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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Teens
- Theme: Science Fiction
- Subject: War & Peace
- Published: 03/21/2013
“General quarters all hands! Man your battle stations” The voice blared over the intercom in a syrupy French accent, the alarm klaxon blaring “Repeat, Man your battle stations! This is not a drill!” He was out of his bunk in a heartbeat, his comrades around him doing the same. Within seconds, his training making the task automatic, his was in his blue gunnery private’s uniform. He pulled on his boots and went scrambling out the door. He made a hasty right turn out of the bunking room, his boots making a heavy clunking sound on the diamond shaped metal grate, following the throng of other gunnery privates to their respective stations. He rubbed his eyes, and looked at the watch on his hand. It was one o’clock in the morning, an odd time for the German air navy to launch an attack. His capital ship was amongst the last of the French’s final line of defense. Their orders were to hold the line at all costs, and wait for British reinforcements. He turned up a ladder, following fewer privates now as they fanned out to their respective guns. This wasn’t like the other attacks though, even though he hadn’t seen out a porthole yet. No doubt there were FIFs, aeroplanes playfully named by their odd number of wings Five Instead of Four. The rumbling outside the ship told him the Germans had brought a cruiser, their heavy flak guns exploding their ordnance near the ship’s hull. Also the low whine of the engines of the FIF aeroplanes outside the metal walls told him that they had several aircraft carrier ships as well. He turned again to another ladder, making his way slowly to the top of the ship. Only a few other privates with him now, the rest of them gone now, fighting to hold back the grey German tide. His legs started to burn, his breathing rapid as he ascended the last ladder. Ever since their major breakthrough in 1918, the German Air navy had been relentlessly bombarding Paris day after day with seemingly endless waves of airships and aeroplanes. He had reached the spinal catwalk, located mere feet below the top of the envelope. Around the catwalk, hydrogen gasbags bulged over the railing. He raced down the metal walkway, seeing the ladder that lead to his gun. His gun was a standard heavy Chauchat Mark IV. Able to tear an aeroplane into canvas and wooden confetti in the blink of an eye, but despite its disturbing effectiveness, the Chauchat knew not the difference between friend or foe. But he supposed it didn’t matter, the French Nieuport 30 Quadplanes were nothing more than targets to draw German fire away from the airships. He scaled the ladder, the cool metal familiar to his callused hands. He reached the final rungs, the glass dome above him revealing the grey sky above him. He hung on the second to top rung and leaned against the opposite wall to prop himself up. He grabbed the icy black steel of the Chauchat and rotated it a full rotation. The sky was full of fire, planes filled the sky like house flies around a rotting carcass. Flak smoke puffs peppered the sky, almost indistinguishable from the gray clouds around him. Several miles away, an airship of indeterminate faction light up the sky with its flames. Around him, other glass domes just like his, were unloading their hailstorm of bullets into the sky. He focused his vision down the sight of the Chauchat and swung the gun to face the Germans. He took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.
The gun responded smartly with a sharp chatter of lead. An aeroplane flew close to his ship, about two hundred feet below him, displaying its iron crosses proudly. He whirled the gun to follow the plane and pressed the trigger. The bright tracers flew through the war-torn skies, and met their mark on the FIF. Almost immediately the FIF burst into a violent display of fire and smoke, twirling gracelessly out of the heavens. He paused and looked to the side of his gun, no parachute. “Good,” He thought “One less Hun to shoot at me next time.” He revolved the gun back to face the German wave, no time to observe what ships they had brought to the fray. He found another FIF, above him this time, and followed it like the last, pointed the gun slightly in front of the twirling prop, and squeezed. The aeroplane burst into flames like the last and was tossed out of the sky. Around him, the FIFs had infiltrated the barricade of French airships, zipping among them like playful insects. He repeated the motion once more, and swung the gun around to face the German advance. He found his target and prepared to squeeze off a barrage when a whistling sound met his ears. His training kicked in once more and his feet left the ladder, gravity grabbing him with its clammy hand. He fell to the metal floor with a grunt and covered his head with his hands. The explosion erupted above him, an artillery shell that hit the envelope. Glass fell down from the top of the ladder, his dome. His ears were ringing and his eyes were white and blind. He felt his body, no puncture wounds, “I’m alright.” He said aloud to himself. The hearing returned to his ears, and the whiteness in his eyes disappeared. He rose to his hands and knees, his breathing shallow and raspy. He stood slowly, and stabled himself against the ladder of his gun. From behind him, two burly men pushed past him, riggers. They began examining the area around the blast site, ignoring the gunner, looking frantically in the gasbags for punctures. They finished their quick inspection and continued onward. The gunner shook his head and cleared his thoughts. “No time to waste.” He thought to himself. He got onto the ladder and started to pull himself up again.
He reached the top of the ladder, the Chauchat still there, but the dome was gone. His shield against the war. The stink of explosives washed over him, the whine of the FIFs louder, dust and debris flying around him. He closed his eyes and looked down; he wiped his burning eyes and returned his gaze back to the sky. Around his shattered dome, riggers with ropes wrapped around their waists were patching the hole the shell made. Around him, more ships, French and German, had caught fire and were sinking slowly out of the sky. He grasped the gun once more and focused down the metal sights. He found three more FIFs in a V formation above his gun. He swung the gun upward and squeezed the trigger. The lead aeroplane took the fire directly and spiraled downward. The other two responded and peeled away turning back towards the safety of their own ships. He turned the gun to face the one closest to him. “Not today little birdie,” He whispered and pulled the trigger. There was a delay, and then the FIF burst into flames and tumbled clumsily out of the sky. He turned to the remaining fighter, he began lining up the shot. When a flak cloud burst feet from his gun, he ducked down. But he was far too late, a shard of metal wedged into the flesh of his right shoulder. His hands clasped the wound, warm wetness oozing through his fingers. He felt the metal splinter and grasped it with his fingers; he pulled hard the pain agonizing. The chunk of metal came free and fell from his grasp to the bottom of the ladder. Blood was still dripping down his arm; he reached down to the hem of his blue pants and ripped off the bottom. He took the strip of fabric and wrapped it tightly around the hole in is shoulder. He tied it tight; he would be fine for now.
He popped his head back out into the sky, and grasped the gun. The fight was growing more intense now as the German airships drew closer to the French barricade around Paris. Flak smoke puffs were all around him as the hostile ships targeted the capital ships like his. The FIFs that were once buzzing around the French ships were now all but gone. He kept vigilant; the FIFs had retreated to regroup for another charge. He examined the damage around him, only two or three frigates remained around his ship, but the shadows of the capital ships miles away still loomed in the distance. The French Quadplanes still raced around in formation around the frigates. Behind him, a hole ridden French flag still flapped in the wind. The symbol of the sacrifice the men around him were making. He made a quick salute, and then turned his attention to the other gunners around him. Many of the domes were still intact, the gunners rotating and scanning the sky. But an unlucky few were riddled with holes and splattered with blood, those men giving the ultimate sacrifice. The riggers would have dragged them to the aft, to be buried in the mass graves when they landed to refuel and rearm. Then a letter would be sent to their families, the letter no mother wanted to see, the letter that explained that their son had given their life, to defend the glorious cause. He wiped the thought from his mind; he looked at the feed of bullets to his Chauchat, almost empty. He climbed halfway down his ladder and grabbed a radio receiver.
Minutes later a rigger arrived at this ladder and handed him an olive drab, tin ammo case. He nodded in salute to the rigger, who tuned and ran back down the walk. He climbed back up the ladder once more, the ammo case hanging from his wounded arm. He reached the top and set the ammo case on his feet, he then pulled the empty case and threw it down to the catwalk. It clattered to the floor with a loud metal clunk. He inserted the new case into the gun, He slapped the lid down on it, and cocked the Chauchat with a satisfying click. He stared down the sights and fired two test shots, all was correct, all that was missing was the FIFs. Around him the flak picked up again, signaling the airships giving the FIFs cover. As he thought, the whine of the FIFs could be heard echoing through the skies, he stared down his Chauchat and searched the gray sky for the coming storm. But something was different, in addition to the high pitched whine of the FIFs, there was a low growl. In the distance a shadow appeared, just to the left of the bow of the airship. It was an aeroplane for sure, but it had two wings not the FIF’s five. As well as four props, as it came closer he squinted. His eyes got wide, and the blood went out of his body. It was a Bio-Buster.
His hand raced to his belt, he groped desperately around and found the leather gasmask. He ripped it from his belt, and hastily stretched the strap over his face. He aligned the dirty glass circles over his eyes and then tightened the strap with a swift pull of the strap. He looked down the sight of his weapon, struggling to see through the glass of the mask. The Bio was getting closer, the growl vibrating in his chest. The FIFs around the lumbering giant peeled away as the Bio gained altitude and aligned itself with the airship. He aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. The bullets were hitting their mark, but the Bio’s heavy armor swatted the bullets away like flies. The Bio was right over him now, there was a slight hiss as it past over with the noise of a freight train. Green vapor wafted down from the plane as it veered left and away from the ship. He breathed in hard, making sure the mask was working. Thankfully, it was. If it wasn’t for the mask, he would be dead, the paralyzing gas killing in seconds. The FIFs had returned in force, escorting Bios to release their deadly payload over the French barricade. He aimed into a cloud of FIFs slightly below his ship, about six hundred feet away. He compensated for time and unleashed his deadly rain on the pilots. Three of the FIFs plummeted out of the group, the rest scattered into the grey. His face was dripping with sweat, the mask almost suffocating. Irony given it’s purpose. He continued his fire on the FIFs, but seemed not to notice as the Bios circled back, approaching from behind. The growling returned, vibrating his chest. He swung the gun and opened fire on the Bio. The other gunners seemed not to notice as the metal goliath soared over them. His bullets sparked off the wings of the Bio, when suddenly a lucky shot caused an engine to burst into flames. The Bio’s pilot struggled to maintain control, wrestling with the plane to keep it from dropping out of the sky. The Bio pulled hard up, but lacked thrust to make it. It tumbled back down, heading straight at the spine of the French Capital ship. The gunner realized the impending disaster, but was too late. The Bio shattered against the hull of the French ship in a storm of fire, smoke, and twisted metal. The gunner shielded his face, feeling the metal penetrate his body. Warm wetness was all over him, no time to worry about that. He swung the gun forward, more FIFs flew overhead in a dark steel tide. He shot the gun wildly, aiming at nothing. His breathing was shallow and raspy; he put his hand to his face and tore off the gas mask, throwing it down the ladder. He took a deep breath of the polluted air around him. He kept firing, the FIFs all around the ship. His vision grew dark and hazy. He slouched to one side, still firing his weapon. Then there was a low whine of an aeroplane. The chatter of a German machine gun. Warm liquid running down his face, falling down the ladder, feeling the cool metal.
The letter arrived four days later, to a small cream colored home in the bombed out French countryside. A woman opens her mailbox, and sees the return address. She already knows what it means. She drops to her knees in the churned up ground, tears silently streaming down her face. Her husband watches from the porch and runs to her side. He sees the letter and a blank expression overtakes him. He would be called a hero, a brave man who’s sacrifice allowed France to live for one more day. He was thirteen.
The Letter(Graham Hardie)
“General quarters all hands! Man your battle stations” The voice blared over the intercom in a syrupy French accent, the alarm klaxon blaring “Repeat, Man your battle stations! This is not a drill!” He was out of his bunk in a heartbeat, his comrades around him doing the same. Within seconds, his training making the task automatic, his was in his blue gunnery private’s uniform. He pulled on his boots and went scrambling out the door. He made a hasty right turn out of the bunking room, his boots making a heavy clunking sound on the diamond shaped metal grate, following the throng of other gunnery privates to their respective stations. He rubbed his eyes, and looked at the watch on his hand. It was one o’clock in the morning, an odd time for the German air navy to launch an attack. His capital ship was amongst the last of the French’s final line of defense. Their orders were to hold the line at all costs, and wait for British reinforcements. He turned up a ladder, following fewer privates now as they fanned out to their respective guns. This wasn’t like the other attacks though, even though he hadn’t seen out a porthole yet. No doubt there were FIFs, aeroplanes playfully named by their odd number of wings Five Instead of Four. The rumbling outside the ship told him the Germans had brought a cruiser, their heavy flak guns exploding their ordnance near the ship’s hull. Also the low whine of the engines of the FIF aeroplanes outside the metal walls told him that they had several aircraft carrier ships as well. He turned again to another ladder, making his way slowly to the top of the ship. Only a few other privates with him now, the rest of them gone now, fighting to hold back the grey German tide. His legs started to burn, his breathing rapid as he ascended the last ladder. Ever since their major breakthrough in 1918, the German Air navy had been relentlessly bombarding Paris day after day with seemingly endless waves of airships and aeroplanes. He had reached the spinal catwalk, located mere feet below the top of the envelope. Around the catwalk, hydrogen gasbags bulged over the railing. He raced down the metal walkway, seeing the ladder that lead to his gun. His gun was a standard heavy Chauchat Mark IV. Able to tear an aeroplane into canvas and wooden confetti in the blink of an eye, but despite its disturbing effectiveness, the Chauchat knew not the difference between friend or foe. But he supposed it didn’t matter, the French Nieuport 30 Quadplanes were nothing more than targets to draw German fire away from the airships. He scaled the ladder, the cool metal familiar to his callused hands. He reached the final rungs, the glass dome above him revealing the grey sky above him. He hung on the second to top rung and leaned against the opposite wall to prop himself up. He grabbed the icy black steel of the Chauchat and rotated it a full rotation. The sky was full of fire, planes filled the sky like house flies around a rotting carcass. Flak smoke puffs peppered the sky, almost indistinguishable from the gray clouds around him. Several miles away, an airship of indeterminate faction light up the sky with its flames. Around him, other glass domes just like his, were unloading their hailstorm of bullets into the sky. He focused his vision down the sight of the Chauchat and swung the gun to face the Germans. He took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.
The gun responded smartly with a sharp chatter of lead. An aeroplane flew close to his ship, about two hundred feet below him, displaying its iron crosses proudly. He whirled the gun to follow the plane and pressed the trigger. The bright tracers flew through the war-torn skies, and met their mark on the FIF. Almost immediately the FIF burst into a violent display of fire and smoke, twirling gracelessly out of the heavens. He paused and looked to the side of his gun, no parachute. “Good,” He thought “One less Hun to shoot at me next time.” He revolved the gun back to face the German wave, no time to observe what ships they had brought to the fray. He found another FIF, above him this time, and followed it like the last, pointed the gun slightly in front of the twirling prop, and squeezed. The aeroplane burst into flames like the last and was tossed out of the sky. Around him, the FIFs had infiltrated the barricade of French airships, zipping among them like playful insects. He repeated the motion once more, and swung the gun around to face the German advance. He found his target and prepared to squeeze off a barrage when a whistling sound met his ears. His training kicked in once more and his feet left the ladder, gravity grabbing him with its clammy hand. He fell to the metal floor with a grunt and covered his head with his hands. The explosion erupted above him, an artillery shell that hit the envelope. Glass fell down from the top of the ladder, his dome. His ears were ringing and his eyes were white and blind. He felt his body, no puncture wounds, “I’m alright.” He said aloud to himself. The hearing returned to his ears, and the whiteness in his eyes disappeared. He rose to his hands and knees, his breathing shallow and raspy. He stood slowly, and stabled himself against the ladder of his gun. From behind him, two burly men pushed past him, riggers. They began examining the area around the blast site, ignoring the gunner, looking frantically in the gasbags for punctures. They finished their quick inspection and continued onward. The gunner shook his head and cleared his thoughts. “No time to waste.” He thought to himself. He got onto the ladder and started to pull himself up again.
He reached the top of the ladder, the Chauchat still there, but the dome was gone. His shield against the war. The stink of explosives washed over him, the whine of the FIFs louder, dust and debris flying around him. He closed his eyes and looked down; he wiped his burning eyes and returned his gaze back to the sky. Around his shattered dome, riggers with ropes wrapped around their waists were patching the hole the shell made. Around him, more ships, French and German, had caught fire and were sinking slowly out of the sky. He grasped the gun once more and focused down the metal sights. He found three more FIFs in a V formation above his gun. He swung the gun upward and squeezed the trigger. The lead aeroplane took the fire directly and spiraled downward. The other two responded and peeled away turning back towards the safety of their own ships. He turned the gun to face the one closest to him. “Not today little birdie,” He whispered and pulled the trigger. There was a delay, and then the FIF burst into flames and tumbled clumsily out of the sky. He turned to the remaining fighter, he began lining up the shot. When a flak cloud burst feet from his gun, he ducked down. But he was far too late, a shard of metal wedged into the flesh of his right shoulder. His hands clasped the wound, warm wetness oozing through his fingers. He felt the metal splinter and grasped it with his fingers; he pulled hard the pain agonizing. The chunk of metal came free and fell from his grasp to the bottom of the ladder. Blood was still dripping down his arm; he reached down to the hem of his blue pants and ripped off the bottom. He took the strip of fabric and wrapped it tightly around the hole in is shoulder. He tied it tight; he would be fine for now.
He popped his head back out into the sky, and grasped the gun. The fight was growing more intense now as the German airships drew closer to the French barricade around Paris. Flak smoke puffs were all around him as the hostile ships targeted the capital ships like his. The FIFs that were once buzzing around the French ships were now all but gone. He kept vigilant; the FIFs had retreated to regroup for another charge. He examined the damage around him, only two or three frigates remained around his ship, but the shadows of the capital ships miles away still loomed in the distance. The French Quadplanes still raced around in formation around the frigates. Behind him, a hole ridden French flag still flapped in the wind. The symbol of the sacrifice the men around him were making. He made a quick salute, and then turned his attention to the other gunners around him. Many of the domes were still intact, the gunners rotating and scanning the sky. But an unlucky few were riddled with holes and splattered with blood, those men giving the ultimate sacrifice. The riggers would have dragged them to the aft, to be buried in the mass graves when they landed to refuel and rearm. Then a letter would be sent to their families, the letter no mother wanted to see, the letter that explained that their son had given their life, to defend the glorious cause. He wiped the thought from his mind; he looked at the feed of bullets to his Chauchat, almost empty. He climbed halfway down his ladder and grabbed a radio receiver.
Minutes later a rigger arrived at this ladder and handed him an olive drab, tin ammo case. He nodded in salute to the rigger, who tuned and ran back down the walk. He climbed back up the ladder once more, the ammo case hanging from his wounded arm. He reached the top and set the ammo case on his feet, he then pulled the empty case and threw it down to the catwalk. It clattered to the floor with a loud metal clunk. He inserted the new case into the gun, He slapped the lid down on it, and cocked the Chauchat with a satisfying click. He stared down the sights and fired two test shots, all was correct, all that was missing was the FIFs. Around him the flak picked up again, signaling the airships giving the FIFs cover. As he thought, the whine of the FIFs could be heard echoing through the skies, he stared down his Chauchat and searched the gray sky for the coming storm. But something was different, in addition to the high pitched whine of the FIFs, there was a low growl. In the distance a shadow appeared, just to the left of the bow of the airship. It was an aeroplane for sure, but it had two wings not the FIF’s five. As well as four props, as it came closer he squinted. His eyes got wide, and the blood went out of his body. It was a Bio-Buster.
His hand raced to his belt, he groped desperately around and found the leather gasmask. He ripped it from his belt, and hastily stretched the strap over his face. He aligned the dirty glass circles over his eyes and then tightened the strap with a swift pull of the strap. He looked down the sight of his weapon, struggling to see through the glass of the mask. The Bio was getting closer, the growl vibrating in his chest. The FIFs around the lumbering giant peeled away as the Bio gained altitude and aligned itself with the airship. He aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. The bullets were hitting their mark, but the Bio’s heavy armor swatted the bullets away like flies. The Bio was right over him now, there was a slight hiss as it past over with the noise of a freight train. Green vapor wafted down from the plane as it veered left and away from the ship. He breathed in hard, making sure the mask was working. Thankfully, it was. If it wasn’t for the mask, he would be dead, the paralyzing gas killing in seconds. The FIFs had returned in force, escorting Bios to release their deadly payload over the French barricade. He aimed into a cloud of FIFs slightly below his ship, about six hundred feet away. He compensated for time and unleashed his deadly rain on the pilots. Three of the FIFs plummeted out of the group, the rest scattered into the grey. His face was dripping with sweat, the mask almost suffocating. Irony given it’s purpose. He continued his fire on the FIFs, but seemed not to notice as the Bios circled back, approaching from behind. The growling returned, vibrating his chest. He swung the gun and opened fire on the Bio. The other gunners seemed not to notice as the metal goliath soared over them. His bullets sparked off the wings of the Bio, when suddenly a lucky shot caused an engine to burst into flames. The Bio’s pilot struggled to maintain control, wrestling with the plane to keep it from dropping out of the sky. The Bio pulled hard up, but lacked thrust to make it. It tumbled back down, heading straight at the spine of the French Capital ship. The gunner realized the impending disaster, but was too late. The Bio shattered against the hull of the French ship in a storm of fire, smoke, and twisted metal. The gunner shielded his face, feeling the metal penetrate his body. Warm wetness was all over him, no time to worry about that. He swung the gun forward, more FIFs flew overhead in a dark steel tide. He shot the gun wildly, aiming at nothing. His breathing was shallow and raspy; he put his hand to his face and tore off the gas mask, throwing it down the ladder. He took a deep breath of the polluted air around him. He kept firing, the FIFs all around the ship. His vision grew dark and hazy. He slouched to one side, still firing his weapon. Then there was a low whine of an aeroplane. The chatter of a German machine gun. Warm liquid running down his face, falling down the ladder, feeling the cool metal.
The letter arrived four days later, to a small cream colored home in the bombed out French countryside. A woman opens her mailbox, and sees the return address. She already knows what it means. She drops to her knees in the churned up ground, tears silently streaming down her face. Her husband watches from the porch and runs to her side. He sees the letter and a blank expression overtakes him. He would be called a hero, a brave man who’s sacrifice allowed France to live for one more day. He was thirteen.
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