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Excellent description there...and the story with the now is developing along.
You know it's turning out to be a really good centrepoint to the historical narration, and really does work to set this story apart from others in AARland.
As for Africa - a different experience than going to reinforce your allies in friendly France for sure.
You know it's turning out to be a really good centrepoint to the historical narration, and really does work to set this story apart from others in AARland.
As for Africa - a different experience than going to reinforce your allies in friendly France for sure.
If You’re Looking for the Reaper, Hop a Car to Paris
Opening the door to Jack’s room, he finds the interior chamber bathed in soft, golden sunlight. The shades have been drawn back so that a beam of the morning’s heat falls squarely upon the veteran, who – reclined on his back with eyes closed – reminds the onlooker of a cat on the garden wall.
Taking a seat near the window, he leisurely observes the outside world and waits for Jack to finish his nap. His gaze is drawn to a women smoking by the entrance below: a not entirely unwelcome surprise. She’d told him that the trip was too far. Has she already spoken to Jack? Probably not is the answer that comes to mind as the man’s eyes shift back toward the dozing vet.
To his surprise, Jack is sitting up in bed, complacently gunning at a dish of gelatin that is supposed to be breakfast. In greeting: “Something interesting out there?”
“No . . . How you feeling?”
“Nauseous mostly, but they told me that was normal.”
The listener nods his head in agreement, not quite sure how to sympathize with the pain, only able to reply blandly: “Do you want to talk more about the war? Maybe that’ll take your mind off things . . .”
Jack looks as though he’s not sure whether thinking about the war is better than feeling the full force of pain. It’s a battle of the physical versus the mental. Eventually, muttering to himself at first, he says, “Eh, why not? . . . France: that’s what I should tell you about. I mean, you’ve never been, right? That’s a damn shame, cause the country really is nice, or at least it was . . . We tore it up pretty good.”
I passed in and out of reality for a long time . . . You see, I’d gotten the jungle fever. It wasn’t so bad that the doctors gave up on me right off the bat, but I don’t figure they were very optimistic about my odds of getting out of Africa alive. Anyway, the docs gave some kind of cocktail of a bunch of drugs; they told me it wasn’t strictly proven – the medicine they were using on me – and that if I didn’t want to take it, then they wouldn’t be able to force me. I told them to hurry up and give me the damn shot already.
Within a couple of weeks, I was starting to feel a bit better, though my whole body still ached like hell and I would see these weird flashes of imaginary light now and then. The docs told me not to worry, that that stuff was probably just a side-effect of the medicine. I didn’t quite believe them cause the field hospital was full of other sick people and mounds of waste and a bunch of other stuff I figured could put a guy straight into a grave right fast. . .
So, as worried as I was about getting back under the bullets, I was relieved to get discharged from the hospital. Anyway, by that point, autumn 1915 was in full swing – that is if you tell the seasons by calendar and not the heat – and the whole operation in Africa was reaching its close. The brass back in the U.S. had decided to prematurely pack the operation in, even though some of the land was still held by the Krauts. You see, the situation in France was reaching loggerheads and the head-Brit had been apparently been yelling at Wilson for months about getting some American reinforcements to France.
As much as he wanted to stay out of a continental war, the pres caved and the army started toward its undoing . . . We landed in Calais in November, and I remember my first impression of France being that it was actually a pretty nice looking place, what with a war going on and all. Then we moved over the beachheads and onto a high place from which we had a grand view of the countryside. It was like looking across a window into Satan’s garden, full of the ugly flowers he’d been growing up for years: death and mayhem and destruction everywhere . . . You took one look at those trenches and knew immediately that it was going to be some kind of crucible in your future.
Taking a seat near the window, he leisurely observes the outside world and waits for Jack to finish his nap. His gaze is drawn to a women smoking by the entrance below: a not entirely unwelcome surprise. She’d told him that the trip was too far. Has she already spoken to Jack? Probably not is the answer that comes to mind as the man’s eyes shift back toward the dozing vet.
To his surprise, Jack is sitting up in bed, complacently gunning at a dish of gelatin that is supposed to be breakfast. In greeting: “Something interesting out there?”
“No . . . How you feeling?”
“Nauseous mostly, but they told me that was normal.”
The listener nods his head in agreement, not quite sure how to sympathize with the pain, only able to reply blandly: “Do you want to talk more about the war? Maybe that’ll take your mind off things . . .”
Jack looks as though he’s not sure whether thinking about the war is better than feeling the full force of pain. It’s a battle of the physical versus the mental. Eventually, muttering to himself at first, he says, “Eh, why not? . . . France: that’s what I should tell you about. I mean, you’ve never been, right? That’s a damn shame, cause the country really is nice, or at least it was . . . We tore it up pretty good.”
* * * * *
I passed in and out of reality for a long time . . . You see, I’d gotten the jungle fever. It wasn’t so bad that the doctors gave up on me right off the bat, but I don’t figure they were very optimistic about my odds of getting out of Africa alive. Anyway, the docs gave some kind of cocktail of a bunch of drugs; they told me it wasn’t strictly proven – the medicine they were using on me – and that if I didn’t want to take it, then they wouldn’t be able to force me. I told them to hurry up and give me the damn shot already.
Within a couple of weeks, I was starting to feel a bit better, though my whole body still ached like hell and I would see these weird flashes of imaginary light now and then. The docs told me not to worry, that that stuff was probably just a side-effect of the medicine. I didn’t quite believe them cause the field hospital was full of other sick people and mounds of waste and a bunch of other stuff I figured could put a guy straight into a grave right fast. . .
So, as worried as I was about getting back under the bullets, I was relieved to get discharged from the hospital. Anyway, by that point, autumn 1915 was in full swing – that is if you tell the seasons by calendar and not the heat – and the whole operation in Africa was reaching its close. The brass back in the U.S. had decided to prematurely pack the operation in, even though some of the land was still held by the Krauts. You see, the situation in France was reaching loggerheads and the head-Brit had been apparently been yelling at Wilson for months about getting some American reinforcements to France.
As much as he wanted to stay out of a continental war, the pres caved and the army started toward its undoing . . . We landed in Calais in November, and I remember my first impression of France being that it was actually a pretty nice looking place, what with a war going on and all. Then we moved over the beachheads and onto a high place from which we had a grand view of the countryside. It was like looking across a window into Satan’s garden, full of the ugly flowers he’d been growing up for years: death and mayhem and destruction everywhere . . . You took one look at those trenches and knew immediately that it was going to be some kind of crucible in your future.
(To Be Continued)
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As always, thanks for reading and providing feedback, everyone . . . I'm glad that the view from the home-front and the "modern day" narrative are appealing to some people. Never the less, suggestions for improvement are welcome. 
He's a veteren now, an old soldier. "The army started towards its undoing..." A lovely phrase that, full of portent.
Great AAR, as always if it's written by Quintilian. It reminds me off Apocalypse Now The Redux.
Keep it up.
Keep it up.
And off to France.
Still, the trench is probably safer than the Congo. Unless you go into attacks.
Still, the trench is probably safer than the Congo. Unless you go into attacks.
My predicament: I’ve got a nasty term-paper to research and write over the next two or three weeks. Thus, as I have no further bits of the story (aside from the end) written, I fear that we will need to have a break. Of course, if one of the wonderful members of the audience is feeling up for a bit of participation, they could step on up and introduce us to one of the two characters I have scheduled to appear but have no background written for. If not, then we’ll simply have a short hiatus for schoolwork.
Quintilian said:My predicament: I’ve got a nasty term-paper to research and write over the next two or three weeks. Thus, as I have no further bits of the story (aside from the end) written, I fear that we will need to have a break. Of course, if one of the wonderful members of the audience is feeling up for a bit of participation, they could step on up and introduce us to one of the two characters I have scheduled to appear but have no background written for. If not, then we’ll simply have a short hiatus for schoolwork.
More information. The people demand more information.
The life and times (as well as anything else that might interest the authors) up until 1915 of;
- A British officer (dignified / educated / self-superior)
- An American infantryman (friendly / optimistic / blindly courageous)
It could be writen however the author desires: bullets, first-person, history-book style. I would be eager to see what a reader wants.
- A British officer (dignified / educated / self-superior)
- An American infantryman (friendly / optimistic / blindly courageous)
It could be writen however the author desires: bullets, first-person, history-book style. I would be eager to see what a reader wants.
Quintilian said:The life and times (as well as anything else that might interest the authors) up until 1915 of;
- A British officer (dignified / educated / self-superior)
- An American infantryman (friendly / optimistic / blindly courageous)
It could be writen however the author desires: bullets, first-person, history-book style. I would be eager to see what a reader wants.
Sound like cpt. Blackadder and pvt. Baldrick to me, but they're British ...
Aye, can't wait for a new update, just gobbled the whole AAR so far up, brilliant writing, enjoying it mucho.
I'd say in terms of style go with what feels natural, veriation is always enjoyable but I think a history book style now would ruin the narrative flow. Narrative, diaries, maybe newspaper clips, all enjyoable particularly if the quality is retained which I'm sure it will be
I'd say in terms of style go with what feels natural, veriation is always enjoyable but I think a history book style now would ruin the narrative flow. Narrative, diaries, maybe newspaper clips, all enjyoable particularly if the quality is retained which I'm sure it will be
Briefly, Welcome to France
Think about the worst situation you’ve ever been in . . . Got it? Well, now I want you to imagine that you’re in France right as winter is thawing in 1916. There’s the beauty of the land – sure, I’ll admit that – and you wake up each morning with the achingly beautiful European sky above, but at the same time it's hell on earth. The trenches are ankle deep full of mud and feces and whatever else the rain has dredged up and thrown into you home away from home. And everything’s got this reddish tinge to it. That’s not cause the soil’s full of clay. Nah, it's cause the blood never really disappears into the soil – the earth doesn’t want it, see. Makes my blood boil, just thinking about how it was back then.
It’s just hard to . . . understand . . . how we let so much blood spill that the ground was full up and couldn’t take down any more. But then again, at the time everything was cut and dry. We were fighting against the expansion of evil, and anybody that said otherwise was liable to get themselves shot. Hell . . . everybody was liable to get themselves shot. We lost twenty-thousand good men during one day in February over – how much land? – twenty god’amn yards.
My first experience with French warfare was like something out of a nightmare. I moved out into the open space – no man’s land – with a group of a hundred guys. Within seconds those fancy machine guns on the German side had taken down fifty of them. Faster than you can snap your fingers fifty people were dead. They didn’t even have time to cry or scream or nothing. They just stopped breathing in mid-motion. The worst part of it all was realizing that you’re still alive and – regardless of whether your brother or buddy is bleeding out by the wayside – you’ve got to keeping going for that enemy line.
You might cry for the guy which got it like that, but they really got a pretty good deal by French standards. There were lots worse ways to leave the world. At least it was fast . . . Hey, don’t call me callous cause I’m a realist. If you don’t get what I’m saying, then I’ll have to tell you about what happened to my pal, William Dylan. They didn’t even have a proper body to consecrate.
It’s just hard to . . . understand . . . how we let so much blood spill that the ground was full up and couldn’t take down any more. But then again, at the time everything was cut and dry. We were fighting against the expansion of evil, and anybody that said otherwise was liable to get themselves shot. Hell . . . everybody was liable to get themselves shot. We lost twenty-thousand good men during one day in February over – how much land? – twenty god’amn yards.
My first experience with French warfare was like something out of a nightmare. I moved out into the open space – no man’s land – with a group of a hundred guys. Within seconds those fancy machine guns on the German side had taken down fifty of them. Faster than you can snap your fingers fifty people were dead. They didn’t even have time to cry or scream or nothing. They just stopped breathing in mid-motion. The worst part of it all was realizing that you’re still alive and – regardless of whether your brother or buddy is bleeding out by the wayside – you’ve got to keeping going for that enemy line.
You might cry for the guy which got it like that, but they really got a pretty good deal by French standards. There were lots worse ways to leave the world. At least it was fast . . . Hey, don’t call me callous cause I’m a realist. If you don’t get what I’m saying, then I’ll have to tell you about what happened to my pal, William Dylan. They didn’t even have a proper body to consecrate.
(To Be Continued)
Oh machine guns are rather merciful compared to other things people invented to kill each other with...