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Excuse me if some of the positioning in the text is awkward, blame Microsoft Word for that.

My try at alternative history, Firestorm, and as stated in the story itself it is more about senseless blood, gore and survival rather than emotion. Of course, there's emotion in it, but it's not the "Oh Jane, marry me" type of emotion.

I'm also considering making an RP in the same setting, that runs around the battle of Saint Paul's, which is of course fictious.



Firestorm

World War II never ended as it was supposed to, Hitler was killed because of a succesful plot against him. Stalin died of "complications", his actual cause of death is unknown. Mannerheim, Churchill, Roosevelt and King Gustav of Sweden are
now the big players in the world wide game that is war. The world has been split into military alliances that are now bickering amongst eachother, and the amount of dead continues to rise. Warfare has changed, it is no longer traditional blitzkrieg and moving warfare, but is once again bogged down in Europe. France desperately throws her men into combat against the new leader of Nazi Germany, Erwin Rommel, who is and has always been a devoted National Socialist and a friend of the party. Italy, which has been completely ruined by bombardments from European and US warships and planes, has taken a stance similar to Switzerland. They stay out of it and watch everyone else fight, they have done their part in this over dramatic charade.

1947, London, Great Britain, around tea time.

"But sir, the BEF* and the home guard can not be supported, it is surrounded by German, Norwegian and Swedish troops. France can not aid us, as her divisions have all been wasted near the Maginot line, they have already stated that our troubles are not theirs to solve. We are fighting on our own."
A man dressed in a traditional Khaki military uniform stands in a ruined, large hall. Atop of him the sunshine is let through by a massive hole in the cupola roof, several black stains on the ground, all of these a tell tale sign of an incendiary bomb that fell on the building three years ago. The building, St.Pauls cathedral, is now used as a military base of operations against German and Swedish troops inside London, and the sounds of battle can be heard from the East, the sound of guns that can have no shame..
*British Expeditionary Force

".. And ever since Italy left the war, the Germans have controlled the Mediterranean with military bases through Tobruk and various other cities.."

"How many divisions do we have left on the London - Dover line ?"

"Barely any, sir. The 25th Royal Rifle's has taken so many casualties that it is refusing to fight, not even our officers can retain control of the situatio-.."
An explosion shakes the ground and glass shards fly through the air and spatter across the hall they are standing in. Wooden splinters from church benches jam themselves into men that surround a poorly set up excuse of a poker table. Another part of the roof of St. Paul's crumbles, crushing two men under it. The chaos of the situation reveals itself to Colonel Paul Abbot, the local superior of the troops that are holed up inside the building. The man had been taking a nap beside one of the massive pillars inside the building but quickly shakes himself and gets on his feet, the knark of the tight, gruelish leather boots which are covered in both mud and blood echoing through the now dead silent building. He runs a hand through his dark hair and shakes himself awake, brushing the dust away from his khaki uniform and grabbing the rifle he had left on the floor hours earlier. His trusty Enfield now full of pulverized concrete.

Moans, groans and cries for help begin to flood the seemingly empty room, a man from the other side of the hall whimpers, "I can't feel my legs..". The twisted, mangled and brutally mutilated arms of his comrade stick out from under a concrete slab, a finger still twitching as the final electric shocks sent through the dead mans nerve endings come to a halt. The wounded soldier looks up at Abbot, his hair brushed aside by the explosion and a gaping wound on his cheek and nose, created by shrapnel from the explosion, are the only visible facial features that Abbot can make out. As the Colonel lets his eyes glide down from the wounded mans chest all the way to his knees, he notices more and most likely fatal wounds. He was now near certain that this poor boy had been near the area that the shell blew away. The boys knees have both been viciously torn off by the blast, leaving what seem to be a mess of ligaments and flesh sticking out of the chaps pants.

The man coughs, his eyes going glassy. He slowly lets himself sink to the ground, dragging his back along the dented wall until he finally slumps to his side, dead.

This vision will forever haunt Abbot, who was at the time 28. He became the most renowned officer in the BEF once the army pushed back through London and regained the beach head the Germans had created during Operation Sea Lion.

-

An old, shriveled man stands on a podium, his fingers weak but his stare as strong as ever. His frail voice runs throughout the beautiful wooden house as it is amplified through the microphones. "May I please, have your attention.." Creaks fill the room as the people inside shift to listen to him. The room is illuminated purely by moonlight and chandeliers, along with candles placed along the beatiful cloth covering on the tables. His audience is a small dinner party composed of many politicians, both young and old to the deadly card game.

"I have not come here to give a political power speech." He begins, his voice as proud and strong, polished throughout the years of his career.

"But I have come here." He grips the podium, obviously nervous.

"To tell you of the immense feat that our brave boys gained during the battle for London, the famous "Blitz" phase of the battle and the toy war that was waged afterwards. I have come to tell you of all those young boys who lost their lives inside St.Paul's as they battled against ferocious Sweco German troops, who after many brave assaults were forced to stand down, unable to crack the defense force of the cathedral." A wave of relief runs through him, now in his element. For him, the beginning of the speech has always been the hardest.

"I am Colonel Paul Abbot of the 15th Home Guard division. And this is my story. I was 28, just about to turn 29 when I was pushed into the Cathedral by political officers. It was supposed to be a last ditch defense of the London area but it turned into a horrible, horrible offensive that as boys as young as 15 had to pay the price for during the few final assaults."

"The reason I have come to speak for you is because I am a writer, I write various things about the battle itself in my memoirs, and other books that I have produced during the past few years. Ever since the publishing of my first book, 'The firestorm of Cathedral Paul', I have been a symbol of the battle. It is a personal account of what happened outside and inside the cathedral between September 17th and the 28th."

"Now, let us begin with.."

-

As Abbot's eyes turn away from the corpse he hears another cry for help, turning around to see another soldier of the 15th Home Guard carrying what seems to be a torso, disembodied from the rest of the body. The man notices Abbot and quickly stumbles towards him, all the while holding the torso from under its arms, the casualty's head flipping up and about as the panicked person jogs his way to Abbot.

"Please sir, please, help Jack, he's wounded !" He wails, tears streaming down from his eyes and a strain of saliva hanging from his chin.

Abbot looks at him as if he had gone cuckoo, but understands what the soldier, a Private judging by the rank etchings on his arm must be feeling at the very moment. "Put him down, Private, he's dead can't you see ?" Abbot whispers, gently slipping his hands under the torso's armpits and pulling it away from the man, trying not to get what is left of the mans entrails on his uniform. He kneels and lays the slashed up man on the floor, leaving one hand on the remains of his chest and tucks the other by his side. As Abbot is still on the ground, the other man starts weeping again, his hair a bloody mess which continues all the way down to his shoulders. Abbot grabs his shoulder and attempts to shake him out of it, "He's dead, [censored] happens, we all lose friends. Now just take five and then get back in line, OK ?" Abbot nods, the Private nodding back in a jittering, panicked fashion. He takes one last look at his dead friend, but turns away seconds later and lets out another faint cry of sadness.

Abbot was already making his way back onto a makeshift barricade constructed out of tank treads, strips of armour ripped out of vehicles and a tin can belt that seems to be running all along the floor. The soldiers ate, slept and pooped [damn you, censors, damn you ] in the same spot for weeks. As you can imagine, the sanitation was quite horrible if nonexistent.

As the few men that were stationed in front of the magnificently and extravagantly built main entrance noticed Abbot, they nodded in salutation or respect, or made no kind of notion of the officers arrival at all. "What's it like over here ?" Abbot asks, standing in clear view of the men and possibly the enemy.

"88's be pounding us into a pulp, and the Jerries have brought up some Bofors guns to use against any men who dare try cross the square in front of us. We only have our Bren guns and our jammed up 37MM gun, sir."
A man, propped up against concrete slabs and twisted anti tank wire, replies. As he speaks he makes odd motions with his hands, twitches and shakes as his fingers glide through the dust, apparently drawing a picture of something into the ash that is floating through the cold and dry air.

"As you probably all know we're being ordered to hold here until relieved." Abbot grins, knowing in his thoughts that there is nothing to reinforce the troops with. The usual response from the men would be "with what, dust ?". And this time is no different, the response is uttered by a few of the men in the defensive line, once again making Abbot's self esteem along with stupid hopes of victory crumble to the ground. This place did a lot of crumbling, the building and the minds of the men defending it were very frail.

But he continues to hold hope that soon the war will be over and that he'll get back to a little secret lover he's had for years now, and who he continues to write letters to even though her replies never come. The famous saying "the mail always goes through" doesn't work when you have 147MM shells falling from the skies and blowing any last hope of defensive victory away. His story is no different from the many men that lay before him and behind him, they all had someone they loved, whether it be a girl friend, a wife, a mother and a father or like a rare few, a boyfriend in the military or even in the same unit.

-

"I wrote my book about the inhumanity of war, my experiences and the experiences of others. It's not a book about love, hate, nor any other emotion like that. It's about the emotionless void that exists during combat, you are dulled by it, you grow immune to the death and pain around you, you no longer recognize humanity and the tragedy that usually strikes you when you see a man go down from a bullet or a shell. You go absolutely insane.." Abbot speaks, fixing his eyes on a bottle of red wine on the dinner table.

"But before I continue, I must allow you to eat and myself to have a break, after all, we have been in this house for 6 hours now haven't we.. ? And along with that, I see a beautiful bottle of wine on the table right there. I will continue after a short break, thank you."

Even though he's now 78, that doesn't stop him from loving what he's always loved. Wine.

The audience nods and proceeds to dine on the food that has been provided.

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