Reviving an old attempt
Feb. 16th, 2005 10:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zesty_pintoThis piece is a bit of a challenge. I'll keep it on public for now just because it's still an unfinished draft. Basically, this is an attempt for a new genre perspective: World War fantasy. Very difficult for me to properly get a grasp on since my writing skill in that genre is far from complete (though I do think it helps that I have worshiped Erich Maria Lemarque for so long).
Sergeant Poole
I was placed in charge of Squad 13 of the 213 Company, a sergeant behind a group of snipers. My officer training was from years back. My father was a war hero during the war of the Gaudlund-Dermank disputes, a veteran war hero although it was a war that was lost. He told me his tales as a chevalier, one of the elite men who wore beautiful polished armor and wielded dragon rifles that breathed fire and lead. The chevalier was the knight of the new world. At night in the living room, he would brag to me and my brothers of the times he had escaped death and saved his fellow men, and wondered when I too would possibly become a great chevalier, and perhaps more. I was, after all, his oldest even though I was still barely even old enough to graduate from the academy.
I did not think that I would have followed his wishes. My riding skills were poor and my aim terrible on horse. On my spare time, in Chattenburg where we lived, I tinkered with bikes, and worked with small steam engines, and read books on clock making. My instructors in the university often praised me for my knowledge of mechanics and were surprised when I told them of my wishes to become a chevalier.
“Dear boy,” they would usually say “a man like you would see more use building artillery or designing firearms.”
They were right. My knowledge, quick eyes, and nimble hands had made me an officer a unit of snipers instead. Of course, it was a disappointment to the family, and most of all to my father.
To his eyes, the sniper was nothing more than an assassin, a rude creature that hid in his hole to pick off the unwary like a wolf spider. Some of the tales he had told me of his past told of their kind, and how they used their rifles to murder the most honorable of men without a chance to even battle them in a fair fight.
“They would take the most recognized of men,” he told me “and stab their beautiful chests of polished iron and bronze and gold and kill them in the fog of war, and never would we have a chance for revenge as they would often hide among the other common dogs. They are the lowest of men, the most despicable, the hateful and godless.”
I never could tell my father what I was, even though I did tell him that I could not be a chevalier. He thought it was still a chance to show my patriotism and win back what the Dermanki stole from our mother country. After I told him this, I used my bike to reach a church and told Pastor Neits about my sins in the quiet darkness of the church.
“My son,” he told me “you will not be godless unless you refuse to believe him.”
Immediately, I asked with fear for some redemption “But then why must I disappoint my father and be the very thing he hates?”
“Perhaps you are to be a hero in some other small way. God works his miracles in many mysterious ways.”
Perhaps it was to be. Thirteen was a lucky number, and they said that our snipers were lucky. Sergeant Mogul said we had the devil working behind every shot we had. Perhaps it was both, or perhaps just one.
They were mostly boys, conscripted from the parts of Gaudlund that never knew much of the war then, save that we lost it. They were all named Smith, and every one of them was recognized for their marksmanship.
When I was a child, my governess told me about the Smith name. It was when I was too short to be able to reach the door, on a winter night when the fireplace was filled with wood and the windows were covered in red silk that gave off shadows “In the ancient times,” she told me with whispers “there were those that worshipped gods of all forms. Some worshiped the trees, the sky, the fields, and of course, the sons of the true god.” I could even remember how she would take a dramatic tone to her voice when she also said, “But among them were also the sons of metal, who were born with the talent of shaping metal. They could listen to it and craft the most beautiful or useful things from the talent they were born with. Some crafted gold, others iron, but all of them carried the same last name of Smith.”
Those were child stories, though. Old wives tales that children listened to with their tales of knights and swords and dragons and witches. They were boys, perhaps above average men, perhaps something more, but nothing more than boys.
I taught them stamina through running, crawling, repairing their rifles, hiding, cleaning their uniforms, and routine. There was no honor in snipers, but there was always some honor in routine even though I could tell from the look in their eyes that they thought it was petty. Perhaps it was, but we were not murderers; we were men that fought for the Gaudlund and what it meant, even if we were deemed godless and there would be secret words told behind our backs.
The old rifles I trained them with, which I were told were Frauben long rifles, far from the best. They had the technology of being bolt-action at a time when the technology was too new and when the bullets were fired with a pin hammer that would always get too dirty too quickly or snap away when it was used too hard. The spyglass sights we were given were caked with bits of rust and where there was no rust there were stains of mud. It was the weight that was the worst; twenty-pound machines that I trained them to carry through hills and fields and rain and snow and exhaustion. I carried one always, but I was older, and there were times I had to carry the children with me. The machine sometimes felt lighter perhaps because of my age, though it may have also been because I could feel vigor come with me as I learned to travel with the machine on my back, the sound of its rattling bits playing music to me as I would march orders to them.
When we did not loathe carrying them, the rifles were at least fascinating, and I taught them much on how to clean them which may have been one of the few things I enjoyed. They bore a simple complexity that was not unlike the bicycle I left home, combined with a fragile firing system that was as intricate as it was beautiful. Unfortunately, it was also harsh.
The first time using the long rifles was a difficult time, as I recall. Between the cleaning, I remember Herman standing up to complain to me how he thought the rifles were no good. I told him there was nothing else to be done about it, but he said he could not use a rifle like this easily. I asked him why and he answered me as he began to stroke his fingers against the barrel.
“The metal is old and cramped. The barrel is complaining to me about how poorly treated it has been and the pin tells me that it can not work with so much pressure in it. Even the scope tells me it was been mistreated and that it can only cry of rust.”
I told Herman to accept it and gave him duty cleaning the mess hall. Although I understood his words, they were words that meant little for all the rifles were the same. Queerer still was that he said the metal complained. I laughed at the thought, though it reminded me to clean my Frauben’s barrel.
Herman was a strange one. His past records stated that he was a blacksmith’s son who was conscripted because of his strong body and young age. He was bright and mentally fit, though he had never had an education outside of working a blacksmith’s son. His record in marksmanship was considered exceptional even though he said he had no history using rifles or muskets, which was also strange. His family traded in metal or lived off of what they grew. Herman was the strangest of the eight handed to me, and this may have been why he also was the one that greeted me with the strangest tale of them all.
It was during our third training with the Fraubens, lying on the grassy floor of the firing range aiming at paper targets held up with blocks of straw and a clay cliff. Every so often, someone would stop partway through because someone would break the pin-hammer of their rifle, or they would fail to fire their bullet properly, or the bullet would misfire. Herman was that only one of eight, no, nine for I was with them; he fired all his shots and then sat up, clutching the long rifle butt-down, and pressing the hot barrel against his face while the rest of us tried to remember how to dissemble our rifles or put them back together again. It was strange, but expected for I had seen him do this before.
I sat up and watched him before I stood, and approached, the firing pin of my rifle still held between my lips. “That gun of yours was the best of the pile.” I told him.
In response, Herman stood up and offered the rifle to me and then said, “It is no different from yours, sir.” Then he sat down again and looked at the machine with an expression like that of a child reading to his class.
I looked at the rifle and found nothing different about it. The inside of the hammer looked no different, but I took it anyway and loaded a fresh bullet into the barrel and aimed before I pulled the trigger and heard the sound of the pin snap in half.
Herman stood up and then said, “Sir, you must listen to the sound of the gun.”
Ridiculous, I thought, but I decided it would be best to humor the boy.
“The sound?”
Herman nodded and then looked at the others who were either still firing or repairing their weapon. “If you keep your ear close to the barrel then you will hear something. Even in the bullets, there is a sound you can hear, sometimes feel if you pay enough attention.”
Sergeant Poole
I was placed in charge of Squad 13 of the 213 Company, a sergeant behind a group of snipers. My officer training was from years back. My father was a war hero during the war of the Gaudlund-Dermank disputes, a veteran war hero although it was a war that was lost. He told me his tales as a chevalier, one of the elite men who wore beautiful polished armor and wielded dragon rifles that breathed fire and lead. The chevalier was the knight of the new world. At night in the living room, he would brag to me and my brothers of the times he had escaped death and saved his fellow men, and wondered when I too would possibly become a great chevalier, and perhaps more. I was, after all, his oldest even though I was still barely even old enough to graduate from the academy.
I did not think that I would have followed his wishes. My riding skills were poor and my aim terrible on horse. On my spare time, in Chattenburg where we lived, I tinkered with bikes, and worked with small steam engines, and read books on clock making. My instructors in the university often praised me for my knowledge of mechanics and were surprised when I told them of my wishes to become a chevalier.
“Dear boy,” they would usually say “a man like you would see more use building artillery or designing firearms.”
They were right. My knowledge, quick eyes, and nimble hands had made me an officer a unit of snipers instead. Of course, it was a disappointment to the family, and most of all to my father.
To his eyes, the sniper was nothing more than an assassin, a rude creature that hid in his hole to pick off the unwary like a wolf spider. Some of the tales he had told me of his past told of their kind, and how they used their rifles to murder the most honorable of men without a chance to even battle them in a fair fight.
“They would take the most recognized of men,” he told me “and stab their beautiful chests of polished iron and bronze and gold and kill them in the fog of war, and never would we have a chance for revenge as they would often hide among the other common dogs. They are the lowest of men, the most despicable, the hateful and godless.”
I never could tell my father what I was, even though I did tell him that I could not be a chevalier. He thought it was still a chance to show my patriotism and win back what the Dermanki stole from our mother country. After I told him this, I used my bike to reach a church and told Pastor Neits about my sins in the quiet darkness of the church.
“My son,” he told me “you will not be godless unless you refuse to believe him.”
Immediately, I asked with fear for some redemption “But then why must I disappoint my father and be the very thing he hates?”
“Perhaps you are to be a hero in some other small way. God works his miracles in many mysterious ways.”
Perhaps it was to be. Thirteen was a lucky number, and they said that our snipers were lucky. Sergeant Mogul said we had the devil working behind every shot we had. Perhaps it was both, or perhaps just one.
They were mostly boys, conscripted from the parts of Gaudlund that never knew much of the war then, save that we lost it. They were all named Smith, and every one of them was recognized for their marksmanship.
When I was a child, my governess told me about the Smith name. It was when I was too short to be able to reach the door, on a winter night when the fireplace was filled with wood and the windows were covered in red silk that gave off shadows “In the ancient times,” she told me with whispers “there were those that worshipped gods of all forms. Some worshiped the trees, the sky, the fields, and of course, the sons of the true god.” I could even remember how she would take a dramatic tone to her voice when she also said, “But among them were also the sons of metal, who were born with the talent of shaping metal. They could listen to it and craft the most beautiful or useful things from the talent they were born with. Some crafted gold, others iron, but all of them carried the same last name of Smith.”
Those were child stories, though. Old wives tales that children listened to with their tales of knights and swords and dragons and witches. They were boys, perhaps above average men, perhaps something more, but nothing more than boys.
I taught them stamina through running, crawling, repairing their rifles, hiding, cleaning their uniforms, and routine. There was no honor in snipers, but there was always some honor in routine even though I could tell from the look in their eyes that they thought it was petty. Perhaps it was, but we were not murderers; we were men that fought for the Gaudlund and what it meant, even if we were deemed godless and there would be secret words told behind our backs.
The old rifles I trained them with, which I were told were Frauben long rifles, far from the best. They had the technology of being bolt-action at a time when the technology was too new and when the bullets were fired with a pin hammer that would always get too dirty too quickly or snap away when it was used too hard. The spyglass sights we were given were caked with bits of rust and where there was no rust there were stains of mud. It was the weight that was the worst; twenty-pound machines that I trained them to carry through hills and fields and rain and snow and exhaustion. I carried one always, but I was older, and there were times I had to carry the children with me. The machine sometimes felt lighter perhaps because of my age, though it may have also been because I could feel vigor come with me as I learned to travel with the machine on my back, the sound of its rattling bits playing music to me as I would march orders to them.
When we did not loathe carrying them, the rifles were at least fascinating, and I taught them much on how to clean them which may have been one of the few things I enjoyed. They bore a simple complexity that was not unlike the bicycle I left home, combined with a fragile firing system that was as intricate as it was beautiful. Unfortunately, it was also harsh.
The first time using the long rifles was a difficult time, as I recall. Between the cleaning, I remember Herman standing up to complain to me how he thought the rifles were no good. I told him there was nothing else to be done about it, but he said he could not use a rifle like this easily. I asked him why and he answered me as he began to stroke his fingers against the barrel.
“The metal is old and cramped. The barrel is complaining to me about how poorly treated it has been and the pin tells me that it can not work with so much pressure in it. Even the scope tells me it was been mistreated and that it can only cry of rust.”
I told Herman to accept it and gave him duty cleaning the mess hall. Although I understood his words, they were words that meant little for all the rifles were the same. Queerer still was that he said the metal complained. I laughed at the thought, though it reminded me to clean my Frauben’s barrel.
Herman was a strange one. His past records stated that he was a blacksmith’s son who was conscripted because of his strong body and young age. He was bright and mentally fit, though he had never had an education outside of working a blacksmith’s son. His record in marksmanship was considered exceptional even though he said he had no history using rifles or muskets, which was also strange. His family traded in metal or lived off of what they grew. Herman was the strangest of the eight handed to me, and this may have been why he also was the one that greeted me with the strangest tale of them all.
It was during our third training with the Fraubens, lying on the grassy floor of the firing range aiming at paper targets held up with blocks of straw and a clay cliff. Every so often, someone would stop partway through because someone would break the pin-hammer of their rifle, or they would fail to fire their bullet properly, or the bullet would misfire. Herman was that only one of eight, no, nine for I was with them; he fired all his shots and then sat up, clutching the long rifle butt-down, and pressing the hot barrel against his face while the rest of us tried to remember how to dissemble our rifles or put them back together again. It was strange, but expected for I had seen him do this before.
I sat up and watched him before I stood, and approached, the firing pin of my rifle still held between my lips. “That gun of yours was the best of the pile.” I told him.
In response, Herman stood up and offered the rifle to me and then said, “It is no different from yours, sir.” Then he sat down again and looked at the machine with an expression like that of a child reading to his class.
I looked at the rifle and found nothing different about it. The inside of the hammer looked no different, but I took it anyway and loaded a fresh bullet into the barrel and aimed before I pulled the trigger and heard the sound of the pin snap in half.
Herman stood up and then said, “Sir, you must listen to the sound of the gun.”
Ridiculous, I thought, but I decided it would be best to humor the boy.
“The sound?”
Herman nodded and then looked at the others who were either still firing or repairing their weapon. “If you keep your ear close to the barrel then you will hear something. Even in the bullets, there is a sound you can hear, sometimes feel if you pay enough attention.”
