To Stand Against The Night

[Prufrock451]

Thanks, all. I've got a bit more time than I thought, so I'm going to forge ahead again.

August 19, 1942

Churchill and Laval looked grimly at the situation map. Commonwealth troops still bogged down in Angola and the Caribbean against guerrilla forces. Iraqi troops in full retreat in North Africa, smashed between the Portuguese marauding through West Africa and the Brazilian beachhead in Morocco. A Yugoslav raiding force had retaken Taranto and was staging small commando raids from their “National Social Republic” of Corsica. The Royal Navy was fully committed in the Pacific, holding the Japanese to a bloody stalemate. There weren’t enough transports to move British troops to Europe, and dissent in Britain was rising. Every week, the silent ashamed consensus across the Channel grew stronger; abandon France. Look to our own problems.

Churchill sighed. “I’m sorry, Pierre. When Montgomery died… Britain can’t balance all these fights. We need to retrench, to concentrate our strength instead of frittering it away. I can’t spare you the troops.” Laval nodded. “Pierre, there must be something-“

“There is.” Churchill followed Laval’s gaze, scanning the markers on the map. He peered more closely. Those concentrations- it meant-

“An OFFENSIVE? Are you mad, Pierre?” Laval chuckled.

“Hardly. This particular lunacy is the brainchild of our brilliant Field Marshal de Gaulle. Apparently he’s going quite mad with restlessness as the military governor of Italy.” Laval pointed. “Actually, his plan has some merit. The Italian Social Republic only has 40,000 men left; most of its strength is committed on Germany’s eastern front. By taking Bolzano and Venice and driving back to the German border, we can force Hitler to divide his frontline forces. To buy us time. And I’d rather have a defensive line in the Alps anyway.” Churchill nodded, thinking.

“I… I can see it. But what if it fails?” Laval pursed his lips.

“Winston, I’ve considered too much failure lately to care much.”

 

[Amric]

Wow...expanding the front...daring, and bold....fascinating. Great as usual!

 

[Prufrock451]

October 3, 1942

Hubert Pierlot stood, his head bowed and face pale. King Leopold leafed through the photographs, his hands trembling. He dropped them and gripped the mahogany armrests of his chair.

“Oh, sweet Lord. Oh, Jesus. This can’t… it can’t be true.”

“Your Highness, it is. The Soviets found this when they entered Poland two weeks ago. It’s been confirmed by the French. They have a source in the German government-“

“Agent Charles.” Pierlot’s jaw dropped. Leopold waved his hand. “And I have my sources in France, Prime Minister.” The King of Belgium covered his face. “My God, those people. Those poor people…” The King’s eyes widened and he shot to his feet. “Oh my God, Pierlot. Has Hitler done these things in Arlon? Has he done this to my people?” Pierlot shook his head.

“We don’t know, Your Highness. There were too many troops along the line. With Rommel’s new offensive, it’s gotten even harder to get intelligence from the eastern provinces.” King Leopold bowed his head, and a sob wracked his body. He tried to regain control, a regal glint firing in his eye, but it sputtered out and the King surrendered to his impulse. He moaned, and the sobs came again. Sagging in his chair, he wept and trembled. Pierlot’s eyes misted as well, and he sank into a chair, exhausted, forgetting protocol, forgetting everything but the inhuman horror behind that envelope of photographs on the desk.

“I- I wanted to surrender, Hubert, I didn’t want Belgium to be torn to shreds like the Netherlands, but this… how can I surrender my kingdom to… to THIS?” Leopold’s hand shot out and knocked the photographs off the desk. Leopold jerked his hand back as if he’d been poisoned. He sat quietly for a moment and then spoke, so quietly that Pierlot could barely hear him.

“Fight them, Hubert. Fight them with everything we have. Better we all die on the battlefield than… like that.” Pierlot stood gravely.

“Your Highness, we shall fight with everything we have. I swear it to you.”

 

[Duritz]

Pruffy, this thing has just got better and better.

Please, let the final battle begin soon. The longer you wait the more chance Germany will have to adjust.

Poor Henry, poor Denel. Who can tell which has the worse fate.......

Duritz.

 

[Prufrock451]

Duritz- thanks!

And as an antidote to all this depression, here's a Tale of Gripping Adventure.

October 16, 1942

Brussels was a burning ruin. German artillery shells whistled down from the east and the north. Major Gaspard’s plane flew low, fighting the updrafts and eddies from the plumes of smoke. The night and the pall of smoke hid him from the Luftwaffe patrols that roared overhead. The Germans were in the suburbs, but the Intelligence boys insisted he’d have enough time for this mission. He grumbled to himself. The Intelligence boys weren’t his favorite people lately.

The small biplane came in for a landing, roaring down a section of abandoned street. The civilians had streamed out of Brussels for the south weeks ago, leaving the hollow shell for the armies to fight over. Gaspard yanked open the side door. He whipped his head around.

“ALRIGHT! MOVE MOVE MOVE! GO!” His new squad, a mix of impossibly young kids and grizzled veterans, poured into the street. They wore night-vision goggles, an unofficial gift from the Americans. Gaspard hated the things; everything was a ghastly green, and despite the ingenuity of their design, the Americans hadn’t made their batteries any smaller. The last thing a commando needs is another ten pounds of shit to carry. Gaspard left his goggles on the plane.

The house was nestled in the midst of an industrial neighborhood, near a trainyard and a row of warehouses. This was why there’d been enough open space for the plane to land, and enough aerials and traffic to disguise the house’s true purpose. Gaspard trotted across the lawn, his men surrounding him and scanning the surroundings. A light flashed briefly in a front window. Gaspard pulled out an electric torch and flashed a light back, two fast, one slow. The door opened and two men ran out. The larger was carrying what looked like a full machine gun, the smaller a mere French Renault submachine gun.

The big man leveled his twenty-kilogram monster at Gaspard. “It’s a good kind of night.”

“The best kind. Just like the holidays.” The large man nodded and waved. A third man emerged from the house, a tall man in a long military coat. Gaspard straightened despite himself, and forced himself back into a casual slouch. The man nodded and offered his hand. Gaspard shook it.

“Your Highness. Time to go.” Leopold III nodded, his face gaunt with fatigue. Gaspard whipped up his hand and circled it. The French commandos began backing towards the plane.

The plane’s engine sputtered and died. Gaspard paused and then whirled, throwing the King to the ground. Something like coughing popped up from a half-dozen places, and the Belgian guards dropped. Gaspard suddenly wished he’d brought the night-vision goggles. As the French started firing back, shouting started inside the safehouse. An explosion ripped through the building, shattering the windows and engulfing it in a ball of flames. The King wailed and tried to get up, but Gaspard tackled him again. The German snipers were getting nailed: they hadn’t expected such deadly accurate fire from the French. However, they had the benefit of position, and the French were in the open, silhouetted against the burning house. Gaspard stood to bolt, opening his mouth to issue orders, but his men had already scattered, firing carefully and conserving ammo. He nodded as he dragged the King. Good men.

Gaspard and Leopold dropped behind a pile of empty barrels. A couple of bullets thrummed through the metal, and the noise set Gaspard’s head ringing. But the Germans didn’t have an angle on them here.

“Stay here,” he ordered. Leopold nodded, fumbling ineptly with a pistol. Gaspard slapped it down. “You’re better off just staying quiet.” Gaspard drew his knife and slipped around the other side of the barrels. He peered into the street. There were two- no, now there was one, good shooting- one shadow lurking around the plane. Maybe two or three other Germans left, but the sound of Renaults being fired was also dying down. Gaspard gritted his teeth. How had he been ambushed? What was this?

 

[Amric]

Oh man! Another cliffhanger! I feel like I'm dealing with one of those old serials at the movies...tune in next week for the next installment of Johnny Quest or something...

Poor Leopold...Great update as usual!

 

[Prufrock451]

Amric- Me? Write a cliffhanger? Never!

October 16, 1942- continued!

The firing died. A guttural voice shouted in German.

“Report!” He was met with silence. Gaspard moved back behind the barrels and shouted back.

“Looks like you’re alone! You’d better give up!” The German voice barked once in a vicious parody of laughter. The silence stretched out and Gaspard realized he was alone, too. He gritted his teeth. The German was still standing by the plane. A big bastard, too. And he had a rifle pointed right at Gaspard’s head. He let a bullet crack by just to Gaspard’s right, to emphasize the point. The German spoke again, in a thick Austrian accent.

“I know where the King is, too. You might as well come on out here. I’d like to talk with you.” Gaspard measured the situation. He stepped out, his submachine gun held at his hip. The German barked again, and Gaspard decided he definitely did not like this man.

“On three, I’m tossing down the gun. One. Two. Three.” Both men remained motionless. Another bark of laughter. The German tossed his gun down and stood silhouetted in the plane’s doorway, his hands on his hips. Despite his better judgment, Gaspard threw his gun down too and walked forward.

“Major Jean Gaspard.” Gaspard stopped, ice stabbing momentarily at his heart. He forced the shock down.

“And who the hell are you?” The German stepped forward, close enough for Gaspard to see his face by the feeble moonlight, ugly and blocky, a dueling scar across his left cheek.

“Captain Otto Skorzeny, Waffen SS.” Gaspard’s eyes narrowed.

“Well, my God. How about that? It’s not every night you get to kill Hitler’s pet.” Skorzeny barked.

“And it’s not every night you get to kill the best soldier in France.” Gaspard executed a little mock bow.

“You honor me, and I apologize for my uncouth words.” Skorzeny returned the bow without a trace of irony. “So.” Skorzeny nodded.

“I knew about the King. But that’s not why I’m here.” Skorzeny slowly drew a knife from a belt sheath. Gaspard shifted his from his left hand to his right. The two men stood watching each other, and the mocking smile faded from Skorzeny’s face. Gaspard studied him carefully. Skorzeny had four inches on him, and his knife was at least an inch longer, too. He couldn’t get close. He looked back into Skorzeny’s eyes, which hadn’t left his own. Skorzeny had already sized up Gaspard. He already knew who he was dealing with. All he had to do- was-

Gaspard threw himself flat. A bullet flew over his head. That sneaky… another sniper, on the roof of the warehouse. Skorzeny was moving now, fast, his knife reflecting the burning house. He was getting close. Gaspard kicked out but whipped his leg back as the knife whistled through the air where his calf had been. Whirling around, he brought himself to his feet, backing up as Skorzeny advanced, the German’s knife slashing and stabbing. Gaspard’s heel caught in a depression, and he let himself fall backwards. Skorzeny’s arm flashed back and he whipped the knife through the air. Using his dug-in heel for purchase, Gaspard stopped his fall and lunged forward, the blade grazing his back. He jammed his own knife into Skorzeny’s boot, but it skidded off the leather and Skorzeny kicked the blade out of Gaspard’s hand. The two men backed off, breathing a little harder, arms out and fists clenched. Skorzeny grinned.

“Not bad, frog.” Gaspard spat.

“Same to you, lapdog.” Skorzeny’s lip curled back in a grin. He lunged forward, his fists whooshing as they shoved air out of their way. Gaspard dodged and feinted, throwing back a couple of punches that were blocked in turn. Skorzeny was damn fast, but Gaspard was faster. Not fast enough to land a single punch, though. The two men feinted and danced and their hands snapped through the air, never finding purchase. Gaspard swore under his breath. Skorzeny just kept moving, his face blank and his eyes narrowed in concentration. This was a game of patience now, and the German had all the patience in the world. Gaspard listened to his breathing. The bastard wasn’t even tired. This wasn’t going to go his way. A slashing hand came close enough to ruffle Gaspard’s eyebrow, and he snapped back to where he was. As Skorzeny manuevered him around, Gaspard saw King Leopold, jerking his semiautomatic around. No wonder Skorzeny kept moving. He knew the gun was there. And if Gaspard stopped moving; that sniper on the roof. Shit.

“Some days, Otto,” Gaspard grunted, rolling out of a deadly kick’s path, “it is just not worth getting up and going to work.” Skorzeny’s icy bark again, and then the silent whirlwind of fists resumed. Gaspard groaned.

 

[Amric]

I stand by my earlier statement! Skorzeny and Gaspard! If that isn't a cliffhanger, I don't know what is!

 

[Vandelay]

I should go away for a week in the field more often! I get so much excellent reading material when I get back as a bonus!

More than excellent!

Cheers,
Vandelay

 

[Nikolai II]

Bah, you stay away a few days safe in the knowledge that Pruffie tole ut 'ed be too busy with his noo-fangled Vickie stuff and 'BOO' there is three full pages of new stuffing

But lowlight goggles? What is this? I only recall infrared optics from HoI, but I never played past 19409 yet though..

(2999)

 

[unmerged(4076)]

*cheers on Gaspard*

An offensive is the way to go, you can't just sit by as the Hun eats away at France's finest. This is getting a bit too exciting.

 

[Bryaxis]

What amaze me the most, as a belgian student in history, is that Prufrock was able to turn Leopold III from a traitor to a simple incompetant... For, historicaly, our king hadn't the nerves to hold against the germans and surrendered, something the dutch never did, nor the danes...

A very good piece of writing for which i thank you a lot !

 

[HJ Tulp]

I've just read 19 pages of the best writing I've ever read. The battles of Eindhoven. Wow. This is terrific

 

[boehm]

Originally posted by Bryaxis
For, historicaly, our king hadn't the nerves to hold against the germans and surrendered, something the dutch never did, nor the danes...

A very good piece of writing for which i thank you a lot !

If I dont remember wrong us danes surrendered around 12 on April 9. 1940...after just 6-7 hours of hostility and having suffered something like 25 dead. - I think Belgium did somewhat better no? (From Denmarks point of view it was pretty much useless to resist anyway since the refusal to put the army on alert for fear of provoking the Germans pretty much meant we were ran over in no time...)

 

[HJ Tulp]

Originally posted by boehm
If I dont remember wrong us danes surrendered around 12 on April 9. 1940...after just 6-7 hours of hostility and having suffered something like 25 dead. - I think Belgium did somewhat better no? (From Denmarks point of view it was pretty much useless to resist anyway since the refusal to put the army on alert for fear of provoking the Germans pretty much meant we were ran over in no time...)

Holland surrendered after 5 days ( ) however, the Netherlands didn't sign a peace. It was only the surrendering of the Dutch units on in The Netherlands mainland. There wasn't any land ceded nor a peace signed. I'm sure that's the same with the Belgians (aargh I said the B word ). However, the King of Belgium didn't escape to England nor attempted to. The Dutch Royal Family did and continued the war from England. Though in May 1940 it was seen as treason during the war it became clear that the Queen could do much more in England then she could have done in Holland where she would probably have been a puppet of the Germans. The Republicans ( yes both of them ) still say she shouldn't have left

 

[Prufrock451]

Thanks to everyone. I may (or may not, it's the Fourth of July) finish the cliffhanger today. Just a quick word about Leopold III.

Yes, he's found some backbone here. The main reason is that the battle for Brussels didn't start until October of 1942...

AFTER the Soviets entered Poland and publicized what they found. You may recall Leopold III being horrified by photographs the Soviets had released. You can easily guess the most horrifying thing in Nazi Poland without my spelling it out.

And Leopold wasn't all that incompetent. I will issue a spoiler now: Belgium falls. But Belgium doesn't fall until after half a million Belgian soldiers give their lives on the battlefield. And Belgium doesn't fall until those men take 400,000 Germans with them.

 

[HJ Tulp]

SPOILER!!!!!!

 

[Faeelin]

Originally posted by Prufrock451
And Leopold wasn't all that incompetent. I will issue a spoiler now: Belgium falls. But Belgium doesn't fall until after half a million Belgian soldiers give their lives on the battlefield. And Belgium doesn't fall until those men take 400,000 Germans with them.

God, just how many men do the Germans have?

 

[Prufrock451]

October 16, 1942-concluded!

The duel had pushed back and forth for nearly ten minutes. Neither man had scored more than the slightest hit. They were both starting to slow down, but Skorzeny had more left in him than Gaspard did. But if he won…

“You know, Skorzeny,” Gaspard paused to throw a series of easily blocked punches, “even if you kill me, there’s a gun pointed at you.”

“Likewise.” Skorzeny threw a kick that went high and planted both hands against Gaspard’s returning foot, shoving it away. Gaspard tumbled and rolled into a crouch, returning with another salvo of punches, including one that almost had the correct angle to break Skorzeny’s arm. Not quite, though. The German moved just enough to let the strike skid off.

“Are you prepared to die? As it is, you will either way.”

“I’ll think about that after I kill you.” Skorzeny lashed out with an elbow, trying to force Gaspard back. Gaspard took the blow and moved closer, a thumb jabbing into Skorzeny’s neck. The nail scratched blood along the line of the German’s carotid artery. Skorzeny whipped his head down, smashing Gaspard’s ear as he jerked out of the way. Skorzeny brought his knee up to the Frenchman’s crotch, but Gaspard had already shoved against Skorzeny’s chest, leaping back, and the two men separated, just hurt enough to start getting angry.

The slow feral smile crept onto Skorzeny’s face again as they began circling again.

“You really are good,” he muttered.

“Forgive me if I don’t giggle and blush.” Gaspard scraped up a handful of dirt and threw it at Skorzeny’s face, but Skorzeny dodged low, aiming a sweeping kick at Gaspard’s legs. Gaspard jumped high, a foot aimed to land on Skorzeny’s head. Skorzeny grabbed the foot and yanked Gaspard to the ground. Gaspard flipped and landed on his hands, using the purchase to bring his other foot down on Skorzeny’s wrist. Skorzeny twisted out of the way, trying to knock a fist against Gaspard’s knee, but Gaspard had moved his leg up and backflipped back into a fighting crouch.

“Neither of us is going to win, Skorzeny! And I don’t know about you, but that’s all I give a shit about. I don’t want you to lose if I have to lose too.” Skorzeny laughed.

“That’s where we’re different, Frenchman. Why do you think Hitler is pouring all these men against you? Why do you think the Soviets push us back in the east every day? All he cares about now is punishing you. You WILL lose, even if he loses too.” Skorzeny blocked Gaspard’s punch, grabbing the wrist and twisting, hard. Gaspard could feel the pressure building. “Maybe I don’t give a shit about National Socialism. Maybe I don’t even give a shit about you.” Skorzeny brought his face in close as Gaspard dropped to the ground, trying to twist enough to lessen the pressure on his wrist, a madness dancing behind his eyes. “But I don’t care if I lose as long as you lose too.”

Gaspard whipped up his other hand, punching a thumb deep into Skorzeny’s left eye. Skorzeny screamed and Gaspard yanked his hand free, aiming a kick at Skorzeny’s right knee. The bone popped and Skorzeny fell. Gaspard whirled around, placing a careful heel on Skorzeny’s jaw, listening to it snap. The German was unconscious. Gaspard slumped next to him, slipping an arm under his shoulder. He dragged Skorzeny- my God, the man was huge- back towards the plane. Somewhere up there, a German sniper was aiming at him. Make it good, Jean…

“You up there! I don’t suppose you’re going to let me take him prisoner!” The words echoed a little before a reply came back from the dark rooftops.

“No chance in hell.”

“Then why don’t you just shoot?”

“Think I’ll wait until you try something stupid.” Gaspard searched the roofs. He couldn’t see a damn thing.

Suddenly, a shot barked out, from a Renault. The sniper screamed, a scream that turned into a whine before it faded back into silence. Gaspard turned to see King Leopold dropping a bloodied Renault submachine gun in horror. The King took off the night-vision goggles he’d taken from a dead commando, shaking.

“I… you know, I do a lot of hunting, I’m a good shot. I’ve… I’ve never…” Gaspard nodded.

“It was well done, Your Highness. Now we need to go.” Leopold glanced at Skorzeny’s bleeding, unconscious form. Gaspard dropped him to the ground. “Can’t chance him waking up in the plane.” He went into the plane, taking a pistol from the dead pilot. He cocked it and aimed at the base of Skorzeny’s skull.

“No.” Gaspard blinked. Leopold’s eyes were blazing. “I won’t allow it. It’s barbaric.” Gaspard blinked again.

“Your Highness, he-“

“I have spoken.” Gaspard sighed.

“Fine. Fine. Christ, I look forward to putting this on a report.” Gaspard jerked his head, ushering King Leopold none too gently into the plane. He closed the door and sparked the engine, taking off, banking, and flying west, to France.

 

[Amric]

Don't you hate it when government officials interfere in war time decisions? I know I do...