Capto Iugulum

Japan recognizes and will allow Flemish observers, if they are able to come to Japan. We will ask, though, that they observe from a distance to maintain their safety.

OCC:

Just in case anyone forgets what we have signed:

Spoiler :
The Calais Convention

In light of the recent bloody wars in Europe, in particular the War in Italy, King Charles II of Flanders and Parliament have decided to use our role as a neutral nation to host a Convention in Calais, where representatives from any an all nations are invited to meet and ratify a treaty which will explicitly state, in plain terms, the Laws of War. King Charles and Parliament feel that at this time, with tensions remaining so high in Europe and around the world, it is necessary and indeed a moral imperative that this convention takes place, so as to ameliorate the suffering of both soldiers and those who have the misfortune of being caught in the middle of war as civilians. The King and Parliament both hope that all nations will agree to this treaty, for the sake of all people.

The Articles of this Treaty are as follows:

Article 1: Ambulances and military hospitals shall be recognized as neutral, and as such, protected and respected by the belligerents as long as they accommodate wounded and sick. Neutrality shall end if the said ambulances or hospitals should be held by a military force.

Article 2: Hospital and ambulance personnel, including the quarter-master's staff, the medical, administrative and transport services, and the chaplains, shall have the benefit of the same neutrality when on duty, and while there remain any wounded to be brought in or assisted.


Article 3: The persons designated in the preceding Article may, even after enemy occupation, continue to discharge their functions in the hospital or ambulance with which they serve, or may withdraw to rejoin the units to which they belong. When in these circumstances they cease from their functions, such persons shall be delivered to the enemy outposts by the occupying forces.

Article 4: Inhabitants of the country who bring help to the wounded shall be respected and shall remain free. Generals of the belligerent Powers shall make it their duty to notify the inhabitants of the appeal made to their humanity, and of the neutrality which humane conduct will confer. The presence of any wounded combatant receiving shelter and care in a house shall ensure its protection. An inhabitant who has given shelter to the wounded shall be exempted from billeting and from a portion of such war contributions as may be levied.


Article 5: The material of military hospitals being subject to the laws of war, the persons attached to such hospitals may take with them, on withdrawing, only the articles which are their own personal property. Ambulances, on the contrary, under similar circumstances, shall retain their equipment.

Article 6: Wounded or sick combatants, to whatever nation they may belong, shall be collected and cared for. Commanders-in-Chief may hand over immediately to the enemy outposts enemy combatants wounded during an engagement, when circumstances allow and subject to the agreement of both parties. Those who, after their recovery, are recognized as being unfit for further service, shall be repatriated. The others may likewise be sent back, on condition that they shall not again, for the duration of hostilities, take up arms. Evacuation parties, and the personnel conducting them, shall be considered as being absolutely neutral.

Article 7: A distinctive and uniform flag shall be adopted for hospitals, ambulances and evacuation parties. It should in all circumstances be accompanied by the national flag. An armlet may also be worn by personnel enjoying neutrality but its issue shall be left to the military authorities. Both flag and armlet shall bear a red cross on a white ground.

Article 8: The implementing of the present Convention shall be arranged by the Commanders-in-Chief of the belligerent armies following the instructions of their respective Governments and in accordance with the general principles set forth in this Convention.

Article 9: The implementing of the present Convention shall be arranged by the Commanders-in-Chief of the belligerent armies following the instructions of their respective Governments and in accordance with the general principles set forth in this Convention.


If this is incorrect, please feel free to correct me.
 
That is all correct. Though I somehow managed to put article 8 in twice :blush:
 
From: Empire of Scandinavia
To: Flanders

We will do our best to comply with your proposal, however, we suspect you will find it difficult to adequately and safely monitor fronts such as the one currently existing in Schleswig-Holstein. We will order our troops to take the utmost care to avoid shooting at your inspectors.
 
The time to ask questions of me is over. You have but a mere 12 hours to get in orders.
 
The Dutch Republic
The Confederation (via Normandy)
Russia
The UK
The USA
Spain
Brazil
Japan
Poland
New Spain
The Roman Empire
Denmark
Hungary
Scandinavia (Didn't get an outright signature in the pre-NES thread, but your signature seems to be implicit in your post here.)
 
We will allow Flemish observers to monitor the front, though we must warn them a war is going on, it may be risky
 
Autumn of Nineteen-Hundred and Five
Somewhere along the line, some lone trumpet was playing the Hakkappellitain Marsch. Huddled behind trees, rubble, shrubbery, the Fifth Uppsala Volunteer Rifles advanced. At times quickly, at times slowly, at times like a fox and other times like a slug. Its soldiers marked time based on the rise and ebb of the Kraut artillery barrages, that Gustav had learned to expect and anticipate. That they could be anticipated like the chiming of a grandfather clock made them no less deadly; squadrons that lagged behind, men who were inspecting their bootstraps, unfortunate souls who were too cavalier about standing where they could be seen paid Chancellor Bostrom's iron price. The time would come to advance, soon, surely. Gustav unrolled the cuffs of his jacket, and inspected his watch. Seven-thirty. He would have taken a smoke, but cigarettes had fallen out of fashion -- firstly, it was prohibitive to avail yourself of tobacco. Tobacco imports from the United States and Brazil stopped with the war, for obvious reasons. When the sons of Honshu and Kyoshu fell upon the East China Sea like so many vicious insects, and the Yankee fleets descended on the Atlantic, tobacco from the Chinese colonies had dried up as well. Secondly, it was patriotic, then, to do without, as War Minister Litenfigret would remind anyone who listened.

"When do we advance?" some fool mumbled out. Anyone who paid any amount of attention knew that the front had closed up long ago -- both armies had made some kind of agreement in which as one fell back the other advanced, and inevitably as the latter in a moment of weakness was distracted, the former would take revenge. No progress was ever made. Clearly, something had gone awry long ago, some factor came to light which the brass had not anticipated. So they waited. Like clockwork, the enemy shells arrived, beating the ground where they hit like a gong. Whizzing through the air, they did not see them track their progress through the dimming daylight, but they marked the end of their journey when the earth gave way and rocks and dirt showered the men.

Some drank. Downing cheap and hard drinks, foul in taste and accursed in the eyes of God (ask any Lutheran minister), like so much water. Whether they were simply passing the time, or whether they required liquid courage to face the guns, Gustav couldn't say. Each second was an eon, as no one knew when or where they would turn to face the Kraut lead. Swedish steel, Norwegian courage, and Finnish cussedness would win out, every once and a while, but only so often as some poor soul took a piece of grapeshot to the face and would be killed out of mercy. Damn the physicians and surgeons who talked of rehabilitation, what right was it of theirs to take the lives of men in their hands for "research"? Corporal Hertssir knew men had a right to die at least once in their life.

And so he came, dodging between rocks and bushes, the man himself. Corporal Hertssir was the closest thing to an aristocrat in the entire regiment. The Litenfingret regiments had caught on with the sons of middling merchants who styled themselves plutocrats, and so many of the shipyard rabble. "Go," they said "see the world! Kill some Krauts, save the Empire! For your nation!" and the writhing mass of the patriotic said "Do you want my name on that line in cursive or in print?"

"Gentlemen. It has come to my attention that we will be marching -- er, charging -- momentarily. Approximately five minutes from now." the corporal's lack of enthusiasm, his winded look, did not bid confidence. Several men, who had spoken previously about their local ministers urging the young and the poor to join, quickly produced Bibles from their uniforms and began praying profusely. Corporal Hertssir was aristocrat enough to surreptitiously give them odd looks, devout Christianity having fallen out of style with the politically-literate but as a means to promote settlement in the Kongo.

BOOM. BOOM. The enemy's shells added to the silence. BOOM. BOOM. Scandinavian guns returned. Men with a reputation for strength shivered where they sat. Gustav's boots kicked up dirt as he shifted, adjusting his helmet as he lay against the bare earth of the embankment he and his fellows sheltered beneath. Nervous laughter echoed in the silence, and was interrupted by a sudden and thunderous barrage.

The thundering pounding of the guns ceased. Several moments of silence, and the comparatively-subdued return volley could be heard. There was no reprisal by the Scandinavian guns; they had gone silent. One man asked the corporal, "Sir, are we not going to return fire?"

"No. There's little point in shelling our own, is there?"

And then, somehow, they were up. The first few seconds, it was like a breath of fresh air, a strangely refreshing experience amidst all the waiting. And then it came, a torrent of bullets, tearing into the ranks of the advancing column. All around Gustav, men dropped like flies. Yet the column continued to advance. Despite the rains, and despite the shells, the ground was still mostly solid. Green grass was stained red by the blood of the men, but the column continued.

Then an otherworldly mist spread out across the field as the machine guns ceased their fire. Someone shouted "Merciful God it's the gas!" Men fumbled into their pockets to reach for something, anything to cover their mouths and noses. Someone beside Gustav was too late. As he turned, he saw the man convulse, his eyes rolling back into his head. He coughed up blood, gasping, retching. As he fell back, his hands clawing at his windpipe as his eyes turned a color of bright, pink-blood red, his agony-filled, laborious death was concluded. Helplessly, Gustav ran onwards. Did the Kraut know no ignominy? No shame?

Later in the week, the Fifth Volunteer Rifles retreated to their prior positions.
 
The hull of the USS John Paul Jones reeled, and the tools and knives flew off the table. Dr. Dustin Shelley couldn’t try to stabilize the patient, and instead rocked with the hull as his assistant tried to hold the poor sailor on the table, while trying to stabilize himself as well. Somehow, though, he’d managed to not cut where he shouldn’t, a product of years of experience as a naval surgeon.

Nonetheless, that one was tough.

“If they hit that like us again at that moment, this man’s a goner!” he said to his attendant, flustered. “I could have taken an artery!”

“Well,” said the attendant, a wiry sailor named Austin, “if this man doesn’t turn to Jesus after this, he’s beyond hope.” They both chuckled. “I’ll pick up the equipment.”
There was the shrapnel, precariously near a major artery. Shelley was relieved he could put the knife down and use pliers instead. Pliers don’t cut. “While you’re down there, Austin, hand me some pliers.”

“Uh… is it okay if they’re wet?”

Wet? Austin looked down to see the water rising, slowly above his sole, but making noticeable progress. “That must have hit the hull! Hopefully there will be boys working on that. But God knows we can’t be putting seawater into this man. Sanitize them right away!”

“Yes, sir,” Austin replied. Thankfully the sanitizer was secure, and Austin was sure to dip it. He handed the tools back to Shelley, who carefully yet quickly began plucking the shrapnel out of the man’s body.

The water was now at his ankles. It was rising quickly. Shelley didn’t have a chance to look up, but said, “Aren’t they pumping out the water? If they’re not swift we’re going to flounder!”

“I’ll try to find someone,” Austin said, and he made his way through the water, which slowed his step. Shelley wiped his brow. He had received warning that this was a major naval battle, which the ship would be slogging through. Wasn’t surprising. The Battle of the Irish Sea consisted of every Continental fleet, and the British, Brazilian, American, and various South American fleets. While not numerically comparable to the Battle of Chincoteague Bay, it was largely comparable to it. And he didn’t need to be on deck to know that it was vicious, and many men would lose their lives.

He heard a man wading to the door through the water which was now to his calves. He presumed it was Austin. “Status report, Mr. Austin?”

He looked up to Austin, and saw Austin's face was pale as a ghost. Stuttering, he said, “Sir, we’re the only men alive on this ship.”

Shelley’s heart nearly stopped. Slowly, he said, “Are you sure?”

“Take him up to the deck, and you’ll see. Because we can’t keep him down hear. The John Paul Jones is sinking.”

Quickly they gathered what materials they thought they would need, placing them on the operating table with the man, Shelley trying to control the bleeding as they tried to get the table up the stairs and onto the deck. It was nearly an impossible task, and Shelley could only hope that the man hadn’t lost too much blood, but they managed to get on deck.

Dr. Shelley had seen many grisly scenes in his duty as a naval doctor. But this one made him nauseous. The deck was dripping with blood, and body parts and guts were strewn about the deck. It was likely the product of a Gatling gun, along with shrapnel from the rounds that had thoroughly destroyed the structure and pounded several holes in the ship. It still was pressing forward, by inertia, but it had been thoroughly destroyed, and the crew had been torn apart, literally.

“My God!” Shelley screamed over the din. “We’ve got to get help! We can’t stay here!”

“I don’t see one of our ships!” Austin yelled back.

“There’s a Spanish ship. Get a white rag and wave it!”

“But sir, that would be surrender. That’s a Spanish ship! Remember, we’re fighting them!”

“This man is going to be a goner soon, and us with him, if we don’t get off this ship! Start waving something white! I’ll attend to the man and try to close him up.

Austin took off his white shirt, and started waving it at the ship. He began screaming, “Help!” Shelley was too busy to look. He checked and was convinced enough that there was no more shrapnel (although he felt he should take a second look once on the other vessel), and he started sewing him up. He could feel the water beginning to reach his soles as the hull of the John Paul Jones began its slow descent into the Atlantic, and hoped to God that the Spanish were gracious enough to save them.

His prayers, apparently, were answered. For soon enough a Spanish man was at his side, about to help him get the man onto the boat they had rowed over. Austin was not too thrilled about riding with the Spaniards, and they didn’t seem too thrilled either, but for whatever reason they saw fit to rescue them, perhaps because it was clear that Shelley was a doctor, and they were just as pressed for medical crew as the Americans.

Upon reaching the ship, Shelley looked back to see the last remnant of the John Paul Jones submerge, along with its cargo. Shelley bowed his head, and said a five-second funeral for the crew: “May God bless your rest.” He was then hustled off to help the Spanish wounded.
 
Kudos to most of you for getting orders in on a reduced scale of time. Beginning the updating process now. No more order revisions will be accepted beyond this point, but new orders will still be accepted.
 
The following is an excerpt from the 28th of October, 1905 edition of the Copenhagen Daily, one of the premier newspapers in Denmark during the War.

Biography of a Hero: Ole Olufsen

Ole Olufsen was born in 1865, the child of a famous doctor and his wife in Aarhus. His parents did everything they could do provide their child with education, particularly when young Ole discovered his passion for Oriental history and cultural studies. After graduating, Ole then joined several famous Danish expeditions into central Asia, in fact accompanying many Russian armies and expeditions into the former Zungar Khanate to understand their culture. Ole then became a fellow of the Royal Danish Geographical Society, and became famous among geographical and ethnographic circles for his multiple papers on the people of East Asia, in particular the Chinese and Koreans.

Ole then found himself leading several expeditions into the former Zungar Khanate, where he uncovered a wealth of artefacts gaining much insight into the lives and cultures of the old Mongolians. It was there that his skill with military tactics was discovered, as he found himself holding off multiple raids from the Zungar tribesmen as well as Ascendant soldiers from China. It was due to his great knowledge of the East as well as his keen military mind that he was recruited by the Royal Danish East Asiatic Commission to a top military position commanding many of the forces in Danish China. Ole gained much prestige and acclaim during his time in the Danish Chinese Army, and was greatly successful in holding off multiple Ascendant Chinese raids. His skill with the native Chinese soldiers in particular was noted, and he was also famed for his ability to speak the Chinese Language. However, Ole was implicated in the Huinan Conspiracy in 1902, when some of his Chinese lieutenants was found to be supplying the Ascendants with stolen Danish arms. Ole resigned in shame and fury at what his commanding officers had done, and settled down in Xuzhou to continue his career. However, due to the lack of talented officers in Korea at the time, the East Asiatic Commission recruited Ole Olufsen to command the Danish forces in Hwaesong in 1903.

It was during the Battle of Hwaesong in 1905 that Ole Olufsen's greatest hour was had. The first move of the Japanese army was to attempt to seize the European Concessions in Korea from their rightful owners. Olufsen, having been given the order to stand and fight, managed to use his two brigades to great effect against the besieging Japanese soldiers. Using his knowledge of the city and his affinity with the Koreans in Hwaesong, Ole held the city for five months against the Japanese, killing nearly two and a half times his number of Japanese soldiers without any artillery or support. It is said that towards the end of the battle, when the lines had fallen and the Japanese were advancing towards his headquarters, Olufsen took a rifle and began shooting at Japanese soldiers himself. Sadly, the man was killed by a Japanese sniper during the taking of the city, and much of the rest of the force was killed with him.

Olufsen's refusal to give up and tenacity against overwhelming odds is an inspiration to our lives. All of Denmark should strive to emulate this man during these dark ours for our beautiful nation. As the Germans hold fair Danish soil, we must remember to always be tenacious in our defence of the home country, be we soldiers on the front lines or making munitions in the home front. We all have much to learn from Ole Olufsen.
 
No orders will be accepted beyond this point.
 
Paris, August 1905

Henri Dupond took his hat in his hand, and drew his hand across his brow as he took a deep, tired, gasp of stifling hot air of the sort that you always find on metro trains; and he hooked his umbrella over his left elbow as he wiped the sweat-band of his bowler with his index finger before stepping onto the platform just before the doors closed again and the steam from the train filled the tunnel as the train set off again. The notorious narrowness of Paris's metro was perhaps one of the most annoying things about living in Paris, but he reflected again on how he was a representative in the Parliament of the Confederation and that there was a war on: he had more important things to worry about. So he caught his breath, looked up at the station name and the exit sign - out of mere habit, for he had come through this station every day Parliament had sat in the last four years - and checked his pocket-watch, a rather shabby one, he thought, especially compared with some of the Swiss ones the old aristocrats had. He was rather late. He hardly minded, though; chapel was the first thing on the agenda and he was not precisely the most pious of the representatives. In any case, he pushed his way through the crowd and into the pouring rain, illogically removed his hat, and almost ran down the Rue de Médicis with an indignity that most representatives would scorn, walked with more dignity past the Odéon (there were quite a few aides of important people standing together in the portico looking in his direction) and then picked up his pace again until he had got in through the back door of the Petit-Luxembourg. This chapel cherade struck him as a waste of time; when he had first been a representative things had been a lot more secular, but some of the conservatives in power were a bit uptight about public morals. There had been the most tremendous wrangling over whether Catholics or Protestants would get to use the chapel in the main palace. He didn't much mind the fact that the Catholics had ended up in the Petit-Luxembourg, but nevertheless it was awful what a mess the Protestants had made when redecorating the old chapel. And he didn't know whether to give credit to rumours that the eccentric comte de Misenne had told Dillon the Poitevin delegation would only accept last year's Education Act if he was spared the trouble of walking between the Petit-Luxembourg and the main hall. Honestly, he wasn't sure that Misenne wasn't that insane.


"You're soaked. And late; you're always late for chapel," came a very subdued whisper to his left as he worked out where to put his briefcase. "... patrem omnipotentem, factorem caeli et terrae ..." "Morning," he replied in a similar tone to his good friend Pierre Lacon; "what's going on today?" "... de spiritu sancto ..." "I was just talking to de Funillère, who's in the War Cabinet..." "...mortuus et sepultus..." "... and he said that the Cabinet's in session all day talking about strategy, or conscription, or something..." "Why these long Cabinet meetings on Parliament days? It's ridiculous." "Most of the war preparations are kept secret; they say they're not even fully briefing all the Kings." "Really? That's surprising for Vizelle." "... iudicare vivos et mortuous ..." "Oh, King Humbert knows, but the Poitevins are basically in the dark." "So what's Funillère got to say?" "...aeternam. Amen."

The rest of the people present stopped whispering at that point, and for some reason, unusually, they hardly got going again all the way through the service, so that he could not get a word out of Lacon until the service was over. "So what did Funillère say?" "Oh, just that things aren't going as well as the Cabinet was hoping. Apparently the troops aren't making much headway in Brandenburg and a load of Hungarians have turned up." "But aren't the Russians onto them?" "They Russians can't get across the Dneister, apparently. Besides, didn't you read that report they sent round? The Hungarian army's enormous. There are even a few Serbs, apparently." "So what are they going to do?" "De Funillère says it's top secret." "That means he hasn't a clue." "Do you think so?"

With that in their minds, the two Septembrists walked in silence down the passage towards the main Palais du Luxembourg and the Chamber, where they knew well that they would first spend half an hour standing outside waiting for the Protestant minister to finish off his phenomenally long sermon, before some aide turned up to tell them that not a single cabinet minister would be attending today. Lacon stared out of the window watching the rain fall, wondering what sorts of shelter the soldiers had in the field. He might ask Funillère next time he saw him. Dupond found a seat in the corner, put his sodden jacket on the arm of the chair, and took off his hat and fiddled with the brim. Maybe the rain would stop before the day's Parliament ended and they went home. But as a chorale sounded from the Protestants a few rooms away, the rain showed no more sign of abating than the war did, and the drumming on the roof became even louder as Dupond put on his jacket and rose from his chair, following the crowd of representatives as they proceeded into the Chamber, and the rain faded into a low, quiet rumble as the Speaker began to announce the business for the day.
 
OOC: It's a Circuit back-to-back special!

IC:

Henry was in a bad mood. He wouldn't mind if he were wet because he was in the jungles of the Amazon, waiting to kill an unsuspecting Brazilian patrol. But instead, he was wet because he was staked out not far from the beach of Santo Domingo, waiting to kill an unsuspecting Spaniard push against the landing.

Henry didn't like being wet without a good cause.

He was staked out by the road leading to the fort of Santo Domingo, the major road in the area, where a Spanish effort to push the Americans off the island would likely come. The forts had been subdued by the navy, though at a price. The battleship USS Hamilton was hit by a lucky shot from the Spanish guns and was destroyed in a spectacular explosion, which left no survivors Henry was aware of. That severely rattled the regulars, but they would have time to recoup, as the Rangers pressed onto the beach, assaulting the Spanish position, and managed to get into the forest while the rest of the army was unloaded.

Henry heard clip-clopping. He gripped his rifle, and felt his muscles coil, ready to pounce with the rest of the unit. He could barely see them, but knew their positions, and knew that they were doing the very same thing. Down the road he could now see the column of Spanish cavalry, lead by a very tan and handsome man, with a broad black handlebar mustache and muscled that pressed against his uniform. He had a scar across his cheek. There was no question this man was a veteran.

He commanded like one too. Before proceeding further, he ordered the platoon to halt with the raise of his hand. He glared out over the road. He clearly suspected an ambush, which only earned him points in Henry's mind, as he was correct to suspect. He began exchanging whispers with what appeared to be a sergeant, than after about a minute, he issued a command in Spanish, loud and clear. The column lifted their rifles to their shoulders, then advanced very slowly, keeping their rifles trained on the jungle surrounding the road.

Henry's heart began to pound. This was the real deal, not a training mission, and this was against the Spanish Imperial Army, the best fighting force in the world for nearly a century. Why the United States was fighting them rather than the Brazilian rabble was beyond Henry. He didn't see how any scraggly-toothed Limey Prime Minister could convince the President of the United States to betray their oldest ally. But he had no choice. He waited. And waited.

The Spanish lieutenant had passed his position, and was still advancing. They were getting nearer the end of the road, closer to the beach. They certainly were thinking that they would soon be in the clear. Instead, they were just getting deeper and deeper into the trap.

Once the Lieutenant was at the end of the forest, the trap snapped. Two shots were fired in the forest at no target, and the soldiers remained hidden, which caused the column to begin looking for them. Then soldiers on the opposite side of the road took advantage of the distraction to peak around a tree and hit some targets, taking some Spaniards off their horses. Now the column began to fire at the shooters deep in the trees, not noticing the positions nearest the road, including Henry. He and others leaned up and angled their guns just enough to get a shot, and fired their rifles, taking many a Spaniard cavalryman's life. Horses began to rear and throw off their owners, men were shouting and screaming, and the Spanish lieutenant was desperately trying to regain order. But it was too late. The cavalry platoon decided it was best to dismount and fight on foot. The result was that the forest rose up with many flashing American bayonets. Henry joined the charge, firing a shot first that took down a Spanish horse, then digging his blade into the cavalryman. He began looking for others, but the platoon had been effectively destroyed by the Rangers, with only a couple survivors who surrendered.

It was swift, but still had a carnage. Many men lay on the road dead or dying, a few of them unlucky Rangers but most of them Spanish. At the front, he could see the Spanish lieutenant on the ground, holding a spot bleeding profusely. He was dying, but still alive, and the Ranger platoon's commanding officer, Lieutenant Card, was trying to see what little he could get out of him before the man met with Saint Peter.

Henry would have felt more satisfied if they were communicating in Portuguese rather than Spanish.
 
“As I live and breathe, Mister Dwadzieścia Dwa.” The transport was a rickety old thing, not treated well by the rough roads that had not seen anything except soldiers for the last year or so. Out of the passenger side came a man in a sharp suit, with a Polish Imperial Eagle on his lapel. The driver got out to open up the back. The man greeting them was Komisarze Daniel Wojda, ready to inspect his new troops.

“Ah, its Mister Siedemnaście now.” Mister Siedemnaście was a younger man than the Komisarze, though not by much. The military man was wearing a great coat to keep off the chill; the bottom caked in mud. Attached to his belt was a large gas mask. He followed the government agent around to the back, to see the soldier lift the hatch, revealing about a dozen men in chains, very much looking worse for wear. Wojda almost instinctively reached for his gas mask at the smell. “Let’s just say my predecessor will be joining the front soon.”

“Spent too long embroiled with proletariats, I’m guessing?” The man spat on the floor, to rid his mouth of the name of the worst disease that could infect society. The agent merely nodded. “Damn shame. Now, what have we here?”

“Usual bunch. These three are murders, all brothers. The rest of them are Brotherhood members.”

“Brotherhood?” The prisoners were led away to be kitted out, slowly due to the chains that bound them together. The other two went off in the other direction, towards the officer’s barracks.

“Of course, you’ve been here the whole time, haven’t you? German nationalists, whatever that means. Growing in number. Most of them just print pamphlets and we give them a few weeks to cool off. But these fellows had quite the armoury. Planning to kill the king.” The older man recoiled in horror. “Oh don’t worry, we’ve been over their plans. Wouldn’t have worked even if they got close to trying.”

They trudged through the rear trenches, mud rising with their boots. They passed soldiers making the most of their time here, before being cycled to where the action was. Most were leaning against corrugated iron propped up against the side of the trench, smoking. “I notice, Komisarze, some of the men in the Penal uniform have rags in their mouths. Screamers?”

“No, no, proletarists.” Another spit, soon lost in the churning mud. “The really… charismatic kind. The surly ones that hate being here, they’re not so bad, truth be told. They sit by themselves, keep themselves out of trouble. Think they’re dying for some worker’s paradise. Bah. No, it’s the friendly ones we’ve had to shut up. Planting poisonous thoughts in the minds of innocent soldiers. I hear further along the line, they go further. Spikes through the lips, stitching up the mouths.” They came to a storage room. “In here, there’s something I need to get.” He started counting the crates, before selecting an unmarked one. It was full of whisky. “Been saving this for a friendly face. Or when we’re victorious. For King, Country and God.”

“Here, here.” They drank. “Though, why just use rags? We should be giving them a little extra punishment, considering who they are.”

“Call me a big old softy, but I’m not risking infection that could spread to other men. Actual infection this time. Or using up resources. No, rags are good enough. Plus, they’re urine soaked so…”

Mister Siedemnaście did a spit take. “What?”

Smiling, Wojda explained. “Oh yes, something in the… waste makes gas a little less unbearable. Some of the Penal men have said its better than the masks they were issued with. And for everyone else, well, better than nothing if the whistle sounds and you’re stupid enough to forget your bloody mask.”

There was silence as Mister Siedemnaście though about this. Then he burst out laughing. “How on Earth did that come about?” he said though the laughter.

“Well, there are two stories. From the north, apparently somebody wanted to humiliate a rag-mouth. What some of the men are calling proles around here,” clarifying for the agent. “So he relieved himself on the rag, before handing it back. Then the whistle started, and of course, the bloody cog had got his mask stolen. So he opened up his rag and breaths through it, saying he felt fine. Probably used to it, being a deviant and all.” There was some more laughter. “But from the south, it’s a different story. So a soldier, probably English, has just finished up with some girl that’s wondered into camp looking to make some money. I say English because they did something with the rag and all that during the deed. Can’t see our boys doing something like that. Anyway, so the guy is walking back to the barracks, when the whistle goes off, and of course, he’s left his mask on his bed. So he takes the only thing on hand and puts it up to his face. Everyone’s laughing at him when he gets back, but the next time it happens, some other guy tries it, it works, and its soon spreads up and down the line.”

They both laughed and drank for a long while. Then the agent spoke. “How do you think the war’s going?”

Wojda poured himself a sombre drink. “We’re holding on out here. We kill more of them than they kill us, but every time they charge, it always feels like they’ll break through. They seem to get closer… the General says that’s nonsense, that they are smashing themselves against us. But… I don’t know anymore. I keep expecting a Russian to jump down into the trench and start killing all the boys…”

“Speaking of boys, do you know what happened the other day? ‘Course ya don’t. So I’m overseeing a group of lads… coming home from the trenches. That’s what we’re calling it. Much brighter than ‘we hope these are most of your sons and husbands in these coffins’. I say coffins, they’re boxes just like these. Nobody buys the lie that’s all just deceiving our enemies. Anyway, so I’m overseeing the convoy through the village they’re all from, up to the church there. And there are the usual weeping families. Not one sound except for sobbing. Like even the birds and wind have stopped to pay their respects…” He was silent for a few moments, staring deep into the swirling depths of the glass. “When this woman came running out into the street, screaming ‘you killed my son, you killed my son’. As the police marched her away, she said that he was only 14. I looked into it; I actually followed it up. She was right. Her son was born 1891. A few days from his birthday as well. Didn’t think there would be a war to fight by the time he was old enough.” By some quirk of fate, the box he absent-mindedly opened was filled with propaganda posters that were supposed to be grenades (some poor village at the other end of the country had a rather nasty surprise when they found that). They were a picture of a father reading a book on this war, the daughter asking “where were you, daddy?”

Then a whistle sounded.
 
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