#ww2 fiction

[littledesertfox]

Historical Fiction Recommendation

A bit of an unusual post, but I recently learned about the existence of the Desert Peach comic series created by Donna Barr and I need more people to know about it because it's a true gem. A big shoutout goes to @darksideoftwenty who introduced me to this comic, otherwise I may have never even knew that it existed!

To put it simple, the story is about Rommel's fictional gay younger brother called Pfirsich (sidenote, this is literally just the German word for peach and not actually used as a name, but it's still cute😅). He is the leader of a small support unit of the Afrika Korps, which consists mostly of people that are considered "misfits" in other parts of the army. The individual stories consist of all sorts of adventures and shenanigans but also have overarching plot points.

I think it's important to not let yourself fool by the potential first impression with this comic. At first glance, Pfirsich may seem like the absolute stereotype of the effeminate gay man, but there's actually so much more to him. This applies to the other characters too, as the story goes on and we get to know more about them, their personalities just become more and more well-rounded. At least since issue 3 I've been absolutely hooked.

For a comic that was written in the 80s and 90s, I was also extremely impressed how delicately it touches on and handles topics that are still relevant today, and manages to balance chaos and silliness with more serious and darker moments. Of course, not everything may be politically correct by today's standards and you should keep that in mind, but honestly I think there are pieces of media that are far more recent and still did things like this much worse.

The comic is available entirely for free on Webtoon, so if WW2 fiction is something you're into you should definitely give it a try. Apparently there was also a musical made back in the 90s that was based on the comics, but I could barely find anything related to it, I wish there existed recordings😭 Please note that although there aren't really depictions of sensitive content - injuries and (partial) nudity may occur but are usually quite simplified thanks to the art style - but due to the subject matter, it is targeted at adult audiences.

I'm currently at issue 18 and can't wait to continue reading! Here's just one small excerpt showing Pfirsich and Erwin (dancing together and I love how small it makes Erwin look xD), their brother relationship is hilarious and just absolutely adorable <3

[bird-slayer-brainrot]

Soldier On, Come Down - Chpt. 1. - - Ineffable Husbands WW2 au human!Crowley angel!Aziraphale angst multi-chapter

(TW this chapter contains light gore (st*bbing so that bit will be marked with the first and final world in red text)

London, 1939

Aziraphale, Principality and Angel of the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden, loved humans.

He had lived amongst humans since his assignment on Eden had ended, and he quite enjoyed his role as Heaven’s official ambassador to humanity. It had been a shock to receive such a coveted position (as much as Angels could covet, anyway).

The job had its downsides, like any, but for the most part, Aziraphale could overlook these. The books, food, wine and art made it worth it.

Humans were amazingly clever creatures, with a knack for imagining purposeful, advanced creations to Angel in Heaven could have ever dreamed of, if they did dream. They were masterful artists, poets, writers, inventors. Aziraphale, nearly six thousand years into this extended assignment, stood in awe at the inventions of the human race.

The motorcar, however, was an exception.

On a Saturday evening in Soho, Aziraphale was particularly bothered. He had plans to attend an Opera at the West End. These plans were interrupted when the driver had stopped him miles from the theatre. It was drizzling, as it often did in London lately, and Aziraphale crowded himself underneath a canopy to avoid getting soaked.

Aziraphale could have miracled the driver to take him to the right language, but with the state of England and the war going on, he felt it was best to cut down on miracle usage just in case he needed them for something important, which he probably would. And he didn’t want to risk Heaven the memo from heaven about too many frivolous miracles.

“Are you going in?” a voice spoke beside him. Aziraphale turned, ready to offer his apologises

He hadn’t realised he had been standing in the entrance way to a storefront.

But he was stuck on the words as he came face to face with the man.

He was perhaps the most beautiful person Aziraphale had ever laid eyes on.

Aziraphale was still staring when the stranger cleared his throat.

“Oh, my apologies.” Aziraphale said too loudly. The gentlemen was dressed in black and grey, which would have struck Aziraphale as unusual if, immediately after, Aziraphale noticed his striking copper hair. He wore it longer than was the fashion. He was also very tall, and slender. He held a black umbrella that he seemed to be in the process of wringing out his umbrella before he’d noticed Aziraphale.

“Are you alright?” the gentlemen said with concern. Aziraphale was still staring, so he tore his gaze from the gentlemen’s face.

“No. Yes. I mean.” Aziraphale stuttered. “I just got caught in the rain.”

The man nodded, the small smile still on his face, then he held out his umbrella.

“Would you like to borrow mine?” he said without hesitation.  Aziraphale looked up him again ready to insist he was fine, but stopped when he noticed his eyes.

They were the colour of liquid gold, except for the ring of green surrounding his pupils. It was deep, Earthy green Aziraphale last recalled seeing in the Garden back when he’d first received this assignment.

“No. No thank you.” Aziraphale said softly. “I think I should like to stay here.”

*

My Dear Anthony,

I hope by the time this letter reaches you in England that you and Anathema will be quite settled in, with Annie at university and you doing your things (I must confess, I don’t quite recall the word you used to describe your profession. It may come to me one day.)

I must admit, dear brother, that although you grumble when I express sentiments to you, that I will miss you terrible when you return to England. There shall be a Crowley-shaped hole in my heart, I should think, for a long time till come. Please do come back and visit us in California.

Thank you for taking care of Anathema. It has always been her dream to attend Oxford. Do you remember when she was a little girl, with her book on magic and fairytales? She’d take it with her everywhere.

She can be quite stubborn at times, but she is a remarkable young woman, and I know that, under your guidance, my dear Annie will be something great. Please give her my love.

Take care of yourself.

Your Loving Sister,

Lucy

-

Crowley smiled down at the letter from his sister. He would never admit it, of course, but he missed his sister terribly. California, too, with its bright, sunny weather. The rain and fog of London coloured the world bleak in comparison.

Crowley had been back in London for a month. Anathema, his niece, was due to start at Oxford, once she got her acceptance, in three months.

She was a standout in stuffy old England, with her American wardrobe, accent, and mannerisms. She stood out in LA, too. She’d spent the days

Crowley had an apartment in Soho that he’d rented out in the year he’d been in America. The death of Lucy’s husband and Anathema’s father had hit their family hard. With their pieces stitched haphazardously back together, Anathema had decided that Oxford was her calling. England was a fresh start, and Crowley had to return at some point. Her mother had, after some convincing, agreed.

He was meant to meet Anathema for dinner that evening at the pub they frequented later on. With nothing else to do, Crowley decided a walk and some fresh air would do him some good, and stepped out into the English rain.

*

The Drooping Donkey had all the grace of a typical Soho bar on a Saturday evening. There was a group of soldiers crowded around a pretty young woman playing the piano, a lively war-tune Aziraphale recalled hearing over the radio on the BBC earlier that morning when he was rearranging his Atlas collection. They nursed warming bears. Chatty patrons took up the tables. There was luckily one spare (Aziraphale may have the ability to have any table he wished to, however he believed in ethical use of miracles) and, after ordering a glass of the house red, Aziraphale made his way over to it and took a seat, content to wait out the storm before going home.

When Aziraphale looked up, he made eye contact with the red-haired gentlemen from earlier. He was alone at the bar, and when Aziraphale looked at him, he did something completely surprising. He smiled.

An hour later, Aziraphale was still recounting the event in self-pity. He could leave now, as the handsome stranger had left. In truth, he’d been too shocked by the gentlemen (who had, upon meeting him, offered him his own umbrella?) and had been unable to use his brain. He had no choice but to enter the bar after the gentlemen, who had held the door out for Aziraphale. Even now, Aziraphale replayed the memory of that brief, awkward interaction over and over in his head. It was pointless. It wasn’t like Aziraphale would ever see him again. He was a human. A handsome, kind human. Still, he had appreciated that small show of kindness. It left a warm feeling in Aziraphale’s chest. The war was getting to him.  

It was dark outside by the time Aziraphale exited The Drooping Donkey. The rain had cleared and, while the street maintained most of the business of a typical Soho Saturday, the sidewalk was mostly deserted. That’s why, when Aziraphale heard a noise like a group of hushed voices and a loud banging sound, he immediately rushed to the source.

The redhead man from the bar laid crumbled against the wall of a deserted alley. He was bundled behind bags of rubbish. Aziraphale hurried over to him, kneeling down to see better and miracleing a source of light. Aziraphale’s checked that the man was still breathing first, which he was, but was barely conscious. In the light, Aziraphale could see immediately that he had multiple injuries. His face was bruised, and his knuckles and hands were red. Then, Aziraphale spotted the spreading red across his stomach. Just below it, there was a knife.

It lay discarded in the wet, tossed carelessly, as though it had not just killed a man.

The stranger groaned as Aziraphale lifted the fabric away from the knife wound to locate the stab wound. It didn’t take long to find it. Blood gushed down the man’s abdomen from the puncture, and bile threatened to rise in Aziraphale’s throat as he realised that the kind stranger likely wouldn’t survive it. He had lost too much blood. Aziraphale had no idea how long he had been here, left like this. There was no time to take him to a hospital. He hadn’t been with a wife or friends at the bar. He would likely die here, cold, and alone.

Aziraphale reached down, pressing a hand against the wound, and healing it. It was overkill, to heal it completely, but the man looked in enough pain that Aziraphale couldn’t help but want to help him as best as he could. He spluttered at the motion, coughing harshly. Aziraphale stood up quickly, miracleing his trousers clean from where they had been stained by water and blood. He also miracled the stranger unconscious.

Aziraphale would have liked to have stayed with the stranger to make sure he got better, but he couldn’t answer the questions the man would obviously have. With any luck, the gentleman would wake up with a nasty hangover, with little recollection of what had occurred the night before. He’d likely interpret the black eye as being the result of a minor drunken scuffle. He would not remember Aziraphale, and Aziraphale would never see him again.

A kindness for a kindness was all it was. Miracling him out of sight, Aziraphale turned, and walked away.

[john2004prid3ch1lean]

[westernfronter]

Regio Escercito / Royal Italian Army

[capt-sievert]

I've drawn the turn-coat German soldier from my dream!

Recently I've dreamt of a mission from call of duty ww2 zombies but as a campaign like the main game, where I, as Red, saw a German soldier trying to surrender and join our team. (I've talked a bit more about the dream here)

I tried to draw him as well as I could remember. I was really captured by his haunted and terrified expression, so I tried to represent it the best I was able to. (And I may make him a recurring character if y'all like it *wink wink*)

But, yeah! For doing this without a base I'd say I'm pretty proud of it. Now I'm gonna rest because I've worked on it for several days and I'm tired 🫡

[wandering-wolf23]

“I trust you two can handle this, correct?” Thomas nodded quickly. “Of course. Of course we can handle it.” Thomas Stieffer isn’t what he seems. He hides in plain sight, doing his best to walk among the most dangerous men in World War Two, and waits for the perfect opportunity to strike. It’s what he was trained to do and he likes to think he’s very good at it. Then, a simple mission – blowing up a bridge – goes horribly wrong. Thomas finds himself on the run with two prisoners of war, no money, no map, and nowhere to go. A madman is after him. A chance encounter with an ex-NKVD attack dog and another partisan unit leaves him with very few options. To make matters worse, Thomas is pretty sure there’s at least one traitor in his life. His growing feelings for one of the prisoners is just one more complication that he has to overcome. Just once, he’d like a nice, simple mission. Fate, though, has other plans…

Read it HERE.

[theimpalatales]

"The library was more than bricks and books; its mortar was people who cared."

The Paris Library

(If you use my link, I may earn a commission from Bookshop.org whose fees support independent bookshops.)

[noneedtoamputate]

War Stories Chapters 7-12 Summary

Last month, I purchased this at a book fair, and I joked about how I was going to change the name of the great-grandpa from Jacob Firestone to Ronald Speirs. I am finally getting around to reading it and will give a chapter summary after the break. Spoiler warning.

Chapters 1-6 Summary

Taglist: @kohinoor4u

Chapter Seven

Jacob does his basic training at Fort Benning in October 1943. Although he is in the infantry, the paratroopers are also there, and they think they are better than everyone else. He says that infantry will beat the airborne during the inter-squad event the next week. Jacob gets the cooks to oversalt the airborne's meals, and the infantry wins the footrace.

Chapter 8

Jacob, Daniel, and Trevor visit Fort Benning in the first leg of their trip. Jacob thinks the current army recruits have it way easier than he did in 1943. They went to the museum on base and saw a replica of the cliffs on Omaha Beach, and Trevor could tell his great-grandpa was thinking of the past.

Chapter Nine

On the ship over to the England, Jacob was on a boat with almost 9,000 GIs. Another transport ship was attacked by a U-boat, and all he could do was watch.

Chapter Ten

The three Firestone men get to London, and Trevor only wants to see war-related museums. They take the train to Portsmouth, but on the way, Jacob hears a stop for Petersfield. He spent time there, too, so he gets his luggage, and they make an unplanned stop in the middle of nowhere.

Chapter Eleven

Petersfield is where Jacob and the rest of Bravo Company trained for the invasion. During one training exercise, a Sherman tank came toward Jacob's foxhole, and, not having time to do anything else, he curled up in a ball as the tank went over the hole. When he came out, tank tracks were in his helmet. He never complained about digging foxholes again.

Chapter Twelve

The Firestones took a ferry from Portsmouth to Normandy. Daniel checks Facebook, and he sees more threats against his grandpa from La Verite. When they arrive in Cherbourg, they don't notice two teenagers, a boy and girl, watching people leave the boat. They have two pictures in their hands: one of a young Jacob Firestone in his army uniform, and one of the older man as he appeared in the present.

[vikkicomics]

Cute Guy/Ernst moments in The Forgotten Soldier. They have most of their conversations in French which means Ernst has nicknamed Guy 'Le Petit.' 🥺

It's not confirmed Ernst is the one flirting with Guy (the narrator) in the first clipping but I like to imagine it is.

[cjbolan]

Good news: Liz Kessler's latest Code Name Kingfisher is out, started reading an excerpt and it looks good. Bad news: it won't be available in my country until 2024.

[bruceburgdorf]

I would like to give praise to the author Sweety_Mutant who has written multiple fanfictions for The Great Escape for well over 10 years even when she has sometimes been the only one writing for the fandom.

Sweety encouraged me to publish my first fanfiction to A03 which I will always be grateful for and her latest work unintentionally called out my home of Cornwall by referencing Stargazy (fish head pie).

Even though I don’t believe she is on Tumblr anymore, if anyone is interested in the 1963 film The Great Espape or has an interest in POW camps please find our very small fandom on A03.

[littledesertfox]

Unexpected Bayerlein Cameo🙌

I recently read issue 24 of The Desert Peach when - to my surprise - Fritz Bayerlein got a small cameo :D Even though he doesn't appear personally, I'm still happy that he was being mentioned. It's lowkey adorable that he's the only one Erwin would want to talk to, and that they even have their own radio frequency just for the two of them to use - or at least they thought so. Erwin looks so happy expecting a transmission from his friend, only to realise it's actually his little brother calling him😅

[bird-slayer-brainrot]

Soldier On, Come Down - Chpt. 2. - - Ineffable Husbands WW2 au human!Crowley angel!Aziraphale angst multi-chapter

There was a knock on the door of the bookshop.

Azirphale looked up from his novel, sighing, and rose from his comfortable chair to answer it. Through the small window in the door, Aziraphale spotted a young, bespectacled woman frowning as she raised her fist to rap on the door again. Aziraphale hastily opened it. Aziraphale was about to tell her that the bookshop was not open, and to come again another time, before she pushed the door open, crowding Aziraphale, and marched uninvited into the bookshop.

Aziraphale watched in shock as the young woman crossed her arms.

“What are you?” she said in an American accent. She was looking at Aziraphale with a cross expression on her face and Aziraphale, who had no idea what was happening or why this strange, bossy, brightly dressed American was in his closed bookshop, just stared at her. Azirphale would have laughed if he wasn’t so confused. Out of all the things she had been expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. She was a human.

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale said in his politest customer-service tone. The young girl looked like she was having none of it. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I can sense it.” She scrunched up her nose, and gestured around the place with her hands. ”You don’t feel human.”

The gravity of the situation finally seemed to set in. It was possible for the girl to have minor psychic capabilities. Possible, and highly, highly inconvenient. “My, dear,” Aziraphale tried to interrupt her. This was not how he had expected his day to go.

“I saw you. You healed my uncle and then you left. I saw the entire thing.”

Aziraphale froze.

“Don’t even think about it.” She stated firmly. Aziraphale, who had been thinking about erasing this whole encounter and the events before (especially that part) from her mind and setting her on her way, immediately stopped considering the possibility of getting out of this easily.

He also, admittedly, was slightly impressed. The human was bold, demanding Aziraphale to pay attention. She stood in her bright red dress, frowning, looking wholly out of place in Aziraphale’s beige and brown bookshop.

“So are you going to explain?”

Aziraphale sighed.

Her name was Anathema Device. Annie, she had insisted, for short. She wanted to know everything. This strange human girl had somehow managed not only to figure out that her uncle’s recovery was… divinely inspired. Not only that, but she had also somehow tracked Aziraphale back to his bookshop, despite the numerous miracles in place that should have made that impossible. Should have.

“It wasn’t easy.” She admitted over a second cup of tea. “I almost had trouble trying to re-locate it again today.”

Aziraphale nodded with understanding. Annie was indeed a human, and a self-proclaimed ‘occultist’. She was definitely a character.

She seemed to understand that the half-explanations Aziraphale offered were all she could reasonably expect to get out of the bookseller. What she really wanted to know was if there would be any lasting effects on her uncle – whose name was Crowley – and seemed pleased to know that he would be fine.

Aziraphale smiled as the young woman shrugged on her coat. By now, he figured erasing her mind would be a pointless endeavour. She waved at him as she exited the bookshop, and Aziraphale’s heart stopped when he saw a flash of red-hair on the pavement outside his bookshop.

*

Anathema watched as the white-haired man crouched down. It was hard to miss it, he stuck out like a sore thumb.

She had been running late to meet Crowley. Her conversation with Newt had drawn out. They had been arguing about the affluence of the Bronte sisters in America, in which Newt had insisted that, in his semester abroad in America (New York), he had heard not one person mention the famous literary sisters. Anathema had argued that Newt likely wasn’t hanging around interesting enough people, which seemed to shut him up about the whole thing.

She had hurried to The Dirty Donkey, which had fortunately not been too far from where she’d met Newt. She hoped Crowley hadn’t been waiting too long for her.

The stranger was crouched over a body. He seemed to flutter his hands suddenly, which Anathema found strange. Then, she felt it.

When he left, walking quickly, quietly down the not-empty street, Anathema hurried over to where the man had been. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw an unconscious Crowley,

*

Aziraphale couldn’t help the need that seized over him to make sure Crowley was alright. He was an angel, and it was his duty to guide and to help humankind. Checking in on the gentlemen from the alley was only polite. His duty, it was his duty.

Aziraphale decided to walk the mile to the bar he knew the human frequented from his conversation with his niece. Turns out, they lived near the bar, and were meant to have dinner the night Crowley was attacked.

As Aziraphale approached the bar, he paused, suddenly embarrassed with what he was doing. In all likelihood, he wasn’t even there and Aziraphale was just being foolish for hoping he’d see him there. 

Aziraphale willed his legs to work, and entered the bar

His long legs crowded below the low and worn bar table. He seemed to be waiting for someone, probably Anathema.

“Hello.” Aziraphale greeted him nervously. He had stopped a foot short of the table, not wanting to intrude just in case suspected person suddenly showed up.

Crowley looked up at the sound of a voice. The glimmer of recognition clear in his eyes.

“It’s you.” He stated. Aziraphale nodded. So much for the checking up on him, he could barely formulate a sentence.

“Please, sit.” Crowley announced. Aziraphale’s eyes widened at him, but the human man gestured to the seat opposite him. Wordlessly, Aziraphale obliged.

He was back to wearing his glasses, and they did well to hiding some of the deep purple bruise Crowley was sporting. He looked, for the most part, unaffected by what had occurred the night before. This was good, excellent. Aziraphale had come here. He had done what he had meant to do.

Crowley was watching him. Aziraphale suddenly wished for the privacy sunglasses would afford him. Crowley made a gesture to the worker, and, after asking what Aziraphale wanted (“Wine. Red.” Aziraphale had finally given in when Crowley insisted he buy his companion a drink.) ordered. When the barmaid left, he turned back to Aziraphale, and spoke.

*

Crowley had woken at midday to what was possibly the worst hangover he had ever had the misfortune to experience.

There was a noise from beside him. Crowley pulled himself up slowly, his arms weak with sleep. Anathema was there in a moment. She was saying something, but his head was pounding relentlessly. A cold glass of water was thrust in his hand. Crowley drank from it.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked softly. Crowley made a sound, and handed her back the empty glass. She was still watching him nervously. He would ask later what happened, but he needed to sleep.

*

Crowley heard the whole strange tale, trying his best not to interrupts. Anathema was almost bouncing with excitement.

But when she had told her uncle in no uncertain terms to expect the blond gentlemen at the bar that evening (her intuition, she told him), he argued. It was ridiculous, all of it. Crowley had known Anathema had a power of sorts, though he did not fully understand the scope of it, and she was desperate to have the answers. Crowley was her unwilling accomplice.

(Though it wasn’t a small part of him that was curious. Besides, it was only good manners to thank the man who had saved your life.)

 So Anathema had insisted on it, and Crowley found himself that evening sitting across from the most intriguing gentlemen he had ever seen.

*

“I was telling Anathema about this book of prophecies I’ve been trying to locate for the best part of fifteen years, and Anathema looks me straight in the eye and tells me she has a copy!”

Crowley snorted out a laugh that was probably too loud, as Aziraphale chuckled at the tale.

They had been sitting at the table for a while, by this point, and were multiple wine bottles deep into their discussion. Crowley had learnt that the man, whose name was Aziraphale, loved books. Crowley admittedly knew little about books, or prophecies, but found himself rapt by Aziraphale’s musings.

He had done this for Anathema, meeting with the gentlemen. But Crowley found himself actually enjoying the conversation, and Aziraphale hardly seemed deterred by Crowley’s stoic manner. It was nice, having a conversation with someone who made it feel like talking to him was the most natural thing in the world. Even if Aziraphale lead the conversation, Crowley hardly wanted to leave the conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time talking was nice.  

“Oh dear, I’ve held you too long.” Aziraphale suddenly exclaimed. It was true. Crowley looked around, just noticing the empty chairs and tables. Aziraphale moved to stand clumsily. Crowley suddenly felt the urge to ask him to stay.

“Thank you, again.” Was what he said instead. Aziraphale looked at him anxiously, and gave him a small smile before hurrying out the door.

It was strange, but Crowley had done his duty and thanked the man. He picked up his hat, and stood up to go.

(Chapter two! I wanted to do more this chapter but the past week has been full with uni kicking in (ahhhhh), my birthday (19, i feel old) and me suddenly getting sick today which has led to me being bedridden. Either way, I'll aim to have chapter three up earlier on Friday next week. Stay hydrated xX)

[bisexual-young-atlas]

First three squares on the bingo board have been completed as of yesterday! @batmanisagatewaydrug thanks for the push to start my new years off right!

Literary Fiction Pick: Blue Sisters by Coco Mellors

Three estranged sisters head home to New York City a year after their fourth sister’s death. As they each face their grief for truly the first time they also confront the ghosts of their past including addiction and unstable family dynamics.

I really enjoyed this one! In the way you enjoy a heartbreaking story about grief and loss of siblings. Being one of 8, this story made me really critically considered my current relationships with my family and how those might change if one of us was gone unexpectedly.

Fantasy Pick: Babel by R. F. Kuang

Robin Swift, taken from his homeland and forced into English society uncovers dark intentions in his academic upbringing. Using translation he uncovers a unique set of skills but with that a clearer picture of what the colonial power of England is using the skills for or who they are using them against.

I devoured this novel this past week. The use of etymology and origins of language so enraptured my attention especially when combined with the actual plot of the novel. Lovely, heartbreaking, and full of courage. Biggest takeaway I had was the absolute power translation has over the new meanings of texts and how it can be an act of colonization and violence if allowed to be so.

Historical Fiction: The Book of Lost Names by Kristin Harmel

Eva Traube narrowly escapes capture in WWII Paris, fleeing with her mother to the mountain town of Auvigny. Here she finds unexpected help in a Catholic church and begins a long career of forgery to help those like her escape France into free Switzerland.

This book was okay. I think it definitely dealt with interesting subject matter, but the focus on catholic church being the main “saviour” felt really off putting given that the main character (a Jewish woman) is really doing a significant chunk of work and is really the most at risk. I likely won’t read it again and unless WWII historical fiction is a special interest of yours, I wouldn’t recommend it.

[westernfronter]

My WW2 Soviet Oc, Lev.

[lightsinadarkworld]

Until Our Time Comes by Nicole M. Miller—Book Review

Grab your copy here Back Cover Copy American horse trainer Adia Kensington is living her dream of working at the famous Janów Podlaski stables in Poland, where they breed the best Arabian horses in the world. But her plans to bring the priceless stallion Lubor to the US are derailed when the German army storms into her adopted country in 1939. Little does she know this is just the beginning of…