war is imminent…”

“Yes, Babylon, in it’s own way a city just as monstrous as the long-burned out Tenochtitlan, city of the devil-gods. Indeed, in Biblical times, Babylon was the worst city of them all. These days, even though the old religion of the Sumerians, the Ishtar goddess, and all, is just as vanquished as the Aztec pantheon, or Mithra worship, Babylon is still a rather dangerous spot. Especially so now, since that old beast Hammurabi regained power. He’s been around since as long as anyone can remember, and so he knows what’s what.”

“Lawgiver and madman, sir.”

“No. Calling him mad is just an excuse for not calling him evil or not admitting that there is evil in the world. Evil exists, and is all too prevalent in this world. Since he gained power, he’s become increasingly militant towards Westerners…he even launched that infernal jihad against our allies in France. However, for all his brass, he is rather powerless these days…”

“He hasn’t got an army he can trust, Mr. Churchill. You will recall the assassination attempt on his person in the 1880s. It was his Major Generals who did that.”

“I know of it, but, of course, I have no memory of hearing of it when it first occurred. I was rather young in those days!” responded the Prime Minister with a pleasant chuckle. “What I also know is that the Babylonian situation is a perfect one for the British Empire. We could pop in there in order to assist our allies, create peace in the Middle East, and rid the world of a rather dangerous dictator, who could well be a dangerous enemy of Western civilization in the future. Hammurabi is a man who needs ousting, and it seems everyone else is much too afraid to try it.”
**************************************************

Hammurabi stood in his own small, gray office. As he watched this latest military parade from out his office window, the only sound in the room was the creaking of the ceiling fan. The window was shut, and so Hammurabi did not have to listen to the (rather bad) music that the military bands played as the brown suited soldiers walked through the dusty streets of Babylon, past the ancient buildings, and under the huge and ancient Ishtar Gate. The most distinguishing feature of the uniform that each soldier wore was the blue fez. “These men,” said Hammurabi to himself, “must destroy this Shah Xerxes. He will be crushed forever, and will not see the gates of Heaven…”

The tall, balding General Khomeni entered the office, stroking his long gray beard. “General Youssef has left for the land of the infidels. I am sure that, with him at our helm, we shall overcome this Persian heretic.” Hammurabi nodded, unfolded his arms from behind his back, and turned around.

“Yes, Khomeni. He must. We shall see this Shah fall.”

“Yes, sir. However, there are some disturbing reports from our operatives in Persia. It seems that the heretical Xerxes has removed most of his men from the wars in North Africa, and is relieving pressure on our other heretical enemies, the British and the French, in order to deal with us. It seems he has now formed a giant army, almost as powerful as the one he took into Greece so long ago. But it seems that this time he may have a good chance of managing a victory…However, a good many of his men are not armed with rifles at all, simply swords…”

“Nonsensically, I am sure, Khomeni. We have Heaven on our side. We shall overcome.”

“He has three brigades of Immortals to send into action…”

“The Immortals! His swordsmen, eh? They now carry their own pistols, however, just in case whomever they attack isn’t also sword bearing.”

“Yes, that is so. They are the elite of his army, so they have been for many thousands of years.”

“Well, then, we shall shoot them to pieces. They have swords; we have guns…and cannon! Who shall come out better? You tell me.” As he spoke, Hammurabi turned around towards his window again, re-folding his arms.

“I believe they may kill many of us, but we shall win ultimately. I have not yet heard of a time when steel has triumphed over bullet, nor would I expect to.” Khomeni at the same time flicked some dust off his shoulder that had just fallen down from the ceiling fan.

“It would be impossible, I believe. And Heaven would not allow it. We have Heaven on our side.”
**************************************************

[History Guy]

Oh, and BTW, this is an introductory post, so as to give you an idea of the characters and the plotline.

[Bugs ****ing Bunny]

Have you studied Churchill? You're capturing elements of his character very nicely- the grandiose rhetoric, the sentimental streak and the nagging depression. Let him get blink drunk and be incredibly rude to people and you'll have the full set.

Strong dialogue. This is good stuff- keep it up.

[civman2000]

Sounds good, except the idea of khomeine overthrowing the ayatollah (you must have meant to say the shah....)

[History Guy]

Thanks Ron. I have read a little on Churchill, and I must confess I can't help liking the guy!

You are right, Civman. I was looking for the title, actually, but I couldn't find it, so I settled for Ayatollah. I changed it to Shah now. Thanks.

As for Khomeni, he will play a little part in this. He is supposed to be a Persian in exile, and he will be still around at the end of this short story that I am writing, so one never knows what I might do with him if I continue writing this story beyond this short story.

The story takes place in the late '20s, and has Churchill in as Prime Minister, although he would not have that rank in government until the early 40s, when the war broke out. However, it's based on Civ3, so it's not particularly meant to be accurate!

[dexters]

out of interest, is this based on a game you're playing?

[Mr. President]

History Guy, good story! I look forward to reading more of it.

[History Guy]

Dexters-- It's based on a game I played as Winston in Civ III...I just changed the name for the game. However, it was one of those games I played before I had to re-install the game, I'm afraid.

Thanks, Mr. President. I hope to have another part flapping about the thread tomorrow, or so.

[History Guy]

“Dictators get to ride to and fro on the backs of tigers, which they dare not dismount. And the tigers are getting hungry,” began Winston S. Churchill, who stood, clad in his black suit with gray stripes, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose, his right hand firmly clamped upon his hip, his typed draft held aloft in his other hand. As he spoke, there could be heard little comments from other members of Parliament, who sat on their own green benches. “One of those dictators whom I refer to now is none other than, of course, Mr. Hammurabi of Babylon, whom we are all familiar with, though we probably all wish we weren’t. It is perhaps fitting that the tiger (along with the lion) has always been a symbol that the Babylonians have used to portray themselves. And is not the name of one of the two rivers that makes up Mesopotamia the Tigris?

“Our Mr. Hammurabi, like all good dictators, has his own tiger, which I hear he rides upon quite frequently. His tiger is hungry for land, and it grows hungrier by the minute. Because of our inaction, we have seen Hammurabi on his tiger run after our ally, Joan, and her Frenchmen. Who’s to say that after he gobbles up France he won’t gobble up us? Hammurabi, if he takes over France, might very well have the power to do so, and if we do not act at the right opportunity, he will most certainly try. At least another tiger-rider has tried to take him down. I speak, of course, of Mr. Xerxes, the Persian, who is currently blowing up our ships in North Africa! What I fear we will have on our hands soon is something, which we can not, as the English people, fathom. Imagine a horde of Persian sword swingers rolling across our little island!

“The only thing we can do to prevent this is to act quickly, and to take out this man Hammurabi as soon as possible. Babylon is not an especially strong country, and I feel we can take it easily. With it gone, our worries can be temporarily relieved. France will be allowed to go on the mend, and Persia will be too bloody afraid to try anything or at least I hope they have the good sense not too. It is the least we can do to protect our way of life, and our future generations. It is not simply our power here in London that is on the line, it is the English way of life, and English heritage, and the generations to come. This is dear to me, and I trust, dear to you also. We must not be caught sleeping when the tiger comes. We must act now, it is the least we can do...”

Two minutes later, Winston Churchill sat down, finished with the speech. There were general murmurs, some ‘bravos’, and the lot, some negative comments. He could almost hear Lady Astor behind him, fidgeting in her seat. She wouldn’t agree with anything he said anyway, and so it didn’t especially bother old Winston. It didn’t especially matter to him whatever she thought. Exactly thirty minutes later, he was walking back to his car, Mr. Yardley by his side.

“Well, Mr. Yardley, the Parliament has, for once, gone with me! Most of the dissenters are from me own Torie Party, of course, but that isn’t especially surprising. Chaps like Baldwin and Chamberlain will never shut up and sit down until they have the keys of power in their mouths. For those pacifists the idea of revolution of the people to come overthrow them is somehow present. They seem to be afraid that they’ll end up like Catherine of Russia when Lenin and his Bolsheviks took over…the bloody buggers.”

“Anyway, sir, I understand that the Queen would like you to go visit her this afternoon…”

“The Queen? Ah! Splendid! I hope she doesn’t mind if I have a little sip of something stronger than tea in the car. We’ll probably be munching Dundee Cake for about an hour while she lets me have a piece of her mind…”

“It’s probably what she would like to do, sir. And by the way, I understand that General Pryce will also be about.”

“Ah, splendid. Good man, Pryce. Tremendous help to old Kitchener during the Boer Wars. Transvaal and all that sort of thing. Twice wounded. Got knighted, the lucky old bugger.”

“I’m sure you shall receive a similar tap by the Queen in the near future.”

“Ah, I might very well do if I pull off something spectacular. But, perhaps I shall, with Churchill blood in my veins, what?”
*************************************************

General Youssef watched from a distance through his large, black binoculars as his brown line of troops advanced onward, their rifles clutched firmly in their grips. They were trudging on towards a little border village that was rather new to Persian standards. Only built in 1600, it seemed. The area was dry and dusty, and for once old Youssef missed the rather pleasant temperatures in Mesopotamia, and especially around the rivers. This place was just abysmally hot. An aide suddenly tapped Youssef on the shoulder, and the General let the binoculars drop. The straps caught them at his waist, and there they stayed, twisting in the mild breeze. It was another message from General Khomeni’s office. The Persian army was on the move, and was very near it seemed. Khomeni seemed to understand these Persians. Indeed, he was Persian, an exile, booted out of his own country for speaking against Shah Xerxes. It was obvious that once Youssef scored some victory he’d see Khomeni become Persia’s puppet dictator for old Hammurabi.

As Youssef passed the message back to his aide, another aide arrived, informing him that the enemy was in sight, and was advancing. “Alright,” responded Youssef, “we shall soon put an end to them. Have our men halt, and wait for them to get within range. Then we’ll send those Persians to Allah, if they are lucky.” The aide bowed, and made his way to the front to give directions to the officers. The line of troops was long and strung out along the sand. Each man had his own rifle, and was ready to empty the barrels into the enemy. They were ready.

“Alright, quiet down,” said an officer, some distance away. Youssef could just hear the man speak, and he just wished he’d shut up. He was hoping that he could just catch these devils off guard. Beside him sat several supply trucks, and some empty caissons. The cannon was being readied nearby. Youssef clenched his fist. This was perfect. He then removed his pistol from his holster, checked it, and held it in his own firm grip.

At the front line, the Babylonian soldiers knelt on one knee, and brought their rifles to their chest, the muzzle extended outward, towards the unseen enemy. It was then that the wait began. A tall private in the front started to stroke his long, black beard, removing the dust from it. It was then that he fell back, the report of a rifle sounding. The bullet of the rifle had literally gone through his beard, singeing some of the hairs. What was up? It was obvious, the Persians knew exactly where they were, and had brought in snipers. In an instant, on his hill, Youssef began to order the cannon to start shelling wildly at the distant town. If these Persians were there, they’d blow them out.

As the shelling reached a crescendo, a loud cry ripped across the field of battle. It sounded as though it was the cry of one thousand demons, but Youssef knew that it was instead the cry of many more Persians, who immediately showed themselves, whipping across the plain, their swords gleaming above their heads. Immediately, as soon as they were within range, every rifle open fire, lead slammed into flesh. Youssef could plainly hear the cries of the dying as soon as the first volley was opened. However, the Persian snipers were still peppering away at his front, taking down several of his riflemen.

As the first line of Persian Immortals fell forward, riddled with bullets, the men in the front line could plainly see that there was a second line, and just as long and ferocious in appearance, and that they were coming on fast. As a Babylonian officer cried out his orders, another volley tore through the Persians, tearing up the uniforms, the swords, and the bodies. Immortals sagged to the ground, and yet another line was in full view directly behind, and these men were almost to the front. Shah Xerxes watched from his makeshift throne, thoughtfully positioned at a spot where he could see the whole battle. As he strung his finger through his curling, luxurious beard, he watched yet another line of Persian swordsmen butchered. As bullet ripped through flesh, he knew that though his men were dying quickly, the Babylonians would be slaughtered. Line upon line of Persians was charging upon these Babylonians, and soon they would be striking the Babylonians head on.

Xerxes was right, of course. The Persian Immortals suddenly slammed into the kneeling Babylonians before they could fire once again. Immediately, a burly Babylonian Colonel began to empty his pistol into the enemy before a Persian officer ran forward with his sword and sliced the Babylonian’s head in half like a watermelon. The Babylonians tried desperately to resist, thrusting out their rifles to protect themselves, but the swords sliced through the rifles and their bearers. Youssef watched in horror as his commanding colonel was shot right through the skull by a pistol bearing Immortal. What had gone wrong?

After literally slicing through the Babylonian front lines, the Persians drove their forces onward towards the hill, and the retreating Babylonians. Immediately, the cannon began to fire, sending shells into the midst of the advancing troops, tearing gaps into the line, and shattering weapons and bones alike. But there were simply too many of these Persians. Before the gun crews could take another shot, the Immortals were upon them, cutting them to pieces. Before General Youssef left the field in haste, he saw one of his own aides, rifle in hand, watch as the approaching Persians came on. The aide stood by the munitions dump, and as the Persians began to swarm over him, he fired a single shot into the munitions. The whole thing exploded.
*************************************************

[History Guy]

Just another part of the four part short story. I must say, it's pretty boring so far...but the last part will be the good part, and that's what I am building it up to! The British Empire is at stake here!

[The Bloody Baro]

Actually I'd this story is great so far. And if the next parts are half as good this story will deafantly be a contender in the story contest. Matter of fact I'm going to second this right now.

[History Guy]

Thanks Bloody Baron!

Well, I have bad news for all innocent readers: It was a rainy day today, and so I wrote up Part 3. It's rather dry and boring, but the last part (scheduled for tomorrow or so) should more than make up for that!
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“Ah, good afternoon, my bull-dog.”

“Mum.” Winston Churchill bowed before Elizabeth Regina, who sat upon a large oak chair in her reception room. Churchill removed his leather gloves, knelt before her, and kissed her outstretched hand. As he stood up to face her, he looked upon her, and saw that despite the red hair dye that looked so ridiculous, the bad skin cream, and the awful cosmetics, one could still make out the young woman of so long ago. She was literally ancient, yes, but still beautiful, in her own way. And no one could doubt that she was still brilliant. She was an empire builder; she’d always been an empire builder. Of course, there wasn’t much of a British Empire to speak of these days, but she wanted to see a change to that. She was as tough as old boots, Queen Liz was.

“How fare you, my bull-dog?” she asked, attempting to summon up that charm of hers.

“I am well, my Queen. I seem to have overcome this week’s bout of melancholia…”

“Oh yes, your black dog, as you call it. I understand that you paint, and build brick walls in fact, to keep it off your back, so to speak.”

“I do indeed, Mum. One has to K.B.O.”

“K.B.O.?”

“Sorry, Mum. It’s my little term that I use to remind myself to get out of the doldrums…Keep Buggering On…”

The Queen laughed. “Yes, my bull-dog, I shall remember that.” It was then that a servant brought a large silver tray out, and set it on the nearby table. The servant then began to set up the cups, saucers, plates, etc., placing the Dundee Cake on a large plate near the kettle. It didn’t take someone with half a brain to figure out what all this was about. It was teatime.

“Yes, I see, Mum. Thank you,” said Churchill, rather absent-mindedly forgetting to wait for the Queen to ask him if he’d like some tea. “What I’d like to know is, what did you wish to ask of me?”

“My bull-dog, you know me too well. I have been going over this Babylonian situation myself in the last few weeks. I see why you are anxious. The Empire is at stake. So it is. The Empire needs to survive, to thrive again as it did before the War. Britain was always destined to have an Empire, and it had one, but it doesn’t have one anymore. What you want is to build us an Empire again, like the Empire we had in the days of your ancestor Marlborough. And why not build it, and rid us of our enemies at the same time? We Britons have always had troubles in the East, and these Babylonians and Persians are the latest incarnations of those troubles. It would indeed be very satisfying, and indeed, splendid, if we simply cleared them away. Is this not so?”

“Ehhh…yes, Mum. As always, you sum up the situation perfectly.”

“Yes, my bull-dog, I thought that was what you wanted. And I want it myself, as you know. I have not been called an imperialist without reason. I am an imperialist, I’ve always been one, and I’ve never tried to hide that fact. I want to see Britain, as it once was, a glorious empire. I don’t want to see it crumble as we’ve seen the Aztecs and the Romans crumble. They are nothing anymore, and if we do not take action now, Britain will be nothing either. It is not simply to destroy enemies of the west that you want this expedition undertaken, it is to save the Empire of Great Britain, which you love so much, and that is indeed commendable. I give you my blessing in this case.”

“Thank you, Mum.”

“There. Now, let us talk of more pleasant things…”
*************************************************

“’Afternoon, Mr. Churchill!” came the cry from General Sir Simon Pryce, who’d been smoking a cigarette near a public call box. He was a tall, lanky individual, who had a thin, shallow face. He had graying hair, and a small, neat gray mustache that nearly obscured his lips. Churchill gave a little wave with his free hand. His other hand was occupied by a lighter, with which he undoubtedly intended to set alight the end of the cigar that was clenched firmly between his teeth. Detective Thompson accompanied Churchill, as always.

As soon as he lit the cigar, Churchill removed it with one hand to say, “Good afternoon to you, sir. How fare you?” That said, Churchill stuffed the cigar back between his jaws.

“Oh, I’m perfectly well, sir. I understand you wanted to speak with me, old boy. I say, is it about this bleeding Babylonian business that you’ve been on about?”

“It is precisely that, General. Britain needs someone to drive them, and the best candidate for the assignment would be none other than yourself!”

“Oh, I say, marvelous! Haven’t seen action since the War…Somme, you know, old chap. I say, couldn’t be at a more opportune time, eh, what?”

“What is this, General Pryce? Have you received information that I have not?”

“Ah, came in while you were up at Parliament. The Babylonians were whipped and routed while attacking the Persians. What’s left of them are in full retreat!”

“Serves the buggers right. Still, Persia is a dratted nation. I trust we shan’t be fighting them as of yet?”

“You never know, old chap. The rumor is that old Xerxes is gearing up to pursue Hammurabi, and try and take over Babylon. That’s really turning the tables, I’d say. Hammurabi marching in to take Persia, and now it’s the Persians marching in to take Hammurabi! The Persian embassy in Babylon has already been receiving threats, and the ambassador is pulling out. It’s chaos there. Perfect for us, though, eh?”

“I should say it bloody well is! It’s death or glory, I should think!”

“Oh, right. Here, why don’t we step over to some pub and fill up, eh?”
*************************************************

The smell of burning was pungent, and rather disturbing, especially at this late hour. The question was clearly: what was burning? In order to find a good answer for this, Hammurabi of Babylon walked to the balcony, and took a rather prolonged whiff of the night air. The first thing he saw was the shape of a huge minaret looming in the distance. Next he heard shouting. It was definite that something was aflame, but it must have been from the other side of the palace. A thought struck him then. Was the palace on fire? He realized, much to his satisfaction, that this could not be the case. Whatever was burning was too far away to be part of the palace. But, what in the name of Allah was all this?

He was about to call out to someone below when a large crowd suddenly turned a corner in the darkness, heading for the light under Hammurabi’s balcony. They were clearing carrying something humanoid in shape. What was up? Were the troops returning already? A knock came upon the door. “Come,” said the dictator, “Is there something wrong?” The door opened up to reveal Khomeni, who walked in to face the dictator.

“Great Hammurabi, it seems as if the Persian embassy has been attacked by a mob,” said Khomeni, gravely.

“As well it should have. Is the Persian ambassador gone?”

“In a manner of speaking, sir. He is dead. The crowds came when he was just about to leave our city. However, as he opened the door to depart, a group of civilians and soldiers came upon him, and murdered him in his own room. They stabbed him in the chest, and as he fell back, they shot him to death, and tossed his body over a balcony. Now, the crowds are carrying him through the streets like the criminal Shah Xerxes is. His bodyguard could do little about it.”

Hammurabi removed a revolver from the holster that he wore as part of his military uniform. Looking below at the crowds, he shouted “And to Xerxes!” and fired two shots into the air in a wild fashion, much to the delight of his people below. Khomeni rolled his eyes, but made sure Hammurabi did not see it. He was prone to this sort of mad behavior.

“Hammurabi,” continued Khomeni, “I have bad news. General Youssef has returned after driving day and night to us. He has been twice wounded, and his army has been routed. They have tried to reform and make a stand, a fighting retreat, if you will, but it is no good. They are being massacred by these Persian devils, may Allah curse them forever.”

Hammurabi was suddenly at a loss of words. Finally, he said, “Are the Persians coming to us?”

“Yes, sir, it is so. They come to destroy you. Perhaps our raiders recalled from France can make a stand. All is not lost.”

“How may I tell the people? How can I tell them?”

“Youssef should explain his actions to them. They should decide what is to be done with him. If you sacrifice Youssef, who is unliked, you might gain popular support from the people. Is this not so?”

“It may well work, but we must trust in Heaven’s decisions in the matter. I do not think Allah would willingly destroy me, his devoted servant. No man serves Allah in this day and age as I do, Khomeni. I know that Allah would not turn his back on me.”

“Most assuredly not, Great Hammurabi, lawgiver of the ages.”

“Persia has always been a thorn in my side. This is not the first time the odds have been heavily against me. There have been other times, but I have survived, and many of my enemies have not. Youssef, for his horrendous failure, is now my enemy. I shall speak to the people at the Ishtar gate in three days, Khomeni. Arrange it. Make sure many are in attendance when I hand over Youssef.”

“Yes, Great Hammurabi.”

As soon as Khomeni had departed, Hammurabi mused to himself, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”
*************************************************

Looking down along the bluff he stood upon, Prime Minister Churchill could see rows of tall and beautiful trees, hundreds of them, turning red in the autumn. The line of trees was a long one, advancing forward along the cliffside, up to the Channel itself. This was England, and Churchill was proud that he was here. If needs be, he would have died for this place. As he clutched at his binoculars with his hand, and his cigar with his teeth, he watched as a group of carrier planes flew off into the distance, one after another, heading towards a base in France, and then towards a base in Turkey, and then towards Babylon herself. He knew that in a few days, the men on these planes would be in the ancient city herself, and would be ridding the world of a hideous “tiger-riding” dictator, and would be gaining ground for that one most dear institution to Churchill, Great Britain.

“That’s the last of them, sir,” said Yardley, who stood by Churchill, along with a group of other such individuals.

“Quite,” responded Winston, “And may St. George go with them.”

Yardley said, “Righty-O.”
*************************************************

[History Guy]

So, sorry for the rather poor quality of Part 3...but the suspensefully dramatic and horrific conclusion to Where the Sun Never Sets should be done and up tomorrow or so. That should be rather enjoyable, actually.

[History Guy]

A large speaker’s platform had been set up along the Sacred Way at the Ishtar Gate, and Hammurabi of Babylon sat in a small chair waiting for the time to speak to the crowds below him. Hammurabi was dressed up today, wearing a black cloth suit, with a black waistcoat, a white shirt, and a black tie. He wore a tall, black hat on his head with this suit on most occasions, but today he had removed it, revealing his bald-head. On either side of him sat two generals. Youssef, the failed general, on his left, and Khomeni, the right-hand-man, on his right, naturally enough. As he sat he looked back at the Sacred Way, past the huge, beautiful blue-tiled gate. On one side of the road was his palace, mud-brick-houses forming the avenue all the way down to the old ziggurat Temple of Marduk, which was now a mosque. On the other side of the road was his own Hanging Gardens, which he had constructed so long ago. Before him stood the poorer district of the city, the most obvious site here was the huge mosque and the four great minarets that stood around it. His Babylon.

“It is my painful duty,” began Hammurabi, standing up, calmly addressing the people via the microphone, “to inform you, that five days ago, the army of General Youssef was defeated in battle by a huge Persian army while crossing the border. Youssef is here with us today, and he assures me that no one could have won such a battle against such a huge foe. Though his army was routed at first, it has rallied, and is making stands as we speak, trying to keep back the Persian tide. It is hoped that our Babylonian raiders and our city defense shall keep back the Persians, however, and so, though things may look bleak, I tell you that we shall ultimately, with the help of Allah, conquer, and force the enemy into miserable submission.

“Now, however, you must make a choice,” continued Hammurabi, and Youssef came to join him, his face downcast, “What shall we do with Youssef, who has allowed us to lose our army, and perhaps even our lives because of his ineptitude, and his miserable failure? I put the problem to you, my people. He has failed us in France, against our barbaric infidel enemies, and he has failed again here. Must I, myself, lead us into battle constantly? Am I needed to stem this barbarian flow? I do not think so. Discuss this thing amongst yourselves, but remember, in the end, Allah shall not see us destroyed.”

Of course, that’s what Hammurabi would have said, had not the report of a gun rung out through the streets as he finished his sentence. There were gasps from the crowd, and Hammurabi felt someone punch him directly in the chest. He looked down, in horror, to see a new puncture mark in his black waistcoat, and the blood that was trickling down from the hole. Instantly, two more shots were simultaneously heard. Youssef fell back against the tiles of the gate; a small, round hole having been plowed right through the center of his forehead. As he slipped down, he revealed a new crack in a tile, where a bullet was now lodged. The second shot had caught Hammurabi again in the chest. A forth shot rang out, ripping into the tiles next to Khomeni, who ducked for cover. Before anyone could do anything to help, four more shots riddled Hammurabi’s body, and he slid back against the tiles of the Ishtar Gate. “Allah forgive me,” he cried.

Immediately, from the minaret of the large mosque in front of the gate, more gunshots could be heard. This sounded more like a battle than an assassination, however. A man suddenly shouted from the minaret, “Hammurabi has been shot by some of his own bodyguard!” Another man, standing on the platform, checked Hammurabi for a pulse, and was about to say something when yet another shot rang out, and he fell back beside his leader. Those in the crowd, who weren’t too busy racing to the minaret to rip the assassins to shreds, or those who weren’t already tearing the platform to pieces, would have seen mushroom-like shapes descending from the sky.
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General Sir Simon Pryce watched from his descending carrier as his shock troops popped, one by one, out of their planes onto the city itself. Amazingly, it didn’t seem as though the Babylonians were putting up much of a defense. Somehow, it seemed as if the very sight of his tin-helmeted men had thrown the Babylonians into confusion. The only casualties, it seemed, were from those chaps who broke a bone or a rib or something while bouncing off the top of a minaret, or crashing down into the Hanging Garden. This might well be quite the easiest fight he’d ever won.

Private Edward James Nettles had himself landed, parachute and all, on the glass roof on the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. However, he realized that this glass would hardly support his weight, and so, before he’d landed, he kicked it in, falling down onto some exotic plant, and rolling down the artificial hill onto the stone floor beside a pool, next to which were various statues of little bearded chaps with wings. Nettles, seeing that he was not alone in the room, said “Oh blast.” An armed security guard was now covering him with a small pistol. Yet, Nettles was holding his rifle right at the man’s face. Realizing that he had a stalemate on his hands, Nettles simply pulled the trigger of his rifle before the man could pull the trigger of his pistol, and the guard tumbled over, head first, into the pool, staining the water blood red.

Next, Nettles snuck towards the open doorway, and made his way out of the artificial tropical paradise, and towards the outside world. Most of his comrades had, it seemed, landed safetly, and were now skirmishing with Hammurabi’s city guards in the streets. Nettles ran forward, and turned a corner, bullets kicking up dust behind him. Unfortunately, he was in a market place, and before him stood two of the city guards. One was armed with a rifle and the other with a rather long knife. The enemy’s gunshot caught Nettles across the shoulder, as Nettles swung his rifle at the knife bearer, catching him by the neck, which was subsequently broken. Nettles than turned to fire at the armed guard, who fell back into a stack of baskets, piled high with fruit. The man still clutched at his rifle, and was bringing it up to fire as Nettles lunged forward with his bayonet, and felt it go right through the man and into the dirt beyond.

Nettles than continued running, charging through the market, managing to knock over everything in his path. He then rounded another bend, and found himself facing the Ishtar Gate, a spot that he’d always wanted to see. The first thing he saw was a city guard in the distance, falling backward after being shot in the face. Then he saw his comrades gathered atop a large speaker’s platform. Walking up to join them, he saw a microphone, with the tip shot off. He then saw blood, sprinkled all down the side of the gate. Some dead Babylonian general, it seemed his head had been shot through. Near him was the crowd of his brothers in arms, standing over some stiff. “Nettles,” called a comrade, “it’s bloody old Hammurabi! Dead as they come!”
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The next afternoon, General Pryce was camped just twenty-five miles outside the city. The taking of Babylon had been a tremendous success, losing only about a dozen men, catching the Babylonians completely off guard. Hammurabi, it seemed, was dead, and not by Pryce’s men either. Some assassins in his own ranks had done him in. Those of the assassins that Pryce caught, of course, had already been executed, just to make it clear that the murder of Hammurabi had not been Great Britain’s doing. Pryce had just come through defeating decisively a group of raiders, identified as having been those who had attacked France. The top members had all died in the fight. Most of Hammurabi’s heads of state had been accounted for, except for General Khomeni, who had fled the city already. No one quite knew where on earth he was. Some reports were that he’d fled to Persia.

“Sir,” said an aide, walking into the General’s HQ tent, “It seems that there is a group of soldiers in the distance, unidentified as of yet, but they seem to be taking shots at each other, and slowly coming this way. There is a good chance that these men are Babylonians and Persians, but we have no proof of that as of yet. We do know that the Persian swordsmen had reduced the Babylonian soldiers to pincushions about a week ago, and that the remnants were still fighting to defend Babylon, and that the Persians were trudging onward. Therefore, we feel that they have arrived now, sir.”

“Ah, alright. Splendid. Let’s give Billy Babylon and Percy Persia a run for their money, eh what?”

“Right, sir.”

“Let’s wait for them to come to us, and pour it into them. Both sides must be tired, and cut up, and so we may well take these buggers down relatively easily.”

“Right, sir.”

Pryce then walked baton in hand, towards his men, who stood strung out around the marshy land, waiting for the enemy to come. One could barely make out the sounds of peppering in the distance, the little popping noises of those out-of-date rifles that the Babylonians were using, in vain, to keep back the badly cut-up enemy. The sounds that were also slightly audible were the cries of horror and pain ringing out in the distance, as the small band of men was dashed from the face of the earth. And now, one could barely make out the Babylonians, trudging backwards, wearing their dust-covered brown uniforms. Few of them still wore that damned silly blue fez. It was almost a shame to cut them down now, but it was what needed to be done.

As he watched, the first British volley ripped through the Babylonian ranks, catching most everyone of them by surprise, and grounding almost all of them, including several of the advancing Persians, who’s baggy clothing could barely keep back the lead. After stopping to slice the living Babylonians to pieces, the Persians weakly trudged onwards, towards Pryce’s lines. A second volley tore through them, their swords falling from their hands and embedding in the mud. As Pryce watched, a mounted Persian general fell back, a bullet literally through the turban.

The third volley once again took down many of the enemy, who still valiantly trudged on, waving their swords, coming ever closer to Pryce’s lines, hoping to score another victory using the same old tactic as they had used against Youssef. They were now close enough for Pryce to make out their faces. He watched as the Persians, young and old, strutted on. Seconds before the volley, he looked out at a young man, no more than fifteen, not even old enough to grow his beard. The next volley dashed that life away forever. Pryce turned away, saying to himself, “The fools. The damned fools.” Those damn idiot Persians just kept on trudging onward, losing man after man to the raking fire, until finally, they broke into a run, in the opposite direction of the British lines.

Watching as his enemies routed, Pryce fired in the air, crying, “After them, boys, don’t let them get away!” The troops then ran forward after them, bayonet pressed forward. They’d soon round these boys up.
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Prime Minister Winston S. Churchill sat in his chair, by his easel, painting the woods near Chartley, his home (his other home, anyway. He cared for it more than 10 Downing Street). He sat in his white jacket, wearing a floppy brimmed hat. He wanted to capture these vibrant red colors in the trees before the season ended. It had been two months since Babylon had fallen, and the Persian army had surrendered. Shah Xerxes had wisely settled for signing a truce with Great Britain, realizing that he was defenseless, and that if he did not, he would end up like Hammurabi had done. Churchill wanted now to get away from that, and to paint. This was the only time, he felt, when he could escape his duties as Prime Minister.

“Mr. Churchill!” called out a tall, red-haired chap who was running down from Chartley. It was, of course, that man Yardley, coming to take away all the pleasures of the afternoon with his silly scraps of ‘important information’.

“Oh, damn it all, Yardley, what do you need now?”

“Well, sir, I have some important information…”

“Really? I’d have never guessed it.”

“I called Downing Street, but you weren’t here. I called your wife down here at Chartley, and she confirmed my suspicions that you were out painting again…”

“Yes, right Yardley…But what do you find so important that you feel the need to bother me about it?”

“Sir, all of Babylonia is ours, sir, and with no one to guide it to the right path, we have no choice but to annex it to the British Empire,” Yardley said enthusiastically.

“Aha! That is splendid news! Britain, it seems, has rid herself of that tiger-rider once and for all, and has grudgingly accepted his own land! Here, Mr. Yardley let us go inside. This calls for, of course, several bottles of champagne…”
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[History Guy]

Well, yeah, that's it. How was it? For a first try, I mean?

[Mr. President]

That's very good! It's more than just what you see in Civilization (for instance, the view of the common soldier storming Hammurabi's palace), which is always, always a good thing. Overall, a very exciting read!

[dr. blackclove]

Nice job! You get my vote