Post by GuardsGhost on Nov 20, 2014 15:00:25 GMT -5
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
-Randall Jarrell
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Vasil Makep relished his life at that moment.
He was seated in the back of a two person bomber bi-plane, the canvas wings rippling gently with the breeze as they flew high above in the blue sky. He was dressed in the khaki fatigues of his army, along with a red star emblazoned over the left side of his shirt. Over the shirt, he wore a leather pilots jacket, and the strands of blonde hair were concealed by his leather pilots cap. Blue eyes peered out at the clouds from behind grimy flight goggles, and his lips twisted into a smile.
He leaned back into his seat, reaching up into the sky. As the wind whipped his gloved fingers, he remembered where he was and let his hand drop. It fell into one of his pockets, and he removed the medal he had recently been awarded from it. He examined the ribbon and pin, and then shifted it onto his shirt, smiling slightly.
He was not in heaven. He was not an angel. Most angels weren't sitting down with belts of ammunition draped over their lap, and they certainly were not manning a machine gun as they flew. The short, stocky barrel of the gun protruded out of his plane. All he'd have to do was reach over and grab those handles, and then, instead of pressing a trigger, he'd press down on the buttons on the top of them. The gun would fire, and keep firing until he let go or ran out of ammunition. At the thought, his excitement grew. For in truth, he was still a boy. And had a boys heart. He had turned nineteen just that year, three years into the civil war that had ravaged the land. He had spent the year prior to that learning the mechanisms of an aircraft in a Peoples Flight Camp, and now, he was here.
He grabbed the handles of his machine gun, turning it up a bit to look up at the sky, and then back down. He swiveled it from side to side. He didn't have the best of angles, but it was better than some.
He let go of the machine guns handles, coughing into a closed fist when his pilots voice came from in front of him. There was no radio, so the man had to shout to be heard.
"Twenty minutes! We're good so far Vasil!"
Vasil laughed, calling back his affirmative. Jaken, his pilot was a good man. Two years older than him, he had been fighting from the beginning of the civil war as a pilot, and Vasil idolized him like an older brother.
Twenty minutes went by far too quickly.
Vasil was jerked a bit forward, pressing himself back into his seat as their plane began a dive. They descended through a cloud, rain drops slapping against them as they charged through the cloud at a seemingly suicidal pace.
They emerged from the clouds, along with the dozen other planes of his squad in formation. One of the gunners in the other planes waved at Vasil, and Vasil waved back. They pumped their fists at each other and wordlessly shouted, anything they said would have been drowned out by the roaring wind anyway. Like this, the men of Vasil's squad descended straight from the heavens into a scene many would consider equivalent to Hell.
Flak burst in the air around them, black smoke expanding in the blue sky. Below them, two great behemoths did battle; airships. Their cannons roared as they circled around each other, giving it their all to take the other down from the sky. One was emblazoned with the white, winged skull with a crown of the Royalist Air Force, and the other with the defiant Red Star of the Peoples Movement. Smaller dots zipped around them, flies to a hippo, seeking shelter. Some of them peeled off, disappearing forever towards the ground after being on the losing end of that dance. Vasil could not see this, he was focused on the sky behind him. That is where the enemy he was to fight would come from.
As they descended, one of the planes to Jaken and Vasils right suddenly burst into flames as it dived, peeling off to the side and going into an uncontrollable spiral. Vasils eyes widened behind his flight goggles as he watched the pilot stand up, desperately trying to fight off the flames. The gunner looked behind him, weighing his options for three seconds. The other gunner turned, looking at Vasil. There was a moment where the two gunners seemed to lock eyes across the distance, and, although Vasil could have been imagining it, he seemed to nod at him. The man then removed his revolver, leaning over to the Pilots seat and shooting his Pilot, then turning the revolver upon himself. Vasil had to look away as the mens plane continued its downward spiral.
The young man shuddered a bit, and then vaguely heard Jakens shout. It was enough to draw his attention however, and his eyes followed the pilots pointing finger towards their target. He saw it soon enough, two planes diving onto them. One of them broke off, diving on another plane of their squadron, starting that deadly dance. The other one however, came dead on at Vasil and Jakens plane, and Vasil scrambled for his machine guns handles, his breath reaching frantic heights behind his wool scarf as his chest heaved inside his uniform shirt.
The enemy dived ontop of them, beginning to fire. Vasil instinctively ducked as bullets tore through the canvas of his plane, or pinged off the steel rim of his pit. As the pilot came within his firing angle, he moved up his machine gun and with a shout, and pressed down on the buttons of the gun. It began to jerk in his hands as he fired back at the pilot, and for a few tense moments the two were firing at each other nearly head on.
Then, Vasils foe broke off from his charge, pulling away. Vasil followed him for as long as possible with his gun, practically screaming behind his scarf. The savage instinct had taken over to get revenge for the gunner who had been forced to do such a terrible thing, rather than leave his pilot and himself to the horror of a death in flames, and on a more personal note, on the man who had nearly killed him. Bullets ripped through the Royalists plane, and it began to careen away. Vasil followed its descent, a sinking feeling arriving in his gut as the man didn't pull back up and slowly disappeared from his sight.
He sat back down in his chair, heart pumping. Before he could think too long on what he did, a sharp pain suddenly hit him in the gut, and he glanced down. His eyes went even wider than he thought they could. Blood was seeping into his cockpit, and as he ran his fingers over his jacket, he found multiple rips and tears in it. The boy leaned his head back against his seat, letting out a groan of pain. The dive continued, and he began to feel the wetness soaking through his pants and shirt completely.
Jaken began to shout something, but Vasil could no longer hear him. He glanced to his left however.
It was the last thing he could do as the cloud of flak enveloped their plane.
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The squad of soldiers moved through the ruins of the town outside the city, their rifles in their hands. They were wearing civilian clothing, with green armbands. One of the men stepped over a snapped off wing, calling over to his companions. He fixed his flat cap, and a bandana was wrapped around his lower face. The other men of his unit came jogging over, and one of them looked away retching.
The man who had called them over, Peter; was older and more experienced than his companions, but even he had to make the sign of their faith at this, unnerved slightly.
Infront of them were the ruins of a Red Army two seater bomber, burnt and scorched almost beyond recognition. The pilot had left seemingly no remains, and the only indication of the gunner was a mass of ruined flesh that had once been a body. Peter walked over to it, sighing slightly as he began to push what was left of the gunners jacket off of him so he could look through his pockets for any possible documentation. He paused at the medal, picking it off of the mans shirt and looking over it, before tossing it to the dirt with a shrug.
Sirens began to wail throughout the city again, and one of the men called over to him. "The Reds and Royalists are going at it again, let's go."
Peter nodded, clambering away from the ruined plane and its personnel, moving through the rubble of a city in flames.
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
-Randall Jarrell
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vasil Makep relished his life at that moment.
He was seated in the back of a two person bomber bi-plane, the canvas wings rippling gently with the breeze as they flew high above in the blue sky. He was dressed in the khaki fatigues of his army, along with a red star emblazoned over the left side of his shirt. Over the shirt, he wore a leather pilots jacket, and the strands of blonde hair were concealed by his leather pilots cap. Blue eyes peered out at the clouds from behind grimy flight goggles, and his lips twisted into a smile.
He leaned back into his seat, reaching up into the sky. As the wind whipped his gloved fingers, he remembered where he was and let his hand drop. It fell into one of his pockets, and he removed the medal he had recently been awarded from it. He examined the ribbon and pin, and then shifted it onto his shirt, smiling slightly.
He was not in heaven. He was not an angel. Most angels weren't sitting down with belts of ammunition draped over their lap, and they certainly were not manning a machine gun as they flew. The short, stocky barrel of the gun protruded out of his plane. All he'd have to do was reach over and grab those handles, and then, instead of pressing a trigger, he'd press down on the buttons on the top of them. The gun would fire, and keep firing until he let go or ran out of ammunition. At the thought, his excitement grew. For in truth, he was still a boy. And had a boys heart. He had turned nineteen just that year, three years into the civil war that had ravaged the land. He had spent the year prior to that learning the mechanisms of an aircraft in a Peoples Flight Camp, and now, he was here.
He grabbed the handles of his machine gun, turning it up a bit to look up at the sky, and then back down. He swiveled it from side to side. He didn't have the best of angles, but it was better than some.
He let go of the machine guns handles, coughing into a closed fist when his pilots voice came from in front of him. There was no radio, so the man had to shout to be heard.
"Twenty minutes! We're good so far Vasil!"
Vasil laughed, calling back his affirmative. Jaken, his pilot was a good man. Two years older than him, he had been fighting from the beginning of the civil war as a pilot, and Vasil idolized him like an older brother.
Twenty minutes went by far too quickly.
Vasil was jerked a bit forward, pressing himself back into his seat as their plane began a dive. They descended through a cloud, rain drops slapping against them as they charged through the cloud at a seemingly suicidal pace.
They emerged from the clouds, along with the dozen other planes of his squad in formation. One of the gunners in the other planes waved at Vasil, and Vasil waved back. They pumped their fists at each other and wordlessly shouted, anything they said would have been drowned out by the roaring wind anyway. Like this, the men of Vasil's squad descended straight from the heavens into a scene many would consider equivalent to Hell.
Flak burst in the air around them, black smoke expanding in the blue sky. Below them, two great behemoths did battle; airships. Their cannons roared as they circled around each other, giving it their all to take the other down from the sky. One was emblazoned with the white, winged skull with a crown of the Royalist Air Force, and the other with the defiant Red Star of the Peoples Movement. Smaller dots zipped around them, flies to a hippo, seeking shelter. Some of them peeled off, disappearing forever towards the ground after being on the losing end of that dance. Vasil could not see this, he was focused on the sky behind him. That is where the enemy he was to fight would come from.
As they descended, one of the planes to Jaken and Vasils right suddenly burst into flames as it dived, peeling off to the side and going into an uncontrollable spiral. Vasils eyes widened behind his flight goggles as he watched the pilot stand up, desperately trying to fight off the flames. The gunner looked behind him, weighing his options for three seconds. The other gunner turned, looking at Vasil. There was a moment where the two gunners seemed to lock eyes across the distance, and, although Vasil could have been imagining it, he seemed to nod at him. The man then removed his revolver, leaning over to the Pilots seat and shooting his Pilot, then turning the revolver upon himself. Vasil had to look away as the mens plane continued its downward spiral.
The young man shuddered a bit, and then vaguely heard Jakens shout. It was enough to draw his attention however, and his eyes followed the pilots pointing finger towards their target. He saw it soon enough, two planes diving onto them. One of them broke off, diving on another plane of their squadron, starting that deadly dance. The other one however, came dead on at Vasil and Jakens plane, and Vasil scrambled for his machine guns handles, his breath reaching frantic heights behind his wool scarf as his chest heaved inside his uniform shirt.
The enemy dived ontop of them, beginning to fire. Vasil instinctively ducked as bullets tore through the canvas of his plane, or pinged off the steel rim of his pit. As the pilot came within his firing angle, he moved up his machine gun and with a shout, and pressed down on the buttons of the gun. It began to jerk in his hands as he fired back at the pilot, and for a few tense moments the two were firing at each other nearly head on.
Then, Vasils foe broke off from his charge, pulling away. Vasil followed him for as long as possible with his gun, practically screaming behind his scarf. The savage instinct had taken over to get revenge for the gunner who had been forced to do such a terrible thing, rather than leave his pilot and himself to the horror of a death in flames, and on a more personal note, on the man who had nearly killed him. Bullets ripped through the Royalists plane, and it began to careen away. Vasil followed its descent, a sinking feeling arriving in his gut as the man didn't pull back up and slowly disappeared from his sight.
He sat back down in his chair, heart pumping. Before he could think too long on what he did, a sharp pain suddenly hit him in the gut, and he glanced down. His eyes went even wider than he thought they could. Blood was seeping into his cockpit, and as he ran his fingers over his jacket, he found multiple rips and tears in it. The boy leaned his head back against his seat, letting out a groan of pain. The dive continued, and he began to feel the wetness soaking through his pants and shirt completely.
Jaken began to shout something, but Vasil could no longer hear him. He glanced to his left however.
It was the last thing he could do as the cloud of flak enveloped their plane.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The squad of soldiers moved through the ruins of the town outside the city, their rifles in their hands. They were wearing civilian clothing, with green armbands. One of the men stepped over a snapped off wing, calling over to his companions. He fixed his flat cap, and a bandana was wrapped around his lower face. The other men of his unit came jogging over, and one of them looked away retching.
The man who had called them over, Peter; was older and more experienced than his companions, but even he had to make the sign of their faith at this, unnerved slightly.
Infront of them were the ruins of a Red Army two seater bomber, burnt and scorched almost beyond recognition. The pilot had left seemingly no remains, and the only indication of the gunner was a mass of ruined flesh that had once been a body. Peter walked over to it, sighing slightly as he began to push what was left of the gunners jacket off of him so he could look through his pockets for any possible documentation. He paused at the medal, picking it off of the mans shirt and looking over it, before tossing it to the dirt with a shrug.
Sirens began to wail throughout the city again, and one of the men called over to him. "The Reds and Royalists are going at it again, let's go."
Peter nodded, clambering away from the ruined plane and its personnel, moving through the rubble of a city in flames.