#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.

[westernfronter]

Regio Escercito / Royal Italian Army

[john2004prid3ch1lean]

[punkxcalibur]

Max Vandenburg.

[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.)

[sassydefendorflower]

what is your opinion on the CoS movie

It is, most certainly, a movie.

No, but for real... The CoS movie is a very interesting piece of content, that's for sure.

There is a lot that can be rightfully critiqued: the writing is rushed, due to the studio pushing an entire seasons worth of plot into one movie, and that is visible in much of the characters' arcs. Roy Mustang just repeats his 03 arc but in under two hours, and Winry seems to mostly just be there because Ed needs automail. Threads are left hanging, and historical choices were made...

Look, I'm neither Jewish nor Roma, so I cannot speak for the portrayal of ether Alternate!Bradley or Noah, but I will give CoS the benefit of the doubt of being produced in 2005 and trying its best. It is still something that made me uncomfortable while watching, but some of that I think is worth examining under a personal lens and not a general one.

(and honestly... Noah telling Ed that Roma simply means People? That seems significant considering movies made in 2023 still use the G slur)

As I said - much of the plot is all over the place.

But.

And it is a noteworthy BUT... there are some aspects of it that I really enjoy.

Al's character design: CoS makes it painfully obvious that something is very wrong with Al and I love it. Ed is in Munich having the worst depression known to man, meanwhile Al cosplays as the older brother he forgot, basing his entire personality NOT ON HIS OWN MEMORIES but on the stories strangers have told him about the brother who died for him. INSANE BEHAVIOR. He even creates his own soul-bound armor, just so he can wander the lands as the Fullmetal Alchemist once did. 10/10 character writing choice.

Ed's entire... thing: I love Ed's depression mood - caught between delusion and reality, a shitty friend, and a desperate soul. Sometimes it is as simple as a depressed anime boy with long hair and alcoholism - sometimes I am allowed to be simple.

The historical details: while I haven't forgiven CoS for forcing me to see Anime Hitler, there is a surprising eye for detail in CoS when it comes to 1920s Weimarer Republik. Of course, space rocketry wasn't actually a thing in Germany back then, but many of the smaller details are actually very accurate - especially considering this being a time period Hollywood loves to mess up. The Bierhalle was actually a meeting place of the early version of the NSDAP, and they did organize their coup from there on the 9th November of 1923. It was actually the height of inflation back then, and people DID actually burn money because it lost value quicker than they could spent it on firewood. Alfons makes references to the Dolchstoßlegende which was a real, wide-spread piece of propaganda about the communists being at fault for Germany loosing the first world war. People in the background of shots being antisemitic, racist, xenophobic AND ableist. People with disabilities begging in the big cities, which Munich was.

All of this is historically accurate - hell, even the existence of the Thule Society is based on some fact... aka the fact that the NSDAP and Hitler especially were utterly convinced they could harness supernatural powers to gain the upper hand and reach their goals.

And probably the most controversial one: Hughes being a member of the NSDAP, and helping in the Bierhallen Coup actually makes sense considering his characterization and I think it is an interesting but sensible choice for the alternate version of Maes Hughes. Not because he is inherently a Nazi, but because Maes Hughes is a follower and even in the main universe, if Roy hadn't decided to change the country... Maes Hughes on his own would never have questioned their fascist military dictatorship. So, in a world in which he doesn't have a Roy to act as a wake up call... it makes only sense that he would follow a man who made millions fall in love with him.

(this feels like a weirdly serious answer to a silly question, but I hope I could offer some insight anyway - and thank you for indulging me <3 )

[mutant-ninja-anole]

[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.

[littledesertfox]

Hello have you ever heard about the book called The Night I Danced With Rommel by Elisabeth Marrion? I've read the overview and it sounded like some kind of fanfiction (I would read) to me. 😅

No I haven't heard of it before, but I looked it up and now I'm kind of interested👀 Don't know if I'd get to read it anytime soon (I think my parents are getting a bit weirded out by me constantly ordering books related to WW2😭😂 I mean I'm an adult and can buy what I want but of course they still comment on it when I open my packages. I just really enjoy learning about it though!). I might put it on my list for later though! From what I understood it's based on some personal experiences of the author's mother, but I wouldn't assume it's entirely historically accurate (partly because of personal bias - from the title and description I'd guess it paints a rather positive picture of Rommel, and partly because fictionalising some elements just might make for a better story). I'm wondering though if I should rather read it in English or German, as far as I could find out just from googling, the author has written both versions by herself, but I wonder which one may convey the story better in this case.

Also I now got a bit curious about whether there are actual fanfictions about Rommel and looked it up just for the heck of it. I have to say, well, there's not a lot😅 First of all, there is only a small number of stories in English, most I found are written in Chinese so I can't understand them anyway. Among the ones I could understand, I found one x reader story that was extremely out of character (pointing this out because tbf I expected a lot more of these just based on how popular he is, but apparently I was wrong), otherwise most stories seem to be crossovers/AUs with various fandoms (many that I'm not familiar with, so I don't think it's really worth for me to read if he's just a minor character), and some topics are simply not my taste.

I only looked on Ao3 at the moment, but these are the stories that could be interesting and I might actually consider reading if I find the time (based on just their descriptions, mind you I haven't actually any of them properly past the first few sentences and have no idea if they're actually good):

Desert Fox Triumphant: Rommel beats the Allies in June 1944 - An alternate universe historical fanfiction where Rommel beats the allies in the Normandy, the description doesn't give away much, but it seems like Rommel is actually the main character which got me interested (plus my guy Fritz Bayerlein is listed among the characters so that's a personal bonus for me).

The Second Terran Sector War/Clone Wars - In this story apparently a bunch of important WW2 figures find themselves in the Star Wars universe and have to deal with that. Besides my history interest, I'm also a big Star Wars fan so this is a crossover that really intrigues me actually.

We'll Always Have Paris - An alternate universe fanfic set in the world of the Desert Peach comics. The content warnings include some heavy stuff so I'm not sure if I'll actually want to read it, but I'm curious about any fan content of the series in general, since there's not a lot of it out there in the first place.

Well, I have no idea how this post suddenly turned into Rommel fanfic recommendations😂 That was decidedly not planned, but actually kind of interesting to look into. Thinking that Rommel is generally regarded as a fascinating and even popular historical figure, I was surprised to find there's actually so little, so I felt like highlighting those that seem intriguing to me.

[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)

[westernfronter]

My WW2 Soviet Oc, Lev.

[gutsposting]

Found in a file labeled "Initial Incident"

Before you lies a visage of death. An unnaturally large man, rotted away and hollowed out. The organs are dust, the bones cracked and withering. The body is without flesh or form. You look inside the rib cage, upwards towards the heart. It lies still, incomplete.

A bubbling, boiling pool. Microbes Invisible to your eye. You perceive them within it, the organism begins to take form. The cells split, absorb smaller beings and feed off of their energy. The desire to consume others in order to survive is created, and evolution unfolds before your eyes. Millions of years flash past you, the writhing and the screaming. 

The heart flickers…

December the eighth, 1941. Tecumseh island, a rather peculiar place to begin with, received an unexpected visitor. Visitors here were always unusual. The island possessed a very difficult dock located in shallow waters infested by coral, and no air strip. With only about 385 inhabitants, those coming to the island were always expected. Always a welcome family member or old friend. 

Sometimes, roughly once every five or ten years, a British or Dutch family would leave one of their homelands’ colonial possessions in order to seek out a quieter life in the paradise of Polynesia. Demographically, the island was about half European, thirty percent African American and the rest being a mix between Polynesian natives or Japanese immigrants.

Today’s guest was especially noteworthy. A plane was seen at about 5:30am crashing downwards towards the sandbar located just a few hundred feet off the Northern coast of the island. 

A crowd formed without a word needing to be spoken. A well-known old widow began to cry out “Jackie’s out there! Jackie! Someone go check on her! Please! You there-“. A group of men, not knowing about the girl’s decision to swim out to the sandbar in order to go fishing, had already found a rowboat, oars, a rope and gathered up some weapons. Everyone seemed to ask for Sheriff Grady all at once.

They found him on the radio, with tears in his eyes. He was the first to tell everyone about the attack on Pearl Harbor that had occurred yesterday morning. It was very difficult to get in contact with anyone off of the island, and news traveled slowly. A few of the men in the crowd, ready to take on the stranger who had landed on their island, were Japanese. Trust was thrown out of the window right away, and they were quickly told not to leave the island, or even the town. 

Only one man, known throughout the town as Mr. Yoshi, was fluent in both Japanese and English. He was given the unfortunate task of translating all of the orders from the whites to the rest of the Japanese inhabitants. He had brought with him a baseball bat, and appeared ready to kill the man in the plane, but his weapon was swiftly confiscated. No one on the island wanted anything to do with any of the Japanese residents now, even those who were born on the island and lacked little known connection to Japan or their “native” culture.

Mr. Yoshi gave up his baseball bat, but was very clearly annoyed when Mr. Grady told the other men that he allowed to come along that “you can’t never trust them yellow bastards.” Grady told them how they held competitions in China over how many prisoners they could execute by beheading in a minute. How they’d pile up the heads to see who could make the biggest pile the fastest. By now, most people in the crowd were screaming and crying over the attack on Pearl. The rage growing within the town itself was growing in a way that everyone could physically feel, like magic.

Round spectacles hid a pair of sad old eyes. Yoshi wanted to rip the man in the plane to pieces. He wanted to show his friends that they were wrong for doubting him and the Japanese neighbors Yoshi had met here. Over time, he had been able to convince one or two people that he was here with good intentions.But there was nothing he could have done in order to make the whites trust him, war or no war.

Dan McGraw was the most vocal racist on the island. He demanded that Grady either arrest Yoshi, handcuff him, or leave him on the island while the rest of the men captured “the Jap” and brought him back for interrogation. Grady refused.

“Yoshi can understand him. And if the pilot isn’t Japanese then we won’t need a translator anyways. Nobody got a good look-��

The old woman was screaming again. She had found the small crowd of men on the shoreline surrounding a rowboat, and the cries of “Jackie! Jackie!” Whipped all the men up into a new frenzy. One of them started shouting about Nanking, started saying that the son-of-a-bitch would be raping the girl if they didn’t get there soon.

OSS later reported that the following men were on the boat that initially met the assailant; Sheriff Grady Brown, Dan McGraw, Yoshi (surname redacted), Bonnell Quaid, Lenny Callahan, and Jordan Freeman. Grady Brown was an oddity for the area because his father was a Black Frenchman, and his mother was a young Polynesian local. Nobody was entirely sure how he got his position, but even the white trash McGraws and Fosters tended to turn a blind eye towards having him as sheriff,  even after seeing him remove every vestige of segregation throughout the island.

Grady was the only one who owned any guns on the whole island. An M1911 that he said he had taken as a souvenir from “the war” was all most people knew about. Some people didn’t believe all of his fanciful stories about combat in France, but he did have enough pictures of himself in uniform to prove it. He also had a gun case in his office which held a shotgun and enough rounds for Grady to take out the whole town.

The men all crammed themselves onto the tiny boat. The Sheriff, sensing the tension in the air, took almost all of their weapons away. Only Freeman was allowed to keep his baseball bat, because he was middle-aged and Grady trusted him. The rest were told that they would help Grady deal with whoever was in the plane, assuming he was Japanese. Secretly, they were all wishing it was an American pilot knocked unconscious. 

Expecting the worst, Grady would stand back just a bit away while the rest of the men held him down so Grady could handcuff him. If he went for a gun, or the sword that they all imagined him carrying, Grady would shoot him, and call for the navy to come pick up the body and the plane. 

Yoshi politely requested that, if he wasn’t immediately hostile, they give him a chance to communicate with the man and allow him to come quietly. Grady obliged him, although the others grumbled. McGraw said “You probably have some kind of  plan you want to work out with him.”

“No, I want to see if he will surrender. He might come willingly … we don’t need to kill him”

“Japs don’t surrender.” Was the cold reply.

As they approached the sandbar, they could see the smoke from the wreck coming up above the treeline. Flames were licking here and there, only visible through the gaps in the palms. Jackie was standing on the beach apparently unharmed, shivering and waving her arms over her head. The Sheriff gave her a blanket, and asked what happened while he led her to the boat.

“I was just out fishin’” she began, “and then the plane just fell out of the sky. I didn’t wanna go near it for a while, but when I walked up to it I could see that the guy in there was dead or somethin’.” Grady told her to stay in the boat, and the men huddled together.

“ If he’s dead,” Grady began, “then this is as simple as can be. You and you pull him out, and then we call in the nearest ship and it’s out of our hands from there. If he’s breathing then I want you and Dan to pull him out of there while Freeman and I watch him for some kind of trick. And if he’s awake, Yoshi can try and reason with him.”

They all agreed. “We stick together.” Grady reiterated . “If we get to the plane and he isn’t in the cockpit, we get back on the boat and we leave. We don’t want to tangle with him now that he’s had time to set up a trap or a radio beacon or a who-knows-what.”

They approached the brush shoulder-to-shoulder, with Yoshi forced to stay a few paces behind and Quaid ordered to stay with the boat and the girl, creeping their way towards the wreck.

Still aflame, but not spreading fires or being too unmanageable to get near, the plane was very much unlike what Grady had expected it to be. He had read a story in the newspapers he got shipped to him that taught you how to spot a Japanese plane. Mostly he remembered the distinctive Mitsubishi Zero fighters that were the most common type seen in the war Japan was fighting in China. They were almost always painted white, with huge red suns painted on the wings and tail.

This plane was painted matte black, with no insignia or identifiable markings to be found. It was still powered by one propeller in the middle of the plane’s body, but was otherwise totally abnormal. Somehow you could tell that it wasn’t made from aluminum like most modern planes were.

The pilot was also dressed bizarrely. Covered head to toe in a black uniform devoid of badges, patches or symbols, more closely resembling a straight jacket than a flight suit. An odd looking gas mask, made up of a series of hard plates, covered his entire head and hid his features. He didn’t move as the men approached the plane, and Grady pulled his pistol from the holster . A shot rang off, and the pilot didn’t move.

The other men started to walk towards it, but Grady motioned for them to wait. He peered into the cockpit, looking for the dials and instruments one could expect to find on a plane like this, but couldn’t see any identifiable alphabet or symbols anywhere on the dashboard. Not even any numerals. “Yoshi!” He shouted, and waved for the man to come close.

“What is it?” The sweet old man asked, clearly terrified.

“What does this say?” He was almost screaming. Grady pointed at a set of characters engraved onto a small nickel plate that was riveted onto the dashboard. Yoshi pondered it for a moment, and then shakily replied “It isn’t Japanese, Chinese or Korean. I don’t even recognize it as Mongolian… I don’t know. I don’t recognize it.”

“Bullshit!” McGraw shouted. “Shut your fucking hick mouth!” Was Grady’s reply. 

“Is he alive?” Asked someone. Grady said he didn’t know. Swapping his pistol into his left hand, he reached for the pilot’s neck with his right. He tried to press down on the spot where he expected he could find a pulse, but he wasn’t able to find any kind of gap between the plates that made up the mask, and he couldn’t feel the skin underneath. He found what looked like a small latch or button on the faceplate, near where the end of the jawline would meet the neck.

He pressed it, and after a loud series of clicks, the faceplate jolted very slightly towards the left. Grady tugged at it, and it opened up like a door to reveal that the man was not Japanese at all. In fact, he barely even looked human.

The US Navy Communications Board had quickly gotten into contact with the local government, and in an emergency decided to reveal to Grady, after he signed several top-secret level NDA’s, their new invention. Their “wireless long-range telephone” could make a call to almost anywhere in the world without needing a landline connection on anyone’s end anywhere. They had dropped the unit in by parachute, with specific instructions for Grady, only about four hours after they apprehended the pilot.

“Yes sir.” Dan, sulking around a corner in the hallway while trying to open the shotgun case, was listening in on Grady as he was on the phone. “Well I took the camera apart like you asked… yes I did in fact… yes every reel he had with him was full of them… well I have them all laid out in front of me now. No, I don’t see anything significant about them. Just a bunch of crates.” The Sheriff shuffled his papers around, and was listening intently to the man on the other end of the line. Dan got back to fiddling with the lock.

“A serial number? Yes… let me see… N dash C dash one-one-seven… uh… the pictures are blurry I’m sorry… what was that?” Dan heard a click. For almost an hour now, he was listening to Yoshi and the pilot speaking to each other. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but he knew that they were planning something.

Grady was trying to read off another of the serial numbers through his magnifying glass, when he heard Dan shout “Let go of him you piece of shit!” Grady sprinted for the holding cell downstairs, gun in hand. He burst into the room to see Dan pointing the shotgun at Yoshi and the pilot. The pilot was standing over Yoshi and throttling his neck with both hands, and Yoshi’s face was starting to turn purple. “Let him go right now!” Dan was shouting.

“Put the fucking gun down Dan! Right now!” The sheriff screamed, cocking his gun and pointing it at Dan’s back. Dan ignored him, and shouted again for the pilot to let Yoshi go.

Just barely, Yoshi asked again and again for Dan not to shoot, and tried to wave his hands back and forth. “Dan!” Grady shouted again.

Just like that, it was all over. Dan shot first, and Grady shot Dan in the back. The pilot’s grotesque, inhuman head was blown clean off, and a pellet slammed its way into Yoshi’s right spectacle, lodging into his brain and killing him over an excruciating two hours. Dan’s lung was hit, and the bullet traveled so fast it actually pulled a bit of his ling out of his body. He died the next day from infection on a Navy hospital boat.

Grady was charged with triple murder, and was found dead hanging in his cell on June 7, 1942. The OSS, which later evolved into the CIA, investigated the incident and buried the story in the decades to come. The Japanese residents of the island were evacuated onto the American mainland and sent to concentration camps for the remainder of the war. Some time later, every other resident was evacuated. 

The explanation given by the military was that the island was to be fortified, and that the island had been threatened by the Japanese. After the war, the American government compensated all of the residents of the island for their losses, claiming that nuclear tests at Bikini Atoll and other sites had somehow made Tecumseh island uninhabitable “for at least three hundred years.” Jackie died much later due to complications during childbirth. No one today remembers the incident except for a few gray old men in the upper echelons of the various US Intelligence agencies.

[atna2-34-75]

Fritz Lang, Man Hunt (1941)