DELETED32084

The Lions of Rhaetia (CANCELLED)

Sergeant Hecht

---

"Carefully now." Hecht spoke quietly as Welsers litter was maneuvered into the yard of the large house they'd been quartered in. It was filled with troopers in various stages of relaxation, most of them sound asleep in the warm sunlight that filtered through the trees surrounding the yard. The sound of wind in the leaves melded nicely with the rumble of the river, almost concealing the tramp of boots and jingle of supply wagons as the main army marched through.

A company of infantry had been detached to bury the village dead, they were Rhaetians afterall, and they moved throughout the smaller houses to do their horrid task. A few of them cast resentful looks toward the cavalry but the majority toiled away in relative silence, they had seen the dead horses in the streets and no one could ignore the pile of dead that had been dragged from the bridge.

"Here we are." Hecht, carrying the front end of the litter, arrived at the small space they had cleared for Welser in a corner of the yard. It was near the stables and bore the strong earthy smell of horses. She groaned as they set her down and opened her eyes slightly to look at him. He smiled. Her blonde hair was twisted about her face but her blue eyes were clear and alert.

"There you are, out of the Inn. Sleep if you can, I'll see to it you get some food." He stood and turned away, eyes scanning the yard until he caught sight of a face he hoped Welser wanted to see.

"Trooper Hielscher." The young man hurried over and stopped, his face wreathed with concern as he looked from the Sergeant to his friend on the ground. "Make sure Welser is comfortable and gets what she needs. We're due to ride out in two days time and we need her to be ready."

Hielscher nodded and quickly stepped past Hecht, kneeling down next to Welser and taking her hand, talking quietly and earnestly to her. Hecht left the pair, his boots pushing up little tufts of dust as he strode across the yard toward the main house.

Trooper Toman stood sentry on the door and he nodded to the sergeant as he stepped over the black rock threshold. The house itself was of a generous size, white washed and trimmed about the door and windows with black. Part of him wondered if he could come back someday and buy the place. The owners were dead. They had been found shot in the yard along with their servants and dogs. Burying them had been an unpleasant task. The women had been raped and the men likely made to watch before the end came. He shuddered.

The short hallway had a door to the left that opened into a sitting room and another to the right that would take him into a substantial kitchen. He followed the smell of cooking into this room and smiled at the sight of a huge cauldron bubbling in the massive fireplace. The smell of wood smoke and cooking meat made him feel homesick for the first time in a long time. He nodded to Wilhelm, a bakers son turned squadron cook, and Schuster who had been pressed into service as his assistant.

Corporal Heine sat in a corner of the kitchen munching on a apple that he waved at Hecht. There was an orchard outside that had more fruit than men and horses could eat. "Frederick, how're you now?"

Hecht smiled and sat with his friend, his sword banging against the stool. He plucked an apple from the basket on the small table and bit into it, savouring the crisp crunch and sweet juice.

"Managing, Domenik, managing. Moved Welser to the yard. She seems to be coming along and with any luck she might be able to ride in a few days. Surgeon says her wounds aren't fatal and likely wont even slow her down."

"Luck of the devil then." The Corporal replied as he slung the apple core out the window into the field beyond. "Shame about Jager and Muller."

"Yes, but nothing can be done about that. How're we doing for remounts?" The never ending shortage of cavalry mounts had been an issue before the regiment marched, but it was going to be worse now with so many killed on the bridge.

"Not to bad, actually..." Heine replied. "We're up one. More men down than horses lost. Kraus sent a spare mount over for Welser this morning, she should be able to ride with us. Her horse was butchered by the infantry as they marched through. Poor things head was gone. It probably took the canister rounds that would have otherwise killed her."

"Lucky indeed. Though I doubt she feels that way."

"The lucky rarely feel lucky in battle." Heine replied. Hecht nodded. His Corporal had far more combat experience than he did and he was painfully aware of his shortcomings. Only Heines desire to tell officers exactly what he thought of them had prevented him being given command of A-Squadron.

"Well I'll get to my rounds." Heine said, rising from his stool and stretching his arms wide so that his back cracked. He sighed in relief. "Eat something, Frederick, you'll need it."

He gave a friendly wave to the two troopers who were pulling roasting meat off the fire, grabbed another apple, and vanished out the door.

Good Ol' Boys

Si

The Lions of Rhaetia (CANCELLED)

Hecht ducked involuntarily as the cannon roared, the screams of dying horses suddenly tremendously loud over those of humans. Smoke filled the air and drifted slowly through the village. He could make out Ulmer standing in the doorway staring out into the street even as Blum, blood leaking from a cut on her forehead, was frantically reloading a carbine. Another green coated body, he couldn't see the face, lay crumpled inside the door curled around a gut wound that had hopefully killed them quickly.

Hecht half stumbled on the dead villager as he hurried over to Ulmer, pushing his sword home in the scabbard as he unslung his carbine. Training kicked in as rammed the powder and ball swiftly down the barrel while his gaze swept the street outside. A tangled mass of horseflesh and humanity was spread across the bridge. The closeness of the Tallian cannon had actually served to clear the bridge, the sheer force and mass of the grapeshot had simply swept aside the charging cavalry like a scythe through fresh wheat. Hecht could see the gunners frantically spiking the gun back into position, beyond them in the trees he could yellow uniforms, but none on horseback.

"Ulmer, Blum, with me!" He shouted, his voice seemed strangely loud in the silence following the cannon blast. He ran from the house toward the bridge. More dragoons were streaming toward the ancient stone bridge from the village, most of them dismounted, and carbines cracked as bullets spun through the air. He saw the branches above the cannon shiver and leaves began to flutter as down as more dragoons added their fire. Instead of going for the bridge he ran for the edge of the river, it was no more than twenty yards across, and knelt. He aimed slightly high, at this range a direct hit was almost impossible, and pulled the trigger. Smoke blotted his vision but he imagined he hard a "clang" as the ball struck the cannon barrel. The Tallians were to close and they were starting to realize it.

More dragoons hurried to the bank and the snap of carbines sent the gunners diving for cover as more and more bullets slapped off the cannon barrel and the high wheels. Several of the yellow jackets could be seen crawling back, trying to hook the long gun traces to mules who were barely visible in the trees. A trumpet screamed at the sky and he turned to see Captain Kraus, his helmet gone, leading an ad-hoc charge across the bridge. Hooves sounded loud on the stone decking and one horse, slipping on the gore that sheeted much of the stone, gave a piteous neigh and went down with a crash. But a dozen others made it and the riders gave a yells of triumph as they bore down on the gunners who, having abandoned their gun, tried to run. It was far too late and the dragoons slaughtered them beneath the trees.

More trumpets sounded and suddenly the village was filled with horsemen as the rest of the regiment arrived. They rode through the village, eyes agape, for many of them this was their first sight of battlefield dead. Some vomited from their mounts, others made religious gestures, but the majority rode grimly onward as they clattered across the bridge to exploit the crossing.

For Hecht, and those around him, the battle was over. They could hear the trumpet calls and sounds of gunfire in the distance but orders came from an exhausted Kraus for them to rest their mounts and check their own injuries. Stretcher parties were dispatched to comb the riverbank and village for any injured, Rhaetian and Tallian like.

Hecht was standing shirtless, just having managed to find a moment to pour a bucket of water over his head, when Corporal Heine found him. The burly man cleared his throat and waited for Hecht to look at him.

"Two dead and three injured, one of whom likely won't make it." He had a slip of paper in his hand but Hecht made no effort to take it.

"That seems light."

"That's just A Troop." Heine responded quietly and Hecht swore.

"Who did we loose?"

"Troopers Jager and Muller. Jager some time during the fight in the village, Muller on the bridge," He glanced down at his blood spattered boots and then back up again. "Trooper Welser is in a bad way. Tolman and Wilhelm got off with minor scratches."

"Alright, I'll go see Welser. Make sure the rest of the squadron gets some food and rest, as best we can. We'll have to ride in a day or two, tops."

The Corporal nodded and hurried off to see to the squadron while Hecht went to find Welser.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

THE REPUBLIC OF ARGENTINA

July, 1955

---

BUENOS AIRES - Presidential Palace

"Your excellency," There was a knock at the door, a short hesitation and then it opened to admit a tall reed-thin man with a face that was pinched like he had sucked on a lemon. "I have received word that the Santos are meeting this evening."

President General Dictator for Life Hipólito Yrigoyen looked up, any trace of annoyance at being interrupted vanishing at once. "Do we know where!?"

Pedro Brieger, Yrigoyens spymaster, shook his head. "No. We only know that they are meeting. I can not even confirm the identity of any of them well enough to try and ask more questions."

"Damn..." Yrigoyen slumped back in his plush red chair, fingers drumming on the teak desktop. For the past several months he had heard whispers of a group of military officers known as the Santos meeting in secret. He did not know who they were or why they were meeting but it did not take very much imagination to discern what they might be up too.

"I do have a possible lead, but all of my enquires in that direction have proven ineffective or hit a dead-end." Brieger had a folder in a hand that looked so thin it appeared to be little more than skin stretched over bone. "A Doctor, Lieutenant Osvaldo Soriano."

"Why him?"

"He is known to receive letters from one Ernesto Guevara, who is not currently in country."

Yrigoyen grunted as he stared down at this tapping fingers. Association with a known revolutionary living outside Argentina was not enough for him to arrest a military officer. He would have to tread carefully. Over the past year he had managed to "encourage" a number of high ranking officers to retire and replace them with his own men. Even so, one did not send the secret police to a military base and not expect trouble. He would need more proof.

"Do you have any of the letters?"

"No. We have tried bribing the post-master," Yrigoyen winced, recalling how poorly that had gone. "And the cleaning staffer we paid off to search his rooms found nothing."

"Known associates?"

"He has been seen with any dozens of people, but one lady in particular, María Laura Santillán, a Journalist, spends a lot of time with him. As for male friends, all military officers, most frequently Lieutenants Francisco De Le Cal Delgado, Roberto Alemann and Mariano Moreno."

"Nobodies." Yrigoyen dismissed them all. "I was the guest of honour at their graduation. Decent enough officers but unremarkable otherwise."

Brieger raised an eyebrow. This was a point he did not agree with his President on. Junior officers were notoriously enthusiastic in their pursuit of three things, wine, women, and trouble. Delgado, for example, was already well known for having something of an issue with authority, ironic for a military man. All three played in the militaries rugby league, spent extensive time training, and were well liked by the men they led.

"I disagree, your excellency." He waited for the black eyes to meet his. "They are all very active young men and would bear watching."

"Watch away then. But they command no battalions or ships. Find me the Santos!" Yrigoyen snarled the last words at Brieger. "And question that girl. Carefully."

---

Two blocks away, seated around a small table set with four glasses and a bottle of rum, sat the four men suddenly of such interest to the President. Sariano was the most animated among them, as was usual.

"You see, he was written me about Guatemala. The people are suffering! We must act!" Lieutenant/Doctor Osvaldo Soriano waved the letter he held in the face of the three other men who had joined him in the gardens of the Paz Palace.

The letter in question had been written to him by his friend and colleague, Guevara, a somewhat radical revolutionary who had shared his studies with Soriano at the University of Buenos Aires. Guevara had been popular in medical circles and spoke at length about his experiences riding his motorcycle throughout the Americas. Much of it had resonated with the young idealistic minds around him.

Sariano himself had become a military doctor while Guevara had chosen to continue his travels. He had written to Sariano about his experiences and his idea of a united Latin America. Never one to ignore a good opportunity to debate, Sariano had tried to engage many of his fellow officers over the topic but found them largely unwilling to take part. Argentina was in a better state than some, President Yrigoyen had done the country much good before the attempt on his life. Since then he had tightened his grip on power daily until Argentines were vanishing in broad daylight, never to be seen again. Many of the reforms he had implemented were being rolled back and more and more "political prisoners" were being sent to mines or infrastructure works throughout the country as slave labour.

Sariano had begun to despair he would ever find a sympathetic ear until he had been volunteering to stand by for injuries at a rugby game where he encountered Lieutenant Francisco De Le Cal Delgado, a junior Naval Officer, who had done his own road-trip throughout the Americas and come home deeply troubled by what he found. His experience in the United States had shown him a possible future for Argentina that he did not like. He had in turn introduced Sariano to Lieutenants Roberto Alemann and Mariano Moreno. Each of them had been affected by Yrigoyen in their own way, but all of them agreed that a change needed to be made.

"Okay, we understand, but what can we do?"

The four had jokingly called themselves the Santos, a name known only to them and one or two others. None of them knew quite how far the name had gone in the upper echelons of power.

"We could speak to the General?" Alemann suggested, taking a sip from his glass, beads of moisture rolling down the sides to splash onto his white dress pants. He swore under his breath and brushed at the liquid.

"And say what?" Delgado dismissed the idea. He, among them all, had realized that their amusing conversations had started to become deadly serious in the past several months. "Please, General, can you tell the man who gave you your job that he needs to stop kidnapping people." He stuck out his lower lip and spoke in a simpering tone.

"Do you have a better idea?" Alemann retorted with some amusement.

"Remove Yrigoyen."

Complete silence fell over the small gathering as three sets of eyes stared at Delgado. They had skirted around such an act in private before, but Delgado had said it with such finality that the others were taken aback.

"Remove Yrigoyen and seize control ourselves," Delgado pressed on after a long pause. "We do it for the people of Argentina."

The Lions of Rhaetia (CANCELLED)

@DuckThanks for letting us know. If you get inspired again, your characters will still be around... Hopefully...

The Lions of Rhaetia (CANCELLED)

Sergeant Hecht

---

"You saw only three?" Hecht questioned the scouts carefully, glancing down at the village below them. The street was empty now, no dogs, no people, nothing, it wasn't right at all. "Yellow jackets?"

The scouts nodded in exasperation. He'd asked the same questions three times now and gotten the same answer. Truth be told, he was nervous. He'd never fought a battle before or even fired his carbine at another living person for that matter. He'd sent a trooper back to fetch the Captain and there was little more they could do now than wait.

The group of them were dismounted and in the shadow of a thick copse of trees that crowned the top of the ridge. At least they had remembered that much of their training. Most of his squad had joined them now, a half dozen were still thrown out like a screen all around the village to keep an open eye in case enemy troops began to move out from an angle he couldn't see.

He glanced around as his troopers, all of them seemed as nervous as he was that made him feel somewhat better. He'd gotten to know them as much as man could over the past several months and done his best to make a decent leader but he figured the real crux of it would come to what he did under fire.

The thud of hooves made him turn and he almost smiled in relief as Captain Kraus rode up, stern faced beneath his helmet. He dismounted back of the ridgeline and came forward on foot. Behind him, walking their horses so as not to create the telltale thunder of hooves, came the remainder of D Troop.

"Where?" The Captain asked and Hecht pointed down at the spot where Ulmer had seen them. "Anything since?"

"No sir, not even a dog moving."

"Well that's bloody shit news." Kraus grumbled as he scanned the area himself. The bridge was currently empty and they could see very little beyond in the wood. "Nothing for it though, we've got orders to take the damn thing, so take it we shall." He paused and grinned suddenly at the nervous soldiers. "Mount up, follow my lead, and we'll get through this."

Hecht envied the ease of the older mans command as he swung himself into the saddle. The remainder of D Troop, nearly a hundred troopers minus the out-flung scouts, massed slowly in the trees. The village below remained quiet and Hecht was amazed no one heard them. The stamp of hooves, the "huff" of horses, the clink of spurs and jangle of the harness seemed unbearably loud to them.

Kraus was at the centre of the line, now four ranks deep, nearly twenty wide. He was proud of his soldiers. They had come from nothing to serve their country and though they were fresh to the fight, they were here. With volunteers such as this, he would ride to Tallia itself.

"Forward!" He called loudly enough for those close enough to hear him. The line lurched forward and into the sunlight. There was no shouts of alarm from the village and he dared hoped it was unoccupied. Sunlight flashed on bronzed helmets and the green jackets with their red facings were suddenly bright in the daylight. He was startled by a sudden scream that came from the village.

It was long and frantic, a womans scream. It rose and fell until it was suddenly silenced with a savage finality. He felt his gut tighten and anger flare through him. Someone had just suffered because he had taken to long to arrive.

"Order the charge!" He snarled to his trumpeter. The man nodded and raised his bugle.

The beautiful crisp notes challenged the bright morning air suddenly turned so dark by the pain of an unknown woman. The horses, as well trained as their masters, began to trot without hesitation and the slow plod turned into a rumble that did much to drown the sounds of those around him.

Yellow uniforms suddenly showed in the village as men stumbled from the largest building, likely an inn, their faces turned towards the approaching cavalry. Yellow with white facings. Infantry. They were dead and they didn't even know it. He drew his sword and the rest of the Troop followed suit, a ripple of steel that flashed down the line.

"CHARGE!" So much fury poured into that single word. The trumpet screamed its challenge to the sky and the entire mass of horses and their humans riders began to pick up speed. The sight was something that was always breath taking to him as he glanced quickly around. The big horses, their muscles bunched beneath shimmering fur, manes streaming in the wind, heads straining forward as hooves hammered the ground like pistons. Their riders likewise singularly focused, eyes bulging, swords held at parade ground angles, their own war cries mingling with the tremendous noise of their mounts.

Hecht lips were peeled back from his teeth in a formless scream as he pounded down the slope at the head of his squadron; sword pointed toward the enemy as he had been taught. The infantry, he could see the white facings of their jackets now, were running through the streets toward the bridge. but it was far to late for them.

The cavalry crossed the space between the trees and the village in a matter of seconds and streamed in among the houses. Two infantrymen, pulling trousers up around their waists, were ridden under the heavy hooves as they stumbled from a house. Another turned and fired his musket, the sound lost among the noise, and then screamed as the Captain crushed the mans face with his sword. The Tallian reeled away, his face a bloody mask, and then went down as Hechts horse slammed into him.

Another musket cracked nearby and Hecht had a brief vision of a green uniform and brown horse tumbling down in the street but then they were among the houses and more yellow uniforms began to appear at windows and doorways. An ambush!

"Get them out Sergeant!" Kraus roared the order at Hecht as he stabbed his sword into the face of a wide eyed Tallian who had lost his shako. "Get them out!"

Hecht managed to swing down from his horse, sword quickly shoved back in his scabbard as he yanked his carbine from the saddle. "A squadron! A squadron!" He shouted as he knelt, firing his carbine at a terrified face that appeared in a nearby window. The face was yanked back as his bullet smashed a chunk of wood from the frame. He cursed and drew his sword, running toward the house. Others joined him and he cannoned into the door which exploded under his weight.

The force carried him further into the house than he'd expected and he crashed into an over turned table that served as protection for two Tallian soldiers. One stabbed at him with a bayonet while the other frantically loaded his musket. Hecht didn't think, he just reacted, batting away the bayonet and then plunging his blade into his enemies chest. The man gave a gurgling whimper and sagged backward. Hecht had killed for the first time.

He didn't have time to think about it as the second man aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger. The hammer struck the pan but nothing happened. He had forgotten to prime it. Hecht gave a savage yell and whipped his sword back so that blood spattered the mans face. The Tallian stumbled back and Hecht followed quickly, stabbing forward again, the sharp point driving into the mans gut so that he folded over with a scream.

Hecht ripped the blade free and turned look for more enemies. He found one yellow other uniform down and a green coated trooper throwing up by the door. It didn't take him long to see why. Even this small dwelling was a slaughterhouse. Two children had been brutally killed, an older man had been shot in one corner, and it didn't take any imagination to know what had happened to the naked woman spread eagle on the floor with her throat cut.

Rage as he had never known it filled Hecht and he turned on the dying Tallian soldier and stomped hard on the mans throat so that he began to choke. Hecht stomped again and again until the sound stopped. He felt like weeping and would likely have begun doing so had the whole world been drowned out by the roar of a cannon.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Collab with @Mao Mao

---

THE REPUBLIC OF ARGENTINA

July 2, 1955

---

BATTLE OF THE CARIBBEAN - AMERICAN WARSHIP SUNK

The headline blasted all across Argentina, every newspaper, every radio channel, echoing the news of the triumphant victory of the Ironia over her American adversary, USS Isherwood. A great feat of arms spoiled only by the loss of the Ironia in a sudden storm that was to much for her injuries. Only her Captain, Jorge Lantana, had survived to be rescued, along with his defeated opponent, by the Mexican Navy. It was a story that would grip the nation.

The truth, however, was known only to two men and it was stranger than anyone would ever know.

Caribbean Sea

Captain Jorge Lantana stood tall on the starboard bridge wing of the Argentine destroyer Ironia, the sharp bow cutting through the blue of the Caribbean to leave a long wake rolling away behind the low grey hull. Above his head, snapping like a whip in the wind, flew the proud white and blue ensign of Argentina, the golden sun in the middle given a sort of new life by the freshly rising sun behind it.

“Come on, quilambo… Where are you?” He raised his binoculars to his eyes for the thirtieth time that minute and swept the blue grey horizon in search of his prey. His mission was supposed to be a secret but he was certain that every member of the ships crew, right down to the that fucking faggot of a cook knew what they were doing here.

The Americans, despite all their protestations of neutrality, had been sticking their noses into Argentine activity in Caribbean, notably the presence of an American destroyer. While it wasn’t much, it was enough to remind the rest of the Caribbean of the northern Gringos. Lantana and the Ironia had been sent to remind the Yankees just who controlled this part of the Caribbean.

“Captain!” A cry from the interior of the bridge drew his attention and he glanced through the window at the radar technician who was glancing from him, to the screen, and back again, the strange blue/green glow illuminating his face. “We have a contact bearing 1-8-7. Could be the Yankee boat.”

“Excellent. Helm, steer 1-8-7! Let us go take a look.”

“Steer 1-8-7, aye sir!” The helmsman called out and Lantana braced himself on the doorframe as the ship heeled sharply and dashed toward the unknown.

In the distance, Captain Byron Stanton was in the midst of a delightful lunch that the cook made for him. Usually, the food aboard the USS Isherwood was terrible to eat. However, the newest cook was the best one that ever served on the destroyer. For today's meal, it was a custom made footlong sandwich with meatballs. He was almost done with it when he saw something in the distance. Something troublesome.

Then, he was caught off guard by the cries of a sailor and dropped his sandwich in panic. Byron stared at it and silently wept before leaving it for the birds. He went over to the sailor and, after a minute of cursing for ‘ruining a fucking perfect sandwich,’ asked for a status report. “Sir, it appears that an Argentinian destroyer is heading our way!”

“Well, that’s fucking great. Get in contact with the crew and tell them to fuck off!” Byron ordered the sailor. He had been sent here to observe for any signs of Argentinian warships recently sighted in the Caribbean. Even though he was in support of neutrality, he understood that America still needed to safeguard its colony on the islands. Plus, Puerto Rico was his honeymoon destination for his fiancée. The wedding was also going to take place at a location known as The Ruins.
Isherwood started moving closer towards the destroyer.

A radio communicator stared in amazement at his microphone for a moment before turning to Lantana. “The Americans, they’re called the Isherwood, just told us to “Fuck off”.” A murmur went around the bridge and eyes narrowed collectively as they stared at the American warship, now hull up on the horizon and growing larger by the second.

“To hell with those Yankee pigs!” A growl of agreement went through the bridge and Lantana felt the fire of indignation flare through him. “Bring the ship to action stations. Man the guns. We’ll see how brave they are!”

BONG BONG! BONG BONG! BONG BONG! The ships bell crashed throughout the steel hull and sailors hurried to their assigned stations. Breaches slammed home as shells were rammed into place. Anti-aircraft gunners, life jackets making them look like puffy marshmallows, clambered into place. Amidships men broke a sweat as they manhandled torpedoes into tubes and swung the long steel casings outboard.

Below them the powerful engineers pushed the Ironia through an ocean that, as if sensing conflict, had begun to worsen. Whitecaps flecked the tops of waves now and a strong wind began to whip salty spray across the decks.

“So, they are still advancing toward. Brave.” Byron sighed and then turned towards the sailor that earlier scared him with his yelling. “Fire a warning shot. They will definitely run with their tail between their legs after that.”

Lantana ducked instinctively as the American fired, the shells fell wide and threw up geysers of water that drenched several of the men on the outer deck. Their meaning was clear and the arrogance of that meaning infuriated Lantana.

“Return fire!” He shouted, slamming a fist down on the helm console in front of him. Within seconds the two forward guns roared, sending their shells screaming across the wavetops toward the onrushing American ship.

“Holyfuckingshit!” Byron nearly shit himself when the other destroyer returned fire. He raced towards the control room to see what the hell happened. Once he was there, the sailors saluted and then got back to doing their jobs. The young sailor, who was about burst out crying, approached the captain and started to apologize.

“Why the hell are you sorry? Son, what did you do?”

“I told them ‘fuck off’ like you said to.”

Byron was speechless but not surprised that command would’ve assigned him the dumbest sailor in the navy. Instead of slapping the hell of him, the captain turned to the other men and yelled out to return fire. He gave a look of disapproval at the sailor and then ran over to his position. The Isherwood fired its guns back at the destroyer and the conflict in the Carribean began.

More geysers exploded around the Ironia as her helmsman spun the helm, constantly changing the profile of the ship to make it harder to hit. The movement had a dual effect, it made the ship harder to hit, but it also served to throw off the aim of the Argentine crew who slaved away at their guns. Round after round screamed through the air toward the American ship and even the anti-aircraft guns, with no planes to shoot, depressed their barrels and opened fire.

The ocean, not to be outdone by the meer actions of man, continued to grow and batter the two ships. Gunners who had been trained on calm seas, or even on land, suddenly found themselves trying to predict the pitch and roll, not only of their own ship, but that of their enemy.

It seemed that the training proved to be useless because every shot seemed to miss the Argentinian destroyer. Then, after minutes of unloading upon them, Byron got the bad news that the entire stockpile of ammunition was emptied. He tried to look indifferent to the news, but he looked like he was about to pass out. But after a few more minutes, there was nothing but the sound of waves crashing against the hull to report. He raced outside and saw the lone destroyer in the distance.

“The hell do you mean we’re out of ammunition!?” Lantana was furious as he raged at the petty officer who was doing his best to stand at attention on the moving deck. “We haven't hit anything!”

The petty officer tried to stammer out a response but Lantana waved him away. “Forget it. Hardly your fault, though our gunners had better have a damn good reason for this abysmal showing when we’re done here.” He looked hard at the American ship that was now turning inside his own arc. They were like two dogs chasing each other's tails.

“What do we have left?” He demanded of his gunnery officer.

“Torpedos, but they won’t be much use in seas like this…” Lantana glared the man into silence.

“Better than nothing. Prepare a spread of eight and lay them across the Americans path. It should be simple enough, he’s turning in a circle like we are.”

“Well, what is there left to use?” Byron asked around the control room and got no answer. Then, another sailor reported that the torpedoes remained. With no other choice, the captain turned towards the helmsman and ordered him to get the destroyer into position. He had a moment to reconsider it, but he wasn’t going to die a coward. So, without anymore hesitation, Byron yelled to open fire.

Sixteen torpedos entered the water at the same time. The two destroyers, despite being built almost half a world away from each other, were nearly identical in their armament. Perhaps it was the sound of their own torpedoes in the water, or the raging ocean beneath them, but neither ship detected the presence of the enemy torpedoes until it was far too late.

As predicted, the majority went wide, or simply vanished into the depths as waves hammered at them, but two managed to get through. One, the final fired by the American, struck the Ironia just forward of her engines. No warning was shouted as none of her crew saw the silver fish beneath the white froth of the ocean.

Lantana was first aware of the strike when his ship gave a massive shudder and her stern was forced into the air. The rumbling explosion drowned out all yells of alarm from the crew and his own shout of pain as he was thrown head first into the deck, the loud crack of his skull meeting steel was lost among the other noises.

Captain Byron held on to the railing for his life as the Isherwood was stuck by what appeared to be a torpedo. He honestly thought that his life was about to end in the middle of the ocean. Yet, he was informed that they have also run out of torpedoes. That was when he regretted the decision to restock on land; however, there was another option. It was incredibly stupid, but effective. “Ram into the enemy!”

The helmsman nodded and began steering the ship around until he realized that the ship had been hit by a torpedo. He turned towards the captain and quietly said, “Sir… we’ve been hit.”

“So what!” the captain cried out and then noticed the ship moving. “Ha! It’s moving!”

“Oh no.”

Lantana staggered to his feet, blood pouring down his face, scrapping desperately at his eyes, trying to clear them. He could hear shouts of alarm and the klaxons blared throughout the ship as she began to take on water.

“Where is the American?” He needed to know, and quickly.

“She’s foundering as well, sir!” A sailor, miraculously still on his feet, was leaning into the bridge. “Look!” He pointed and Lantana lurched to the frame, peering into the gale force winds that drove sea spray into his face. He could just make out the American ship listing heavily to one side but still moving toward them.

“Damn, she’s still underway. Can we maneuver?” He turned on his helmsman who shook his head. A glance at the damage control board told him that the Ironia] was dead in the water, her engines disabled.

“The American is slowing, sir!” The lookout called again and Lantana quickly saw the man was right. The sea must have been pouring into the damaged Isherwood but he could feel his own ship settling into the sea. She was becoming more sluggish in her movements and water was lapping around her stern rail, each wave gaining progressively more ground.

“Madonna…” The lookout muttered in awe and Lantana had to agree despite the fear that clutched his belly. A massive wave, the largest they had seen so far, was rolling in behind the American. They saw the enemy ship began to rise as the huge roller picked it up like a toy and, as if to prove that men were puny, drove it like a missile at the Ironia.

“Brace!!” Lantana screamed the words and heard them echoed throughout the bridge as the American destroyer, all control gone, careened toward them on the crest of the wave. For one horrid second Lantana feared his ship was going to be struck amidships by the bow of the onrushing Isherwood but the ocean, perhaps in a final trick, turned the bow at the last second and the two ships slammed broadside into each other.

The tortured scream of metal and cries of dying men filled the air between the two hulls as they buckled and water rushed in between the shattered plating.

The helmsman tried desperately to regain control of the Isherwood from the waves, but it was useless. The destroyer smashed into the other destroyer, sending everyone in the control room to the floor. Captain Byron went to check on his head for any signs of bleeding, but there was nothing. He stood up and began to laugh in delight. “Nice job with that steering! We sure caught the enemy off-guard!”

But, he got no response and saw the helmsman lying on the ground, with his head split open. The remaining crewmen in the room tried to save him, but it was already too late. Byron wanted to help out, but he heard his name being called out. He ran outside and then saw a sailor from the engine room completely drenched. Then, he heard words that a captain never wanted to hear. “We’re sinking, sir!”

Sinking was the understatement of the century. Both ships were rapidly vanishing beneath the surface even as the weather, so fickle and angry a few moments before, began to dissipate and clear. Within minutes the sky had turned blue once again and the ocean settled back into gentle rollers that came from the east, pushing the two ships toward distant Mexico.

It made no difference to 600 odd men who served aboard the two ships. Those who had not perished in the torpedo strikes and collision found themselves floating in the azure blue waters. Argentine and American alike gripping life jackets as they stared at each other, fear mirrored in every face, their conflict quite forgotten.

The Ironia was dying, nothing but her bridge was left above the water as she finally succumbed to her injuries and began a final slide beneath the waves. Of her lifeboats, none remained, having been smashed to pieces by the collision or washed overboard as the waves ripped them free of their moorings. Lantana himself stood on the bridgewing, the last man to leave his faithful ship as she gave a final groan and sank beneath the surface. There was a brief swirl of water and a “whoosh” of escaping air before the water closed in and covered her as if she had never been there at all.

Fortunately, the Isherwood had its lifeboats intact but there were only a few for the crew of six hundred. Captain Byron watched as everyone that survived was desperately trying to board one of them. One by one, each of them were filled and lowered into the sea before there was one left. Byron knew that he had to stay behind with the ship as part of tradition, but he always thought that was stupid.

So, as the last lifeboat was being filled, the captain made his way onboard and got ready for it to be lowered. But then, he saw the cook and called out to him. The cook’s face lit with delight and he ran towards it. One of the sailors spoke up about the limited space and received a shove into the waters below. Byron allowed the cook to board and then yelled to lower the lifeboat. Instead, one of the sailors responsible thought he saw a shark’s fin and cried out, “Shark!”

That caused everyone to board the lifeboat in an attempt to not be eaten, but it only made sure that it sank. Byron watched as the other men attempted to enter the other lifeboats, but only caused them to flip out. He wanted to kill each one of them, but he understood that there was nothing more to do other than accept his fate. Until he saw a lone piece of wood floating, big enough to fit his entire body without sinking.

So, in a last ditch effort to live, Byron swam towards it even as the first of the men around him screamed and vanished beneath the surface, a red stain spreading quickly as more fins sliced through the waves.

Lantana was treading water some fifty yards away, his own lifejacket given to another man, when the first of the screams cut through the air. The panic had been immediate as Americans and Argentines alike swarmed the few remaining lifeboats, swamping all of them. Vicious fights broke out among those still clinging to a safe space above the waves the momentary truce was broken as men bit, stabbed, and gouged at each other as they fought for space. All the while the sharks sliced through them, dragging men into the depths or removing chunks that let their owners bleed to death in the water.

By some great miracle, Lantana was untouched by the sharks. Perhaps it was his distance from the bloody mess and the struggling mass, but no shark even approached him. He was able to secure a lifejacket again, this one from a man who had lost both his legs, and floated as still as possible while men screamed and died around him.

It wasn’t until the sun had begun to set that the sharks at last retreated, perhaps they were full. He slowly turned his face, now sunburnt, toward the carnage of what had once been two ships and their crews. No one moved. A single lifeboat, upside down, bobbed in the middle of a mass of dead and ravaged men. Not a single soul upon it. He gently began to paddle toward it, keeping his legs still, in the hopes he would not attract any unwanted attention.

It took him several minutes to reach the boat, gingerly pushing the dead and still dying away, until he could drag himself onto the white hull and, for the first time, he wept silently.

Byron laid on that piece of wood for a few hours until it eventually started sinking due to his weight. He panicked and thought that he was actually going to drown or be eaten by sharks. But luck was on his side again, a lifeboat that wasn’t torn apart floated nearby. He immediately swam towards it without tiring himself out and alerting the prey of his presence. It wasn’t until he got closer that he noticed someone had already claimed the lifeboat.

Without a second thought, assuming the person was long gone, Byron used his strength and tried to pull the body off of the lifeboat. To his amazement it lashed out at him, landing a blow on that sent stars shooting through his vision. Enraged, he punched back, his knuckles colliding with his opponents shoulder.

Lantana grunted as the fist hit him, again punching the ugly face in front of him. More blows were exchanged as the two men fought on the top of the liferaft, their blows weakening until it was little more than a pathetic slap fight rocked back and forth by gentle ocean swells. They were still at it several hours later when a Mexican warship arrived and pulled them both to safety.

The Lions of Rhaetia (CANCELLED)

@Duckdont call me sir, I work for a living. Trooper Bauer looks good enough for government work. He is welcome in the 6th Dragoon’s. Please move him to the character stable and start telling his story immediately.

The Lions of Rhaetia (CANCELLED)

@Maglarlikely going to be a basic one since map making was almost guest work at this time....

The Lions of Rhaetia (CANCELLED)

The first IC is up! Jump in when you can. The next IC post from me will either come after you have all posted, or next weekend, whichever comes first.