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metamorphosis2010-02-25 06:53 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-02-25 06:53 pm
Entry tags:
37;
Title: An Account of the Battle of Mons
Characters: France, England, Belgium
Rating: PG
846 words.
Notes: The battle is, in fact, the Battle of Mons. It stretched over a three day period and was the first major battle of the World War. It encompassed the Battle of Sambre (the French retreated), the Battle of Mons (a lovely city that used to be fortified up til Belgium's independence; the British fought here and stood up pretty well for outnumbered kin), and the Battle of Le Chateau (where, yes, the BEF aka the British Expeditionary Forces had 8000 casualties). The French army and the BEF had planned to meet at Charleroi... And yes, the lord's name was in fact Kitchener and he ordered Commander French of the BEF to stay in touch with the French army, commanded by Lanrezac, while they were retreating to the Marne River.
It's another day of writing for her. France left an hour or two ago, so she assumes he'll be back. And of course, he is. The door slams closed and Belgium looks up from her spot on ground, busy writing a letter. France grimaces and shakes his head – no fresh materials today, she interprets – so she slides away the almost empty inkwell and nearly filled papers. They rest for a moment, just staring at each other, before she smiles half-heartedly and shrugs her shoulders.
“You said you were in a battle before you got captured, right Frankrijk?”
“Oui.”
“Tell me about it.”
He purses his lips, sits down next to her, and pulls her close to tell.
It was fine weather, France had thought while sitting at his villa, sipping his wine. Very fine weather. From the sound of it though, from England’s urgent message, the fine weather was turning for the worse in a figurative sense. The German army was marching through Belgium. English forces had arrived August 14th, England amoung them, and too politely he requested his longtime enemy’s help in defending against the army. France had smiled to himself, replied he’d be there as soon as the armies could converge, and was now sitting on his porch sipping wine as if there wasn’t a war on his doorstep. He was worried, of course, but the wine ebbed away the edge of fear.
He had stood up, had stepped off his porch, wine glass in hand, and had marched to find the Fifth Regiment ready for battle. At Sambre, they were attacked, retreated, and followed by German forces. France had gone with the retreating regiment, and only too late had he figured out they were leading the German forces to the British. The next part he had heard from England while in a ditch with guns blasting overhead and brave young men putting their lives on the line for their countries.
“There was a German Calvary patrol,” he started, “and so the commander thought it’d be best to draw back a little and plan for an attack. Of course his superiors warned him of the bloody numbers – I warned him of the bloody numbers, but he still went on. It was a really lovely day, you know? Real pretty. Loveliest day I’ve ever seen. I was just enjoying the day while helping to dig a bloody defensive position by that canal over there, the Mons, when bam, it started. I grinned when I saw my commander’s face drain white in the evening because I was right, we were outnumbered and outgunned but there’ve been rougher conflicts, I suppose, with less important wars – and don’t you interrupt me, Frog, if you want to actually hear what happened – but we put up a hell of a good fight, I think. Lots of bangs and booms and well-timed castanets. Puffed ourselves up like we were big and bad, we right did. And wouldn’t you know it? I saw Prussia out there in the battle, right entrenched I was, and I wonder whatever happened to that treaty he signed – that we all signed, I know France, now shut up, if you’d kindly – but that doesn’t matter now because there’s a bloody war starting and it’s all that damn Serb’s fault and whatever and ever and amen.”
Then England had glared at him, shoved him away, and almost shouted, “And you left us! You and your bloody army left my troops defenseless against a powerful German army, while knowing we’d have to retreat like a bunch of wusses and you know what? The break didn’t stop there because, as you know, the rearguard got attacked and I lost eight thousand able men at Le Chateau - eight thousand, Francis! – and why? Because bloody Lord Kitchener wanted me to keep in touch with you and that’s why I’m stuck here in a bloody ditch with you of all people!”
France had sighed, pulled him close, and told him to enjoy the Marne while he could. It was a pretty river, it was a lovely day, and not even the deafening shots could ruin the perfect moment they had. England snarled, shoved him away once more, and told him that he either shut his trap or he’d get a medic over here to clean the wounds he’d inflict.
Listening to France always made her sleepy – especially when he mocked England's accent – and hearing about Mons and Le Chateau made her wince. Cities that used to be fortified, that used to be safe havens, now ravaged and invaded and who know what else the Germans had done? It made her sick.
So she heaves up whatever she had for dinner – it looks like something special, France thinks – and curls up in the corner, pain wracking her body. It couldn't be easy feeling every citizen screaming and crying out, he thinks, and wraps his arms around her.
Poor girl. Still so young.
Characters: France, England, Belgium
Rating: PG
846 words.
Notes: The battle is, in fact, the Battle of Mons. It stretched over a three day period and was the first major battle of the World War. It encompassed the Battle of Sambre (the French retreated), the Battle of Mons (a lovely city that used to be fortified up til Belgium's independence; the British fought here and stood up pretty well for outnumbered kin), and the Battle of Le Chateau (where, yes, the BEF aka the British Expeditionary Forces had 8000 casualties). The French army and the BEF had planned to meet at Charleroi... And yes, the lord's name was in fact Kitchener and he ordered Commander French of the BEF to stay in touch with the French army, commanded by Lanrezac, while they were retreating to the Marne River.
It's another day of writing for her. France left an hour or two ago, so she assumes he'll be back. And of course, he is. The door slams closed and Belgium looks up from her spot on ground, busy writing a letter. France grimaces and shakes his head – no fresh materials today, she interprets – so she slides away the almost empty inkwell and nearly filled papers. They rest for a moment, just staring at each other, before she smiles half-heartedly and shrugs her shoulders.
“You said you were in a battle before you got captured, right Frankrijk?”
“Oui.”
“Tell me about it.”
He purses his lips, sits down next to her, and pulls her close to tell.
It was fine weather, France had thought while sitting at his villa, sipping his wine. Very fine weather. From the sound of it though, from England’s urgent message, the fine weather was turning for the worse in a figurative sense. The German army was marching through Belgium. English forces had arrived August 14th, England amoung them, and too politely he requested his longtime enemy’s help in defending against the army. France had smiled to himself, replied he’d be there as soon as the armies could converge, and was now sitting on his porch sipping wine as if there wasn’t a war on his doorstep. He was worried, of course, but the wine ebbed away the edge of fear.
He had stood up, had stepped off his porch, wine glass in hand, and had marched to find the Fifth Regiment ready for battle. At Sambre, they were attacked, retreated, and followed by German forces. France had gone with the retreating regiment, and only too late had he figured out they were leading the German forces to the British. The next part he had heard from England while in a ditch with guns blasting overhead and brave young men putting their lives on the line for their countries.
“There was a German Calvary patrol,” he started, “and so the commander thought it’d be best to draw back a little and plan for an attack. Of course his superiors warned him of the bloody numbers – I warned him of the bloody numbers, but he still went on. It was a really lovely day, you know? Real pretty. Loveliest day I’ve ever seen. I was just enjoying the day while helping to dig a bloody defensive position by that canal over there, the Mons, when bam, it started. I grinned when I saw my commander’s face drain white in the evening because I was right, we were outnumbered and outgunned but there’ve been rougher conflicts, I suppose, with less important wars – and don’t you interrupt me, Frog, if you want to actually hear what happened – but we put up a hell of a good fight, I think. Lots of bangs and booms and well-timed castanets. Puffed ourselves up like we were big and bad, we right did. And wouldn’t you know it? I saw Prussia out there in the battle, right entrenched I was, and I wonder whatever happened to that treaty he signed – that we all signed, I know France, now shut up, if you’d kindly – but that doesn’t matter now because there’s a bloody war starting and it’s all that damn Serb’s fault and whatever and ever and amen.”
Then England had glared at him, shoved him away, and almost shouted, “And you left us! You and your bloody army left my troops defenseless against a powerful German army, while knowing we’d have to retreat like a bunch of wusses and you know what? The break didn’t stop there because, as you know, the rearguard got attacked and I lost eight thousand able men at Le Chateau - eight thousand, Francis! – and why? Because bloody Lord Kitchener wanted me to keep in touch with you and that’s why I’m stuck here in a bloody ditch with you of all people!”
France had sighed, pulled him close, and told him to enjoy the Marne while he could. It was a pretty river, it was a lovely day, and not even the deafening shots could ruin the perfect moment they had. England snarled, shoved him away once more, and told him that he either shut his trap or he’d get a medic over here to clean the wounds he’d inflict.
Listening to France always made her sleepy – especially when he mocked England's accent – and hearing about Mons and Le Chateau made her wince. Cities that used to be fortified, that used to be safe havens, now ravaged and invaded and who know what else the Germans had done? It made her sick.
So she heaves up whatever she had for dinner – it looks like something special, France thinks – and curls up in the corner, pain wracking her body. It couldn't be easy feeling every citizen screaming and crying out, he thinks, and wraps his arms around her.
Poor girl. Still so young.