A Welcome To Arms

A Welcome To Arms - Beginnings.


It was August 14 1945 and northwestern Europe heaved a weary collective sigh of relief. The tattered remnants of the England’s heroic “Ninth” were disbanded with a thumbs up, a draining war cry ceremony and a bottle of St. George’s finest. The nightmare that was the second world war was finally over.

Colonel Terry “Every man for himself” Hauser’s Iron Dwarf brigade had fought stoically throughout the war. His charge, an eighteenth century fortress that gazed arrogantly unto the imaginary meandering graveyard that was the Maginot, was the embodiment of what he considered to be the last bastion of England’s civilized touch upon the barbarism that every other country introduced in war. To say that this man was disliked would be an understatement of epic proportions, he had German and allied commanders alike frothing at their mouths and instructing their men to affix their bayonets.

A single German commander had sought and accepted the mission of capturing Hauser’s fortress at Metz. Gruppenfuhrer Anfall had listened attentively as his superior had told him to, “BLAST THAT MAN AND HIS ACCURSED BARRACKS INTO THE UPPER STRATOSPHERE!” This was a glorious three years ago, when the sky had been as vivid as a Riefenstahl documentary and his ambitions as keen as the knife he had tattooed on his waist. But the emotions that raged like stray bullets were as strong today as they had been then. In those three years, Anfall had picked up three separate nervous twitches, a glass eye and a tendency to speak very quietly . At every turn he had seen his plans wither and fail at the hands of his nemesis. With each crestfallen look of his sub-commander as he brought back “the news”, Anfall had progressively lost his grip on his sanity. Armed with perpetual anger and highly focused tunnel-vision, Anfall ignored the call to disarm and return to Berlin. Instead, he ordered his men to dig the trenches 10 yards closer and to affix their bayonets.

Back at the fortress, a graying wind-chafed fortress that made Wuthering Heights feel like cocktails at the Caribbean, someone cursed inwardly and shook his fists in anger. After a life lived in the gutters of the intelligentsia, Colonel Hauser had an astounding moment of clarity. He knew this because the coffee machine had been sabotaged. His sacred charge, a custom built first world-war coffee percolator lay in shambles -- and because of this -- the combat effectiveness and morale of his entire company became a guessing-game, the results of which could be summarized by rolling a four-sided dice; Anger, chaos, depression, revolt. It was then that Colonel Hauser was struck by a second feeling, one of extreme self-consciousness, and on hearing the guttural sounds of soldiers waking nearby; he took one look at the door and made a run for his life.

Gruppenfuhrer Anfall rotated his glass eye within its socket with his left hand while his right busied itself massaging his hook moustache, all while raising the bridge of his glasses by flaring his nostrils. An ugly rumor had spread like wildfire amongst his troops this morning. It was said that Anfall could drain a man of blood from 200 paces with a glare from his glass eye. A concerted attack with both eyes was limited only by the earth’s natural curvature. He had planted the rumor himself. For as insane as he knew he was, he could see that it was only fear that held his men together. Sheep, the lot of them. Anfall drank voraciously from the looks of fear and incompetence that his men emanated as they stood woodenly before him, and collected his insanity into an intense ball of anger that found residence between his eyes. Unable to control the tides of fury, Anfall imploded and ordered a full-scale attack.

Second Lieutenant Colin Thomas enjoyed playing with fire. He particularly enjoyed burning desiccated leaves. Due to the fact that Autumn was in full swing, the endless fields of Metz offered no end of fun. Today was different however, he’d been temporarily exiled from the morning’s riots by the rioters themselves because they wanted coffee, not a fiery inferno. The DECAF riot (or Decidedly Ethical Combative Assault Force) had begun in a torrent of energy and activism, only to degenerate pathetically a short while later due to precipitating blood-sugar levels.

A deep rumble shook Colin out of his reverie. Directly to the south, a huge dust cloud was forming over the single road that led to the barracks. The spider webs of Colin’s obsessive compulsive personality evaporated as he read all the tell-tale signs of approaching war. He swore loudly and fumbled for his radio transmitter.

“Flashfire to Stone Dwarf. Flashfire to Stone dwarf. We have a winner!”

Colin’s transmitter spluttered static for a few seconds and then cleared suspiciously.

“What are you on about man?” A voice inquired.

“Ehm. We have a winner – coming in from the rear!”

“I say, are you…”

“Sir, it’s the Germans.”

“Oh that. Right-o. Not that lunatic again is it?”

“No idea, sir. There’s this colonnade of smoke hidin’ everyone.”

“Well who else could it bloody be. Alright. Second Lieutenant – spice things up along the road. I give you free reign.”

The transmitter lapsed into static once more, leaving Colin a minute of climatic realization, before thundering towards the approaching dust clouds with prepubescent abandon.





End of first installment. To be continued.



[edit on 30-7-2009 by Oscitate]

[edit on 30-7-2009 by Oscitate]