Old School

So, I found this in my "Incomplete" folder. It's something I started as part of a creative writing project back when I was living in England. I never finished it, and I probably never will. I think my motivation was to try to write from the perspective of someone who's usually the antagonist, and make the reader want the "bad guy" to win. I think it would have worked, but I dropped it to start working on my (eventual) novel. Which, I might just throw in right now, has undergone several drastic revisions to date. Anyways.

It's just interesting to see where I was with my writing five years ago. Jesus. Has it been that long? Enjoy! Or not. It's posterity.

Für das Vaterland

CREW 304

January 25, 2006

If God had a mind to give man a preview of what he should expect in the afterlife for punishment of his mortal indulgences, then I have found it—and it is called El Kafla, Tunisia. I have been stationed here for nearly two weeks now, and the endless desert and barren hills of yellow sand are as close to any hell as I can imagine. As though destined for an eternity of penance here, I can not yet look forward to the green pines and coursing valleys and mountains of my Bavaria for several years to come. Man was not made for such places as these—places suitable only for the irritable camels and prophetic vultures by which we are harassed daily. Our heroic defeat at El Alamein—I term it thusly, for though we were outnumbered two to one, and in possession of far inferior equipment than those forces of Montgomery, we managed to inflict massive casualties—we have been forced to retreat to this godforsaken valley. Although we were able to take out over three-fourths of the 9^th Brigade with our artillery crews, we are still outnumbered and in desperate need of supplies.

It is now the sixth of December, and we arrived here late upon the twenty-seventh of November. Our tanks were damaged badly in the retreat, and I fear that, optimistically, we have no more than two-hundred operational tanks; at least one hundred and fifty were lost in the battle at El Alamein, and another fifty or so in the retreat here. Our forces have been reduced from one-hundred ten-thousand to a meagre forty-thousand; we face an enemy with at least one-hundred thirty-thousand men; men who are well equipped, rested, and with high morale. Our supply lines have been cut, and there is little hope for reinforcement from the Fatherland. Our orders are to hold fast to the last man. I cannot agree with this directive; we currently guard a useless valley in the middle of Gafsa and Skhira—what good would come from spilling precious German blood in this trackless land, with only the damnable goat herders and roaming caravans to commemorate our loss? With only eighty Panzer IVs, twenty two Tiger Is, and one hundred of the infernal Italian M13s, we are poorly matched for Montgomery’s arsenal of Sherman’s. Never did I suspect the Wermacht would fall prey to Shermans, but this is the day.

As I write this, my men are outside hastily preparing a rudimentary line of fortification beyond the camp perimeter. We have established our artillery pieces—there being thirty-seven 88 millimetre canons in total—on a cliff above the encampment. These should afford us some little cover against a direct attack. Beyond this, there is little else we can do save wait for a salvation which seems destined not to come. Our supplies will last us, with rationing, for perhaps another two weeks, at which time we will be forced to move. I pray that some decisive action occurs before this time, and will spare me the decision of moving us out again into an exposed position in open terrain. There are no friendly bases for another hundred miles, and we haven’t the petrol to consider engaging such a distance. We would be forced to abandon and destroy our equipment. Lurking beyond the vast, desolate expanse of my tent flap, I know Montgomery is out there waiting for me to make my move. I hear rumblings of engines when the air is still, and catch glimpses of the outlines of tanks on the horizon. Perhaps this is my imagination. Perhaps these are only mirages, brought on by the desperate nature of our situation. I cannot say. I feel certain that, whatever our numbers or equipment, if Montgomery decides to test our resolve, he will find the spirit of every German in this camp ready and eager to prove its fealty to the Fatherland. There is no heart like that of a German, and by God we will not fail.