Between Heaven and Hell - Kaiserreich

Don't worry. Texas Thunder and the Thunderous Third will be returning throughout the Battle of Chicago.

-L

Chapter Five: All I Ever Wanted​

"It is good that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow quite fond of it."
~Robert E. Lee​

“Targets?”

“None,” Marv Keeper replied, eyeing with his telescope. He began jotting a few notes in his notebook about the wind.

Sgt. Nikolas Kerenskai grunted. He got a lot of flak for how similar his name was to Russia’s Kerensky. But they also called him the Death.

He had more than eighty kills with his beloved Mosin-nagant, bought from a retired Russian soldier in ’24. Nikolas was the best.

“Got one,” Keeper murmured. Absurd – he could have shouted at the top of his lungs and no one off the roof would have heard a thing. “Federal officer. By the diner, over there – the one with the gunfight.”

Nikolas adjusted his aim slightly, centering his crosshairs. “Wind?”

“About six, from the northeast. Could change at any minute.”

“I’m taking the shot,” Nikolas informed Keeper. The spotter returned to his scope.

“Okay. There’s eight – no, nine Federals around him. They’re setting up a machinegun – looks like a Vickers. I think they mean to spray down the diner. Someone’s putting up a hell of a fight – looks like one of our machineguns is in action from down the street. Lots of dead Feds. The diner’s burning – oh god, there’s a guy in that fire. Anyway. Ready?”

“Firing in three,” Nikolas confirmed. “Two. One.”

Crack!

“Oh god, nice hit. Right in the back of the neck. He’s out like a light bulb.”

Nikolas reloaded, watching the other Federals stare with sudden shock and dread at their fallen commander. One of them stood up to point off to the west, and was gunned down by that machinegunner for his trouble.

“Target?”

“Left, grabbing the officer!”

Crack!

“Headshot. Nice.”

“Target?”

“Federals, two of them, second story house, setting up another Vickers!”

Crack! Crack!

Keeper whistled. “First one was a shoulder hit. He fell out the window. The other one was right in the heart.”

“What’s the tally?” Nikolas asked. “We’d better move now.”

“This makes eighty-seven,” Keeper replied, packing up his scope with lightning speed.

Nikolas hefted his rifle. “There’s a ruined hotel a few blocks over. We move there and lay down some covering fire on the docks.”

“Yes, sir,” Keeper replied.

Then the sniper team disappeared, like angels of death.



“Wahoo!”

Reed Cassidy trotted out of the waves, surfboard under his arms. He shook his head to get the water out of his hair.

“Now that’s how you catch a wave,” he instructed an awed pair of onlookers. A nearby woman giggled, hands over her mouth. Reed winked at her.

“Aloha,” he said, sidling closer. “What’s your name?”

“Cassandra,” she blurted, blushing fiercely. Reed chuckled.

“How long have you been in the fine sovereign nation of Hawaii, Miss Cassandra?”

“Just a few months,” she replied, starting to calm down. “I emigrated from the PSA. The Federals keep pushing at Nevada and Arizona. Mostly little raids, but I couldn’t take it.”

Reed puffed out his impressively muscled chest. “Well, fear not! I happen to be an active soldier in the Hawaiian military, here to protect you from Garner’s legions!”

Cassandra giggled again. Reed stuck his surfboard back in the sand near the booth – the man inside waved jauntily.

The pace of life was slow in Hawaii, far removed from the Civil War. They had no looming Federal, Syndicalist or Unionist threats, and the Australasians, Canadians and Pacificans were all friendly with them. Truth be told, the army was more like a national guard – only mobilized every other week or so for training and occasional wargames around the islands.

So it was that an active soldier wasn’t required to pay for his rental surfboard – though a tip was still expected. Reed had already taken care of that.

“So, Cassandra,” he continued. “You want to catch a nice lunch somewhere? I know this wonderful place down in Honolulu . . . .”

Reed was a ladies’ man – he could see acceptance in her sea-green eyes. She tossed her head in dramatic style, her black, lustrous hair flying in the breeze as she opened her mouth.

“Sorry to interrupt, Reed,” a man said. Cassandra sighed, like she had been about to accept. Reed swore mentally, turning around.

“Stacks, I’ve got leave until morning after tomorrow,” Reed pointed out. He waved to the beach – and Cassandra – behind him. “Can’t you leave me alone?”

“Unfortunately, this comes from Captain Ender,” Steven ‘Stacks’ Fitzgerald said. He nodded to a parked jeep, with the US star hastily repainted over with a Hawaiian roundel. “You’re being pulled back to active duty.”

“Oh . . . dang,” Reed grumbled, remembering just in time that Cassandra was still there. He turned and grabbed his shirt from a bench.

“Aw,” Cassandra sighed. “Duty calls, I suppose.”

“Well, yes,” said Reed, pulling out a pad and pen. He quickly scribbled down his phone number, then gave the sheet to Cassandra. “Call me sometime.” He winked.

After a few more moments of talking, then of changing from his bathing suit into his uniform, which Stacks had brought, Reed was sitting in the passenger seat of the car, settling his shirt out and daydreaming about Cassandra.

“You heard yet why we’re being recalled?” Stacks asked. Reed shrugged.

“Been surfing and eating pufferfish. What’s up? The Australians insult us?” he chuckled. “Having more wargames?”

“The Federals are in Chicago.”

Reed was silent for a long moment. It was only after they had left the town of Waimanalo that he finally spoke again.

“Are the Syndicalists holding?”

“They’re trying,” Stacks replied: a hedge if Reed had ever heard one.

“They’re losing, aren’t they?” he asked. “Badly?”

“Very,” Stacks confirmed. “There’s Federal units already cutting the city in half.”

Another sequence of silence. Reed shook his head.

“It’s just the Syndies, Stacks. Not like that means much of anything to us. Now, if it was Sacramento and the PSA that was on the ropes, that’s worth getting worked up over. This-”

“Is another stepping stone to Honolulu that Garner’s men have crossed,” Stacks pointed out. “Besides – ‘With the Sun comes trouble.’”

“What did Hirohito do now?” Reed demanded after Stacks uttered the oft-repeated phrase. Stacks shrugged.

“The usual. Some bigshot heard that the IJN left Hashirajima Anchorage a week or two back. Probably just some big fancy wargame.”

“Yeah,” Reed sighed. “But we have to be ready anyway – just in case.”

He wasn’t happy with this turn of events. As the car shot along the countryside, the beautiful visuals of Oahu penetrated from every angle, the sight of children playing baseball along a street being especially powerful. Reed thought he saw a group of girls playing volleyball on a beach, and a couple of kids bicycling along in the direction of the beach he’d just left.

It was tranquil. It was peaceful. It was wonderful – it was home.

But it was oh so fragile.

And Virginian-born Reed Cassidy’s grandpa was a First Civil War veteran. Hell, his daddy Reed Cassidy sr. had joined the Lafayette Escadrille in the Weltkrieg, for all the good it did!

In brief: the Cassidy family knew war.

And increasingly, Hawaii was looking less like a protected, sheltered haven and more like a fish being eyed by a pair of circling hammerhead sharks. Maybe the fish could escape or placate one, but the instant it tried the other would lunge. And because of its position, there was no way it could avoid being destroyed by the fallout if the two sharks took to battling each other.

Japan’s one of the sharks. The other one is, obviously, whoever wins the War back home. Perhaps there’s a third shark, too – the Entente.

Reed found himself praying that the sharks would focus on eating each other and leave Hawaii alone.

____________________

My friends have, after a long string of Hawaii-centric characters and factions in roleplaying games, coined me a "Hawaiiphile." So when I saw that Kaiserreich features Hawaii as a faction, I had a fangirl moment. I haven't actually tried to play as them yet - I'm sure I will before too long - but it looks very fun!

I hope the shift from carnage, death and flying bullets to surfing, swimming and flying sand was as jarring to you as the switch from "Wishmaster" to "Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride" on my writing soundtrack was to me.

Now, back to "Deliver Us" "The Plagues" and "Kings and Queens" to get the next chapter out . . . until next time . . . .

-L

@Hyo: Most, if not all of them, are immigrants. Though the Russians DO get the option to send a division to assist the USA, IIRC.

@Kaiser_Mobius: Hawaii's principally looking to hold onto its way of life: they've become isolationist and don't want much to do with anyone. They have an alliance of necessity with the PSA, and an understanding with the Entente, purely because of Japan's positioning and chest-pounding antics. Plus, in one of my games they lasted until 1945. I seriously considered just nuking them and moving on.

Edit: Apparently I'm less awake than I thought, because I missed the second half of your post. To answer: the AUS controls from the Texan border to the Carolinas to Pennsylvania and NYC and all the way out to the edges of Chicago. Reed was never the Federals' real enemy - that was Long. And with Reed now all but out of the way, the titans are about to slug it out.

@Nikolai: Lighthearter uses KNOWITALL mode! Surfing has been Hawaiian and Polynesian tradition since at least the 1700s, and was popularized in the 1910s and 20s by Duke Kahanamoku to become more widespread and predominant. So yes!

My uncle is coming by for the day tomorrow, so there might be another chapter tonight. If not, then you'll see one Friday. I'm hoping that I can finish the Battle of Chicago tonight in my word document so I can figure out exactly where I'm going afterwards.

And still no one's caught the Stealth Pun in CH3! /shakes head

I'll have to make it more obvious in the future.

Until next time:

-L

Chapter Six: Batter and Burn​

“Alright, Texas Thunder’s moving to encircle the Syndies,” Captain Courtney Bradford shouted. “Peters, let Price know. We have to pin them down for just another hour or so and they’ll be cut off and annihilated.”

“Yes, sir!” Peters affirmed, racing off after the radioman. Bradford spared the nearly set sun a mournful glance, then turned his attention back to his scattered command center.

“I want Price’s men moving up along the road here! Someone talk to him! We’ll dig in where we are and break out the AT rifles. Hit the Syndies as hard as you can!”



“Mr. President, we’ve got to get you out of here.”

John “Jack” Reed sighed. He looked again out his window at the raging lights, then turned to face his aide again. His security detail was arming up, and even Louise was there, pulling a coat on.

“There’s no chance we can hold the city?” he finally asked. The aide shook his head.

“I’m afraid not. The Federals are pressing from all sides and even the lake. Thankfully we have the one pre-arranged escape route.”

Reed rubbed his forehead. “I don’t want to – but alright. To Detroit.”



“Two!”

Clatter-clatter! Boom! Boom!

“In! IN!”

Crack! Crack! Blam! Crack! Thud!

“Clear!”

Major Thomas Hardy darted through the door, rifle up despite the assurance. Eight men were in the room, Colt at the fore, standing over the bodies of six dead Syndicalist soldiers.

“Nice work, gents,” he said, gesturing at the bodies. He was no longer even mildly affected by the blood and gore spattered around the battlefield. It had become – routine. Every one of Hardy’s bones cried out for him to take a rest, but the Major couldn’t.

The Edwards were still pinned down, despite “Texas Thunder” and the Third Battalion moving to pluck them from the trap. Hardy and his boys had been employed by an exhausted messenger – straight from Double T – to punch at the Syndicalist command center over by the Lake and ease up the opposition the Thunderous Third was facing.

They were a block south, sweeping through a now-ruined coffeehouse. Hardy grunted.

“Colt, Len, look for a back door. They’ll see us if we head out the front.”

“Yes, sir!” Corporal Jessie Colt acknowledged. Together with Lenny, he darted into the back of the shop, kicking down a locked door that read “EMPLOYEES ONLY.”

That’s where they keep the good coffee, Hardy thought, his mind slurring just a little. At least, Dad always used to say that.

“Back door, here!” Lenny cried. “Clear!”

“Right, boys, let’s go!” Hardy shouted. He leaned into the doorway as his men began filing deeper into the building, and waved across the street. Gutierrez, with the Boy and the rest of the unit, immediately began advancing.

They had the hard job for now – distracting the Syndies. Hardy wished them luck. He’d picked up a few reinforcements through the fighting in the city, and now boasted almost a sixty-man command – respectable indeed with the shape of the battle. He had perhaps twenty-five in the coffeehouse with him. The others were all with Gutierrez.

Hardy turned, allowing two soldiers to take the rearguard duty, and followed the general stream toward the back of the building. He passed a shattered family portrait, fallen on its back. There was a woman and a girl, plus a man who looked like a banker.

Hardy paused, then slowly put the portrait back upright. He didn’t know precisely why, but it just seemed wrong to leave it lying there. The Major moved on.

He appeared in a back room, his men arranged around the door. Colt was holding the knob.

“Ready?” Hardy asked. Everyone nodded, clutching their guns. “Then go!”

The door slammed open and there was a rush of men flowing into the back street. Hardy lagged a pace behind, waiting until all was announced as “clear!” before exiting the shop.

“There it is!” he announced, pointing to a store not far ahead. There was a visible Bloody Mary flying from its roof, and what looked like a collection of awnings – despite the sun being all but set – and even some men. Rifle fire was whizzing around on all sides.

“We move up the street, come out on its flank, then move in,” Hardy announced. “Colt, you take ten men and sweep the main floor. Len, you and ten guys are with me as we take the roof. Wilkes, Booth and Fitzjames will stand guard.”

“Booth’s dead, sir,” Colt reminded Hardy. “Caught a shell in that battle at the AA battery.”

“Right,” Hardy replied. “Lunt, then.”

They slipped from the alley like ghosts, utilizing all the stealth skills their months as rebels had taught them. It was but the work of a few moments to arrive at a hedgerow across the street from the store.

Going any further would be the problem.

“Colt, you’re up first,” Hardy ordered. “Len, we’re providing cover. Once Colt’s men are through, we advance.”

“Aye, sir,” Lenny and Colt agreed. Hardy nodded.

Colt jumped up over the hedge, his team behind him. Hardy took a deep breath and rose to his feet, ignoring the exhaustion with the armor of training, sighting on the first Syndie he saw.

“Stars and Stripes!” he shouted, together with his men.

Somehow, it sounded hollow rather than powerful after the hours of slaughter.



“It’s good to see you again, Mike,” Amelia Hardy said as she poured a cup of tea. “It really is.”

“Thanks, Amy,” Michael Hardy said, dropping his hat on the table. “I’ve missed you too.”

“Oh, stop it, brother,” Amy chuckled, passing the teacup. “San Francisco’s what you’ve missed, not your bratty little sister.”

“You always were so modest,” Mike chuckled. “Not like me. Remember all the stunts I used to pull when Mom and Dad weren’t looking?”

“Oh, all too well,” Amy laughed with him. “And half the time, you dragged me into them.”

“Like the one with the fishing net and the surfboard,” Mike shook his head. “Though I think that was Tom’s idea in . . . hindsight.”

The siblings fell quiet at the mention of their brother’s name. Mike finally slammed his fist down on the table.

“Damn fool! Why’d Tom have to side with Garner, anyway? What fealty does he owe the Old USA? None, that’s what! Wasn’t his family more important to him than a dead country?”

“Apparently not,” Amy agreed. “Do . . . you think he’s in Chicago?”

“I don’t know,” Mike growled. “I almost hope he is, so the Syndies can put a bullet in his stupid brain.”

“Mike!” Amy exclaimed angrily. “Don’t say that! He’s still our brother!”

“I know,” Mike hissed. “That’s what makes it so painful! He betrayed his homeland and his family – and I’m supposed to think of him still as my brother? Is he really still the kid I used to play with in the woods behind the house?”

“He’s still my twin,” Amy replied. “We’re a family, Mike. What would you think of me if I ran off to join the Unionists?” She raised a placating hand in response to his suddenly-pale face. “Relax, Mike. I don’t have any intention of moving to Georgia. The weather there’s terrible, for one thing. But would you hate me if I did?”

“Of course not. But it’s different.”

“Why?” Amy pressed. “Because I’m a woman? Because I’m your little sister and not your little brother? We’re all a family, Mike. I can’t hate Tom for his decision – I feel sorry, though . . . for all of us.”

Mike rubbed his eyes. “You sound so much like Mom, Amy.”

“There are worse things you could say,” Amy replied, smiling a little. “I always thought she was wise.”

“Wiser than us,” Mike agreed. “I just . . . I don’t understand Tom’s choice. I really don’t.”

“And neither do I,” Amy replied. “But we know what choice he made, and it doesn’t invalidate him being our brother.”

“Maybe,” Mike hedged. “Personally, I feel like giving him a good thrashing like I did when we were kids.”

“And you may have to,” Amy replied sadly. “You may, in fact, find yourself fighting him to the death.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mike replied. “And which would be worse – my brother killing me, or me killing my little brother?”

____________________

And now we reach the crux of the Hardy family: they're Californians, and Tom is serving Garner. Mike and Tom were thick as thieves back in the day, always playing games and pranks with each other, occasionally pulling Amy and Cecilia into them when they needed third or fourth people.

And now, instead of Mike and Tom Hardy, we have Major Thomas Hardy, US Army Irregulars, and Captain Micheal Hardy, PS Marine Corps. Amy's running the family home near San Francisco, and Cecilia has vanished into the ether. Absolutely none of the other three siblings have any idea where Mike's big sister has wound up.

Which is going to make this very, very fun.

In essence, the First Civil War divided many families(including, in all probability, my own) and created feuds that last to this day(again, PROBABLY my own family). This war's not going to be different - brother against brother, family turned on itself.

It almost turns me off from playing Darkest Hour. Turning my chess pieces into people with hearts, minds, emotions, families and problems, that is.

@All: Thank you for reading, and comments are appreciated as always!

Catch ya next time for Chapter Seven . . . .

-L

Dramatis Personae

United States of America

Major Hardy, Thomas M: United States Army Irregulars
Corporal Colt, Jessie E: United States Army Irregulars
Sergeant Gutierrez, Rafael O: United States Army Irregulars
Corporal Goodman, Len S: United States Army Irregulars
Private Booth, William F: United States Army Irregulars
Private Lunt, John W: United States Army Irregulars
Private Wilkes, Jack D: United States Army Irregulars
Private Sanders, Samuel A: United States Army Irregulars
Private Willard, Mark J: United States Army Irregulars
Commander Taylor, Matthew R: United States Navy, USS Northampton
Colonel Walker, Patrick H: United States Army Fifteenth Division
Lieutenant Bannon, Mark S: United States Army Fifteenth Division
Lieutenant Kackle, Howard W: United States Army Fifteenth Division
Captain Malone, Montgomery A: United States Army Fifteenth Division
Lieutenant Sanders, Jessie L: United States Army Fifteenth Division
Lieutenant Melville, Keith U: United States Army Fifteenth Division
Captain Pelt, James K: United States Army Seventh Division
Andrews, Hilda E: Communications Assistant
Sergeant Andrews, John D: United States Marine Corps First Division
General MacArthur, Douglas: United States Army
Lieutenant Johnson, Edward F: United States Army Air Corps

Combined Syndicates of America

Corporal Lawrence, William A: People’s Army
Sergeant Bukowski, Dmitri V: People’s Army
Private Kudros, Benjamin: People’s Army
President Reed, Jack: Combined Syndicates of America
First Lady Reed, Louise: Combined Syndicates of America
Private Jones, Thomas W: People’s Army
Sergeant Kerenskai, Nikolas D: People’s Army
Corporal Keeper, Marvin A: People’s Army

Other Nations:

Captain Bradford, Courtney A: Edwards Volunteer Unit
Captain Price, Robert J: Edwards Volunteer Unit
Sergeant Peters, Dwight B: Edwards Volunteer Unit
Captain Okada, Sato: Imperial Japanese Navy
Sergeant Cassidy, Reed W: Hawaiian Self-Defense Force
Sergeant Fitzgerald, Steven T: Hawaiian Self-Defense Force
Blair, Cassandra V: Civilian
Captain Hardy, Michael C: Pacific States Marine Corps
Hardy, Amelia E: Civilian
Hardy, Cecilia A: Civilian
Professor Einstein, Albert: Scientist
Colonel Sawyer, Jeremiah L: American Union Army
Sergeant Blair, Andrew J: American Union Army
Commodore McNiel, Kirk F: Pacific States Navy






You asked I've sown a few hints and spoilers into it.

And yes, you're correct about the PSA. However, with the war raging back East most people believe that the US is a dead nation - what with its declaration of war on the PSA immediately after the attempted secession. That's what Hardy meant when he referenced a two-front war.

From the Rockies to the Appalachians, let the Christmas season begin with pitched gun battles!

-L

“All that is necessary for evil to succeed is for enough good men to do nothing.”
~ Edmund Burke​

“Bukowski’s retreating, Corporal Lawrence!”

William Lawrence fired the last burst of the machinegun. “Good. We’ve got to pull back too. Jones, get the AT rifles and follow us.”

“Yes, sir!” Jones yelled, grabbing the rifles. Lawrence hauled himself up and trotted down the hall, swearing under his breath with every footfall, the half-dozen men that had managed to slip away from the firefight following him.

They exited the building quickly, Lawrence pausing for just a second.

“Where’s he going, soldier?” the corporal asked. The soldier shrugged.

“Probably the rally point back near the Presidential House, sir.”

For a moment, the world seemed to drop on Lawrence, that chilly fall night. The Federals were nearly at the Presidential House!

We can stop them. We have to stop them.

“Right,” Lawrence yelled. “Everyone stay with me and keep your eyes open! We’re gonna cut across the street and move through the alleys, then . . . then break across the bridge and link up with Major Holt up on the coast! I hear there’s a Federal push directly on his north and he’s digging in to withstand when they wheel!”

“Freedom!” Jones called, and the men took up the chant. It was ragged and hollow, after a day of blood and bullets. Lawrence found himself doubting, just for a moment – doubting whether Chicago could be held, even with the courage of Americans.

Doubting, for a moment, whether he had that courage.

Enough doubting, he told himself sharply. Did Pa doubt himself back when he was a volunteer sniper for the French? He’d slap you silly if you hesitated in battle.

“Follow me!” Lawrence ordered, running across the street. The men didn’t pause, didn’t seem to think – the shellfire had resumed in force since the assault began, but none flinched. Lawrence felt an unusual feeling – pride in the Syndicalist men, so much stronger than he was.

This is what it means to be an officer.

Lawrence ducked a nearby blast, rifle up. The column was in the alleys now, sprinting like their lives depended on it.

Crack!

One of the men dropped in a spray of blood.

“Sniper!” Jones shouted. Everyone ducked for cover. “Rooftop, there!”

Lawrence risked a peek and confirmed that there was a man on the specified location. He ducked just in time to avoid meeting the same fate as his soldier.

“We’ve got to either go around or take him out!” Lawrence roared. “Anyone got a radio?”

“No, sir!” Jones called. He raised one of the AT rifles. “Distract him and I’ll take a shot with this!”

“You there!” Lawrence called. A soldier nodded. “Put your helmet on your rifle’s tip – hold it up, like that! Yes! Let him see it!”

They waited.

Crack!

The soldier’s helmet spun and he dropped his rifle. The man grabbed for it and the fallen helmet.

Blam!

“I got him, Corporal,” Jones grunted. “Hit the scaffolding behind him and it crashed right on top of the bastard.”

“Good work, soldier,” Lawrence congratulated. “Let’s get moving. Holt’s gonna need our men.”

They lunged into the street, expecting a fight. Instead, they saw a column of Syndicalist soldiers pushing along, obviously headed the same way.

“Corporal Lawrence!” one shouted. “We’re from the diner!”

“Where’s Bukowski?” Lawrence demanded. The men traded looks.

“Back there,” one said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Caught three. Kept shooting until a Federal officer put a grenade in his chest. Took the West Pointer down with him, too. Hell of a Russkie.”

“Then who’s in command?” Lawrence demanded. The men traded another round of looks.

“You are, sir.”



“Fire!”

BLAAAAM!

The Chikuma rocked under the recoil from her massive cannons firing. Captain Sato Okada eyed the target with his binoculars. The ship was pathetically small and decrepit, caught so far from home.

There was something almost poetic in the scene for the Japanese officer. He could almost smell the paints and brushes, see the strokes being laid on a magnificent work of art. There was an artist in Okada, and he enjoyed nothing more than sitting on the veranda of his home near Tokyo, watching the sea rise and fall, push and pull, with a paintbrush and canvas.

His wife was long dead – killed in the riots after the Weltkrieg. A familiar pang of loss went through Okada in that heartbeat, eyes on the target ship. He knew just the color of paints he would use to capture this moment – to capture the smoke from her funnels, the splashes of the waves, and even the fires he could sense brewing. He would even add a shell poised above the vessel, a trail of air behind it, like an upraised sword of judgement.

Suki was still around, of course. His daughter was young and headstrong. She would be . . . what, seventeen? She had grown so fast. She must miss her mother too. They had never known each other.

Sato was forty-one years old – he had been born in 1896, by the Gaijin way of things. He would be forty-two before long – a good, lucky age. Many of his crewmen would not live to forty-two. Sato’s own father had only survived to thirty-six – again, the foolish riots!

There came a wave of massive splashes around the target ship. It veered erratically, tossed by the blasts onto new headings and directions. The poetry of the scene again returned to Sato’s mind.

The next few shells crashed into the vessel, and a titanic blast rose into the heavens, fire raging through the skies. Sato nodded appreciatively. He noted the colorful flag, with its red and white stripes, on the vessel’s stern, and chuckled.

Pity about it, he thought. It was a pretty ship – for one built by the Gaijin. How it wound up here is a surprise indeed. Perhaps a leftover from the Weltkrieg?

It didn’t matter.

“Excellent shooting,” Sato complimented. “Have it noted that all batteries have improved their accuracy significantly. We may move to the next training target.”

He spared the Imperial flag on the vessel’s stern another glance, then returned his attention to Chikuma. The Japanese cruiser adjusted course slightly, the waves of the Sea of Japan slipping by gently on all sides.

Soon, Sato thought with an inner sigh. Soon, Japan will win back her rightful place in the world. But not today. For today, we shoot practice targets.

Sato sipped from a nearby cup, marked with the Imperial flag. And enjoy the best tea in the Empire. We are truly blessed. I should try and find out where this is bought – I could use some for at home. I’m sure Suki would love it.

He thought for a moment. Actually, I don’t think she would. She’s so fiery sometimes. But she will understand I thought about her. In time, she’ll find her center.

Sato began softly humming as Chikuma prowled. Here was a man at peace with himself. He didn’t know the Emperor’s next move or plan – but he knew that Chikuma’s place was right here, assisting in the betterment of Japan’s future.



“On that Gunboat, the bridge!”

Crack!

“Very nice. He fell into the sea.”

Nikolas Kerenskai grunted and reloaded. He was running out of ammunition. He surveyed the docks from his new hiding place in a shattered warehouse.

There was once a battalion fighting for the area, but the Federals had come in force – a sudden armored push to the coast. The night had fallen in force now, and Nikolas was struggling to find targets – but that didn’t matter. He was the Death. He’d fought in the dark before.

What worried the Death was that there were reports of Federal units already at the Presidential House. With the Unionists beginning to advance on the east, and the Federals driving hard from the west, Nikolas suspected that what was left of the CSA was caught in a pincer. The state of Michigan was still theirs, at least – save for the northern peninsula. The name eluded the Death for the time being.

“Target?”

Marv Keeper breathed in – out. “Federal officer, on that tank, eleven o’ clock.”

Crack!

“Good kill, right through the neck. Tally’s one zero two. Let’s move.”
____________________

You hear that sound? That's the sound of my buffer screaming and wailing in the horrible agony of death.

Oh, don't feel so guilty. I'll have it back alright before long. I'm an artist with a keyboard.

Hope you enjoy Sato. He's based off an animated character I have an absolute love for, beyond all reason, simply because he's the awesomest old guy I have ever seen on TV. Sato's not that old, and is named after a character from a novel I enjoy, but he shares a lot with the animated guy. I'll leave it to you to judge who it is.

@All: Comments and support much appreciated!

Until next time . . .

-L

Oh, yes. Maybe my CSA-first policy had something to do with that.

In other news, expect an update tomorrow.

-L

“If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will never see victory. If you know the enemy but not yourself, you will sometimes lose and sometimes win. If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a thousand battles.”
~Sun Tzu’s Art of War​

“Excellent work, gentlemen!” Colonel Patrick “Texas Thunder” Walker shouted. Lieutenants Sanders and Bannon grinned.

“Kackle and Melville are rounding up the last of them, together with Price,” Bannon reported. “My men are ready to wheel if need be.”

“Oh, they’re going to wheel,” Walker growled. He pointed south. “The Presidential House, everyone! That’s where we’re going!”

“Hell yeah, sir!” Bannon shouted. Sanders nodded decisively.

“Sounds like a jolly good show,” Captain Courtney Bradford commented, eyeing the target in the distance. “How should we deploy?”

“Bannon will lead the push again, with Bradford in support. Sanders, you are in reserve to tie down the ground we take and reposition in the even of an enemy counterattack. Melville and Price can keep this area together.” Walker loaded his rifle. “And someone ring up Kackle and Malone. Get them moving!”

“Yes, sir!” Bannon acknowledged. “Do we have anyone else in the area?”

“Well, those damn irregulars are still stirring up trouble,” Walker replied. “Wouldn’t shock me if they’ve pushed all the way to the Presidential House, given the resourceful bastard they’ve got in charge over there. Maybe we’ll show up and-”

“Colonel!” Sanders said. Walker glared. The lieutenant pointed south. Walker turned, spitting out his chew onto the pavement.

Then he grinned sadistically as he saw a battered Stars and Stripes flying from the Presidential House, illuminated by the many raging fires.

“God bless the Irregulars.” Walker patted the revolver by his side, then fetched some more chew. “Let’s get moving.”

“Where’s Second Battalion?” Bradford asked, grabbing his gun. Walker would have spat, if he hadn’t just gotten some new chew.

“Where the hell ya’ think? Screwing around up north. We’re the deepest unit inside Chicago, and I vote we make this city our own. Secure the Presidential House and establish a perimeter around it! Chicago’s ours now!”



Major Thomas Hardy actually sat down. He didn’t take cover, dive to avoid a shell, crouch to issue orders, pause to aim, or any of that.

He honestly, straight-up sat down on a somehow-intact wooden bench and allowed his legs to rest for one crucial moment.

Dear Lord, this is incredible, he thought. I never figured just sitting down would be so much like Heaven. Then again, I’ve been fighting for so much of the day I guess anything between Heaven and Hell would do for paradise.

“I guess we did it,” Len commented, sitting beside Hardy. The Presidential House loomed over them, the Marines they’d picked up on the coast having secured it. Reed was long gone, but the building was a symbol now – a symbol that the United States had stopped the bleeding and was punching back.

“I guess we did,” Hardy replied. Maybe Lenny really was reformed. He wasn’t such a bad guy. “I guess we did.”

A dirt-coated apparition marched up to them, rifle still in his hands. He stood to attention, but visibly struggled to raise his energy enough to salute. Hardy waved him down.

“Sir,” the Boy said. “We’ve secured the House, and have men dug in all around the perimeter. Double T reports he’s bringing three companies of men to reinforce the area and resume the attack. He reports we’re now on rearguard duty.”

Hardy closed his eyes for one brief moment.

Thank God. These men have earned a rest – and so have I.

“Thanks, soldier,” Hardy said. “I never caught your name.”

“Sanders, sir. Sam Sanders.” The Boy shrugged. “My cousin’s one of Double T’s officers.”

“Well, Sam, you’ve done amazingly,” Hardy said. “All of you have. Pass the word.”

“Yes, sir!” Sam smiled. He walked away, starting to whistle to himself. Hardy chuckled.

“The energy of youth,” Len laughed. “And we’re hardly old geezers.”

“Some days,” Hardy replied. “Some days.”

It felt odd to be conversing and treating with a soldier in such an informal manner – but also, somehow, right. He and Len had been through the fire together – like Colt, and Gutierrez, and the Boy – Sam. They really were a Unit now.

“We dig in here and prepare for the attack,” Hardy said, pushing himself back upright. They weren’t done yet. “Double T should surge cleanly past us, but if the Syndies try a spoiling attack I want to be ready. Let’s fortify these ditches here and here, and also these ruins.”

“Yes, sir,” Len said, smiling wryly. He trotted off to gather some men. Hardy took a deep breath.

“It’s over,” he whispered to himself; a blatant lie. There was still the Union State to face.

No matter. They’d taken the heart of the CSA right out of their hands. They were Americans. They could win this war – no matter what.



Corporal William Lawrence stared in shock and disbelief at the Federals around the Presidential House. How they’d gotten there, he didn’t know – but it was an outrage!

He knew there were more Federals coming – there always were. They were numberless, and fought like demons. But so did his boys – about a hundred men now, having gathered scattered troops. And Lawrence was their leader, without doubt.

“They’ve taken the House!” someone called. “We’ve lost!”

A million thoughts. A million considerations. A million possibilities. A single second.

Five words escaped Corporal William Lawrence’s lips, at a shout.

“THEN WE TAKE IT BACK!”

It was animal. It was furious – it wasn’t reasoned, or logical. But it was the only possible choice. Lawrence raised his rifle – he was beyond caring that he only had a few bullets left. Bayonets it would be.

“FREEDOM!” he roared, charging. His men were right with him, leveling bayonets at the scattered Federals around the house.

But then suddenly, there were more Syndicalist soldiers. A hundred at first, then two, then a thousand, then ten thousand, then a hundred thousand! Lawrence didn’t know, didn’t care. The world stopped turning, his heart stopped beating.

All he saw was the Federal flag over the Presidential House. All he felt was the millions of workers, arms locked, rifles in hand, marching in step toward the oppressors, all letting out the cry of the people.

“OOORRAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!”



Major Tom Hardy’s eyes widened as he saw hundreds of Syndicalist soldiers come pouring from the streets ahead. His grip slackened on his rifle for just a moment.

It was Colt who saved them.

“COUNTERATTACK!” he warned. “THEY’RE COUNTERATTACKING!”

The shout snapped Tom out of his reverie. The Major shook his head once, then heard a voice roaring commands – a voice that sounded suspiciously like his own.

“Everyone fall back to my position! Rally on me and let the House garrison tear them up as they advance! Free fire at will, cover your buddies! FIGHT THEM OFF!”

The avalanche of gunfire erupted from all sides.

Sixty irregulars and thirty Marines – against a thousand Syndicalist soldiers.

Semper Fidelus. Always Faithful.

____________________

And so begins the end of the beginning.

-L