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What If Tales: The United Nations by Jin1

What If Tales: The United Nations [Part One]
Date: 3 June 2008, 3:09 am

1944, July 6th

      Never thought this would happen. His mind spoke, echoed his thoughts to him, he wanted to speak, but no words came. I never thought that this war would turn for the worse in a blink of an eye.

      They were the goddamn Allies; they were the good guys, right?

      An explosion rocked the convoy, there were screams, and he sat there, fetal position rocking back and forth. The M1 Garand at his side lying uselessly on the ground, the mud road leading towards Paris was pocketed with destroyed vehicles, rubble and bodies.

      So many bodies.

      Near the road were two ditches, one on each side, that's where the survivors hid, cowering in fear, others were the real soldiers. They raised their weapons, fired into the night, firing at the shadows that fired the bluish blobs at them.

      Why was he here?

      He translated French and Russian intelligence papers, why in the hell was he here?

      A rough hand grabbed him, yanking him to his feet. "What the hell are you doing?" His collar of his shirt was high in the air, he couldn't move. He looked into the eyes of the man; they were a pale green in the light from the fires.

      "Damn coward!"

      His eyes widened as he was shoved backward, he hit the steep walls of the embankment and slid down to the ground.

      He stared at the man, there were silhouette behind him. They stood on the grassy field beyond the ditch, above them. They were a few meters, advancing. From the shapes, he could tell, they weren't human.

      Pointing, he wanted to yell, scream for the man to turn around. But the man focused on another man who was in the same fearful position as he was. His heart raced, eyes continued to widen, he tried to drag himself backward only to feel cold dirt behind him.

      His voice broke into a squeak, they were only feet away, and they loomed above them. "Look-"

      The soldier turned, how could he not have noticed? The man froze; the biggest shadow pointed down its odd looking weapon, didn't seem to aim and fired. The courageous soldier reeled back, another blue blob splash onto the man's chest he stumbled, was standing right over him, and back facing him. He shielded his head; another bolt and the man fell and right on top him.

      The smaller silhouettes saw there much leader easily dispatch their new foes and unleashed their own little taste of death.

      It –the smell- reminded him of charcoal as his fellow soldiers burned. Yells and screams echoed into the night.

      A stinging sensation hit his eyes.

      What did he do to deserve this?

      Why was this happening?

      Why did he have to live through Armageddon?


1944, July 7th

      Light trickled in from the sky; the dark clouds had begun to part letting in bits of sun that warmed Jackson's skin. It was a pleasant feeling but it was overwhelmed by the smell of decaying flesh. He had smelled it before and had gotten used to ignoring it, pushing it to the recesses of his mind.

      His brown eyes scanned the scene before him, his squad held position on top of hill overlooking a tightly packed dirt road. He saw every type of vehicle imaginable there, tanks, trucks, jeeps, motorcycles to civilian cars and bicycles. Dotted around the vehicles were the bodies, men, women and children lying in awkward angles making up the crimson carpet.

      Jackson's squad had been following the road for almost six miles, and the convoy, the evacuation convoy had been going on for all that length. But it wasn't as bad as it was here.

      Looking beyond the road he saw another set of hills, no trees, just rolling hills with green grass. The same exact thing as he was standing on, the hills overlooked the road, making this place a damn butchery. It was shooting fish in a barrel.

      "Sergeant." A voice spoke from behind him.

      Andrew turned looking down on a small man, diminutive in height but with a big stature. The man was wearing well worn olive drab uniform, his steel pot helmet fitting awkwardly on his skull, tilting to the left. Slung over his shoulder was a Garand.

      "Nothing's alive down there. Same as everywhere else." The Corporal said.

      "Did you go down there and check?"

      "No." He said, but quickly added. "Sergeant."

      Andrew found himself getting a solemn look on his face. "Let's go down and check it out. Tell Malone to keep watch on this hill. I'm not walking into a damn ambush." He added in his mind. Like these pour bastards did.

      A nod and the Corporal moved off to a small cluster of men that stood almost twenty yards away.

      It was strange, last night the whole place was a battle field, early this morning it just stopped. As if someone just hit a lights switch. Other than birds chirping and the sound of insects it was all quiet.

      Well enough alone.

      Jackson began to unslung his Thompson from his shoulder, his squad approached, idly chatting amongst themselves. They soon enveloped the sergeant, eleven in all, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malone farther up the hill, crouching next to a tree keeping watch. Best eyes of the whole team.

      The chatter silenced as Jackson began to speak. "Break off into teams, Able team will take the right side of the road, Baker, the left. I want Charlie team to split and check the trenches on each side of the road."

      "What exactly are we looking for?" Spoke a green-eyed man, his hair had flakes of gray. His helmet was by his side, dangling from his hands.

      "Survivors, Wilshire." He looked at them all. "We're looking for survivors."

      "No offense, Sarge but nothing survived that." Private Lewis said, he pointed down to the road. "I say we get back to Normandy and get evacuating with the rest of the allies."

      Jackson looked at the kid. "You have your orders, get to them."

      The squad dispersed, Jackson gazed up at Malone. Malone looked back down at him, Andrew nodded. And Malone nodded back. All clear.

      "Look at me, I was supposed to be in the damn Negro Leagues and look where I am today, searching through some bodies- well will you look at that."

      Reaching down Lewis grabbed a dead man's wrist and slipped off the watch with ease. "Still tickin'."

      The trenches were dusty, and had the highest concentration of dead. They seemed stacked, in some places they were four men high, mostly near the edges where men were trying to use their fellow soldiers to scramble out.

      Didn't work by the looks of it.

      "Hey, Poles, you find anything?"

      Lewis' partner turned, he stood further down the trench and filling his small brown gas-mask bag. Ever since the first strike, Poles never bothered using the gas-mask anymore. Threw it away, said it weighed him down.



      "Take a look."

      Lewis jogged forward, rifle in hand and saw what Poles was filling. Shaking his head with a bright smile he said. "You lucky bastard."

      It was crate turned on its side, packed in tightly with straw where glass bottles. Wine bottles. With his bag holding already three, Poles filled it by adding three more. "Have some, more than enough."

      Lewis didn't need to be told be twice, he automatically grabbed one.

      "Help…" The voice seemed to come out of nowhere. Poles snapped up, M9 Pistol, stolen from a dead Officer and Lewis raised his rifle towards the sound. There was only one thing moving, a body that its eyes stared up at the sky. The voice repeated its plea. "Please… Help…"

      "Doesn't sound like one of those things." Lewis said.

      Poles holstered his pistol and took off the gas mask bag. "Thank you Captain Obvious."

      Crouching, moving cautiously forward he gazed down the length of the trench, saw nothing, then behind him, back at Lewis and then back down the other end.

      Reaching the body he saw multiple burn marks, and the stench of decay filled his nose.

      The body grunted.

      He raised an eyebrow and saw something moving under it. Grabbing the dead man by the collar he threw him forward on to the ground, face first. The guy was heavy.

      Under it, he saw a man, brown hair, blue eyes staring at him. He stared back into the eyes, filled to the brim with fear. Not letting his eyes off the man, he shouted. "Sergeant! You better come see this!"

      Normandy was drenched with rain, cold water lapped the shores of the beach once designated Omaha. It reminded Colonel Timothy Howard of when the first and twenty-ninth infantry division stormed its shores, crammed with men, gunshots, screams and yells.

      They were receding back into the sea instead of going onto the land, Britain was safe and the country of France was not. He a prime view of the forces retreating, his little command tent was in a former German bunker; around him were a pair of operatives.

      Howard looked down, studying the map. The Office of Strategic Services had sent it to him a few days ago, and from what he was seeing right now everything was going to hell in a hand basket. Several allied sites were under full scale assault from these new beings.

      Paris was taken. Rome had fallen to these new beings, the map showed crimson streaks of enemy units. The photos that accompanied the map showed Rome in flames, burning to the ground. A city that the allies just walked into had been burned to a crisp.

      "Who are they?" He whispered. "What do they want?"

      Aging, born in 1896, he had served in the first war of nations and if that wasn't enough, inhaling gas, being shelled day after day. The good lord blessed him with another. This had caused the once handsome looking man to get a hair of pure silver, blue eyes full of life now dull.

      His face wrinkled at the corners of his mouth, his forehead creased with lines. Yet he still looked intimidating in his uniform, few medals and ribbons adorned his chest, but those that he chose to display were up there, a post humorous Distinguished Service Medal, and the same Distinguished Service Cross, and a pair of purple hearts. He rarely wore the others. A ribbon for shining his shoes in his opinion wasn't necessary.

      Howard waved one of aids over. "Son, what do you see here?"

      The young man seemed confused. "A map, sir."

      "I know that. On the map- you went to West Point. What do you see?"

      The boy squeezed his eyes into narrow slits as if trying to see an invisible object. "Well, sir, I see that the enemy forces have hit Rome, Paris, Moscow, Stalingrad, and Madrid."


      "But it's strange, sir."

      "How so?"

      "Well, look at this, when we were attacked, they struck from outside of the city, as if they want to take it." The boy looked up, staring outside. The skies were getting dark- storm perhaps?

      "But when we started the evacuation, when we knew what we were dealing with, they didn't bother for the city, the ignored it and pursued us until we reached Rouen." He pointed to the small city on the map. "Then our forward scouts report that Paris was burned to the ground. The enemy is utilizing some sky based weaponry."

      Howard couldn't see what the man was getting at, but let him continue.

      "Same thing with Rome and Moscow, once they take it, they destroy it. Sir, if I didn't know any better, they are destroying our major cities because we can rest and regroup. They are destroying our safe havens."

      Maybe the man was right, but he wasn't sure. Why? That was a question that he had continued to ask himself one minute after the other. "Why?"


      "Why destroy our cities and all the little towns in between?"

      "Well sir, 'destroy your enemy's home, and they will go without sleep- destroy his fields, he will have no food and destroy his people he have to fight without a soul, destroy all and he will have to fight without hope.'" The man replied.

      "Who said that?"

      "You did, sir, when you lectured at West Point. You called it War One-Oh-One." The aid replied. "They are killing civilians and POWs, destroying cities and towns for the simple fact that they want to break us."

      "Break who?"

      "The Allies, sir."

      "So I can effectively call this enemy force as declaring war on the allies?"

      There was a subtle nod. "I could only assume."

      Howard reached a hand up to his forehead and let it slide down his face. "I need to get a telegram back to London to OSS European Theater." He stood up sharply. "See if you can me a meeting with General Eisenhower. If this is true, we're in trouble."

      A lingering thought came to Howard's mind. Where were they going to strike next?

      The squad looked down at the survivor, who was sipping water from a canteen that Lewis had. They had taken position in the back of a supply truck, Jackson instructed able team to keep watch Malone. Jackson leaned against the vehicle behind the truck, and his squad fanned out in a small semicircle around him, except Corporal Greene who was squad medic. He sat next to the man, watching his movements. Ever since they found the guy he had been…

      On edge.

      "Where are you from?" Jackson asked, folding his arms across his chest.

      "First infantry division, twenty-fifth regiment. Tasked with helping with the evacuation with Paris."

      The Sergeant frowned looking at Poles and Lewis.

      Poles shrugged. "He was like this when we found him."

      Turning back to the man, Jackson continued. "The first infantry division was not tasked with evacuating."

      "They came from everywhere. Paris wasn't safe anymore. They came from the sky… The damn droning of their planes… Green lights… Blue lights… Purple lights… Their barks… The growls. They ate our men… Devoured them. The apes came… Killed our men, broke them. We ran. Freedom." The man's eyes glazed over but then refocused, focusing on Jackson.

      "Who are you?" The voice seemed to be normal. Human. Not out of fear.

      Jackson squinted in the sunlight, removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm pit. "Finally we got through to you."

      "Where am I?"

      "France. Near Paris. Do you know what happened?"

      The man eyes looked at him. "We were tasked with the evacuation of Paris. My unit went into the city… We barely got out." His eyes glazed over once more. "Jesus…"

      "Stay with me, boy. Don't go back into you're lock down." Jackson approached, dropping the helmet on the ground, and placed his hands on the man's shoulders. "Stay with me."

      The man's breathing slowed.

      "What's your name?"

      "John… Sir…" His eyes refocused.


      "Specialist." The man replied, "Corporal."

      "Can you fight?" Jackson questioned, he glanced at Greene who didn't give any objections -the man was physically capable. Mentally however…

      "Yes… Yeah… I think so."

      "Good." He let go of the man's shoulders, he reached past him and grabbed a lone M1 Carbine. "Welcome to the squad, boy."

      With that, he shoved it into the man's chest.

      "We're moving out gentlemen, I don't plan to be out here in the open when lady nightfall gets here." He said, he jabbed a finger at the once frantic soldier. "I want you next to me."

      "Uh… Sure… But, why?"

      Ignoring the question, he looked over to Greene and nodded. The squad assembled, and the men on the hill above noticed and began to jog down.

      They were out of there.

What If Tales: The United Nations [Part Two]
Date: 13 June 2008, 4:10 am


      Jackson looked up at the sky, dark clouds swirled against the light gray, and the blue was nowhere to be seen. He silently groaned.

      The rain would slow their progress back to the Rouen. He didn't want to be out there at night. The enemy liked coming out at night, especially the bird-like ones, they could see you if it was pitch black. Or hell, could they smell you?

      He rechecked his Thompson's magazine, it was nervous gesture. Pointless, he had checked it four times already. Looking up, he saw trees sparsely dotting the plains they were on, the grass was up to there knees, the quiet buzzing of insects and chirping of birds filled his ears.

      It was so hard to tell that they were in a war.

      So peaceful.

      He shook the thoughts out of his head, they didn't help any. It just screwed up everything, dwell on the present, not the "What If…" His aunt told him back when he was back in the states, back in their Chicago home.

      Andrew glanced to his right, looking at the light skinned man next to him. He had brown hair, same brown eyes, light freckles dotting his face. The patch on the kid's shoulder showed something he saw a few times, a Chinese looking design, a half blue, and half gray taijitu. That was some man called it back in the states, but the one in the states was black and white, which a dot of the opposite color in each one.

      It was the symbol of the twenty-ninth infantry division. This boy was at Omaha? Bullshit he was… He didn't seem like a kid who would've survived that, but hell, most of the men who were surviving weren't smart, sharpshooters or even tough. They were lucky.

      He stopped, for a brief moment letting the front of the patrol formation get a few steps more before he continued. Jackson had stopped so he was stepping exactly with the kid. "Where ya from, John?"

      "Me, Sergeant?" He pointed at himself, dead center at his chest.

      "No the John right next to you." He scowled, and shook his head.

      "I'm from Eden, New York."

      "Eden, New York?" The Sergeant smiled at the boy. "From Chicago myself. Never been to New York City."

      "Neither have I." John replied reaching up from his M1 Carbine and rubbing the back of his head. "Never left my town."

      "So this is your first time out of the states?"

      "Yes, Sergeant."

      Jackson shook his head, took things like this to get people out in the world. Damn shame.

      "How was Chicago?" John said, his hand coming from the back of his head to the underside of his gun.

      "What can I say? It was home." He looked at the kid, the Corporal wouldn't understand, he was white. And being a black man from the city, and this kid was from the small town he definitely wouldn't understand. An invisible shrug, he didn't want to talk about it anyway. In a segregated military, even a war that brought the world together, he could never fully trust this man next to him. What hate did he harbor?

      He let his mind think it over-

      Lewis raised a fist being the point man; they obeyed the signal and stopped. He then dropped to a knee, and they all did the same. John was slow, he was the last one to get there, his combat instincts lacking.

      On his hands and knees he crawled forward, reaching Lewis in seconds. Whispering he spoke. "What?"

      "Heard something. I think they were pulsates."

      Jackson cast him a glare. "English soldier, don't pull that want-to-be Ivy League crap now."

      "Sir, that sounds when you hear those vehicles-that whine- their tanks. They're close by."

      "Shit." Ahead was a low ridge, it loomed above them on a gentle slope. On the top of the hill was tree line, the same tree line that passed through to get to the road about a mile back. "Squad," They were all quiet, they could still hear him, "drop you gear, we have company."

      As if on cue the massive tank pushed the tree aside, it was purple, its massive turret looming on its flat base. They encountered it once before. It took out three Sherman's before it was destroyed. It was a beast of a machine.

      May God help them.

      But they weren't given one helping of tank, but two. If it wasn't for the long grass they would've been spotted.

      "Down!" He whispered harshly. They dropped to their bellies and he turned back around, moving back into the squad. He moved toward the squad's radioman, Malone.

      Quickly the spectacled man withdrew map from his jacket's pocket and reached back, grabbed the receiver from his radio and handed it to Jackson. "Position."

      "Right on it." Malone replied quickly. They needed air support, it was relatively new now. Brass a few days after the first attacks decided that supporting ground units with fighters was good idea instead of only making them useful during mass attacks. Smart. He thanked the General who was looking out for the little guy.

      "How close are they Lewis?" He looked over his shoulder.

      "Two hundred meters, and closing." He checked his watch, estimated the times for the fighters to get there, they didn't have enough time. They needed a distraction. He looked at two members of his squad, Corporal McKenzie and Private Parker, "You two, you're getting into the war. Take your bazooka and hit 'em in the rear." He then turned to one man, "Poles, you're going with 'em. Supply a base of covering fire until they get in position."

      The pair moved off in one direction, crawling quickly and Poles moved in the opposite direction to get the distraction going.

      John looked at the Sergeant. "What about me?"

      "Not more two feet away from my side. And that's an order."

      The enemy vehicles moved down the hill, routine patrol. They were in a basic formation, one in front the other in the rear. Infantry not on the flanks, they didn't need any. They didn't see the small shapes move further up the hill, set up position at the tree line getting a fix on their rear.

      Sweat appeared on McKenzie's brow, he swiped it off with his forearm. He knelt down on one knee, his emerald eyes glistening at the rear of the enemy tank formation.

      "Load it, Parker." He said quickly.

      Parker was the one of the younger men in the squad, only a month older than Lewis, his hands fumbled with the round.

      Continuing to steady the long metallic tube on his shoulder, McKenzie whispered harshly. "Hurry it up man. I don't want to get Poles killed."

      "Ye- Yeah…" Parker replied. He put the charge into the tube and pulled the safety pin. "You're ready."

      "Good." Glancing back again. Now they would wait for the signal.

      Poles stood up, sharply, he was just fifty yards from his team's position when he raised his M1 Garand to his hand, the sharp recoil punching into his shoulders. He heard a slight ping, and he went down to his waist, grabbed a clip, brought it up and jammed it into the rifle.

      His eyes gazed down the down the sights. He let lose another stream of eight rounds.

      The vehicles turned to face him, massive, a dark indigo. Menacing, Poles flinched with invisible pain. Why was he always the distraction?

      The two beasts turned, and in the distance, the small shape of Poles standing tall firing without a care. McKenzie took aim, exhaled and found everything strangely calm as he pulled the trigger.

      A muffled ignition and the M6A1 charge moved quickly towards its target.

      The rear tank.

      The explosion echoed through the plains, Parker found himself coughing from the smoke. And McKenzie watched in amazement as the tank simply turned to face them. Did I even hit it? He thought in amazement.

      "Parker reload. Now." His voice automated.

      The tank fully faced them; he saw its massive weapon turned begin to glow. "Now, Parker!"

      Jackson stood up sharply; he expected one of the vehicles out of commission and the other to follow shortly. His eyes widened sharply, he was just able to see the rear tank let off a blue blob toward the tree line.

      Parker and McKenzie. Shit.

      "Boys let them have it!" He stood sharply, his Thompson firing in short controlled bursts. The rest of the squad followed with him, they all stood, only fifty yards away from the pair of vehicles, and began unleashing a wall of lead.

      Neither vehicle was facing them, but the one that was facing towards Poles began to turn, but cautiously. "Give me an arc! Spread out!" Jackson yelled he saw John; he was standing- firing as well. Inaccurately but at least he was doing something.

      The remaining nine men of the squad moved out, plenty of space between them. Each firing their M1 rifles focused at the one tank that faced them. He saw it charging its main turret.

      "Head's up!" Someone shouted, their voice echoed as the vehicle fired, the bluish blob gave a gentle arc as it went upward.

      The men scrambled away from its landing zone. Greene rolled out of the way, but one man, Private Abrams wasn't fast enough. Tripping on something, he hit the dirt hard not before the explosion rocked the ground mere inches away from him and he flew –tossed like a bloody rag doll and hitting the ground twenty feet away from Jackson.

      Everything seemed to go quiet for a split moment but was broken by Jackson's voice.

      "Damn it, keep firing!"

      McKenzie moved fast, moving into the forest with bazooka still in hand and Parker followed suit running hard. Bits of wood, dirt and rock flew above them originating from where the round hit.

      Skidding to a halt, McKenzie saw Parker behind him, who slowed and finally stopped putting his hands on his knees –gasping for air.

      "C'mon." McKenzie ordered, "We got to take those things out."

      "No way, man. We're screwed if go back there."

      McKenzie looked at the kid. "You want us leave them there to die?"

      "Look," Parker was on the verge of tears. "I'm not going back." He began to whimper.

      "Give me the ammo, I'll go back." McKenzie said, he lowered the bazooka and waited for the man to give answer.

      Parker threw off his pack, and pressed his back against the tree. Fear all too present in his brown eyes.

      McKenzie reached down and grabbed the gear, and began hauling back towards the forest line and back to his allies. Parker, looked at him, and when the Corporal was well out of sight, he ran in the other direction.

      Poles didn't know what to do, the tank was ignoring him, turned toward the bigger threat- his squad.

      That gave him time to think, the rear tank continued to lob beads of blue into the forests. Those things had to have a weakness; they had no wheels, floating a few meters off the ground. Their armor was thick, when Parker and McKenzie fired he could see a small whole in the rear, but it didn't even seem to slow the thing down.

      He reached onto his bandolier and held a fragmentation grenade. Only heavy weapon he had, and he only had one.

      A smile crept onto his face, remembering the one opening that the vehicle had, right at the base of the turret.

      Poles clipped the grenade back to his bandolier and ran diagonal to the vehicle, wanting to get the side of it. The turret didn't turn, or so it seemed so he wasn't worried about that. All he needed was a clear shot.

      The vehicle angled toward him.

      He pulled the pin.

      It angled so he could just see the opening.

      Poles threw.

      The green sphere flew the air-

      -and bounced right off the metal and tumbled down the front of the vehicle. Exploding harmlessly under it.

      "Son of a…"

      The tank turned to face him; Poles raised his rifle in a hopeless challenge. Like an ant trying to fight the almighty. He let off a few rounds and saw the vehicle charge its primary weapon. He squeezed shut his eyes.

      He was at point blank, he tried to dodge he wouldn't be nothing but a smear on the ground none the less. He let off a few pointless rounds.

      The ground rocked underneath him, he flew backward. Wind rushed out of him as he hit the ground. His back ached, and darkness slowly descended on him, watching the blue sky fade away.

      Jackson saw the explosion; the tank crumpled like a tin can and looked at the tree line. Nor Parker or McKenzie was there. His eyes cast a glance over his shoulder, and saw a silhouette on a distant hill.

      A tank. Didn't look like a Sherman… Maybe a Cromwell?

      Half the squad turned to look. "Keep firing!" Jackson ordered.

      All turned their attention to the last purple vehicle. There was low echo and the enemy vehicle reeled back from the hit. Its front exposed, showing the driver inside. A hideous creature, four lips that jutted out from the side of its face, red armor that shone in the sun, its eyes seemed focused on killing them- full of rage.

      The tank on the hill fired again.

      One moment the driver was there and the next he wasn't. It was gone in a blaze of glory; all that remained was a smoking hulk.

      Jackson gave a beaming smile and turned to look back up the hill.

      A dozen men were coming down; their features couldn't really be seen. He walked forward to greet them. The lead one was a few yards ahead of the others. He was a light skinned man, blue eyes and a mop of blond hair, a sad grin that distinct from Jackson's.

      He seemed to speed up when he saw his fellow American and reached the Sergeant in a matter of seconds. He held out a hand and Jackson took it, gripping hard. "Glad you guys could show up." He glanced at the rank, a fellow Sergeant.

      The man's smile faded, and he released Jackson's iron grip. "Well I wouldn't be too sure of that. Any wounded?"

      "Not sure… After that little hassle, I'm sure of it." He pushed the thoughts of his men being blown to bits to the back of his skull. Were Parker and McKenzie still alive? What about Poles? Three men in a day… He felt his heart race, all because of his moronic tactics. He gave an invisible shake of his head; no one could've done it better.

      He turned to his men who had already begun treating the wounded. Mostly bruises, only Abrams accepted the horrible fate that awaited them all.

      The man nodded, Andrew saw the patch. A distinctive big red one, which dominated the pentagon shape of the patch. "Well," The man gave a glance back up the hill. "I'm going to have to ask you to drop your guns."

      "What?" The words seemed strange. Hell, they were strange.

      "Well, I'm asking you to lay down your weapons."

      Jackson gave an awkward smile. "You're joking right?"

      The man didn't return the smile. His face was creased in a frown. He turned, pointing up the hill. "You see that? That's a Tiger Two tank; it has an enough boom to knock you and your friends here. Now unless you want to be the receiving end of this fire power tell your men to lay down your weapons and come quietly."

      "You're a Nazi."

      "To each his own…" The man murmured. "I'm in the same boat as you. Even though the Nazis don't take to your kind as well as mine."

      "Well that's not an incentive for me to lay down my arms now is it?"

      "No, but that tanks is." The man said. "Live to fight another day."

      Jackson weighed the choice, he started another gun fight, they would be in a boat load of trouble, machine gun fire would whittle them down and that tank would show no mercy. But if he surrendered… They would being facing death as well but maybe they would have a chance…

      He looked at his squad behind him, young men, some just in their teens looking right back at him. They were in the beginnings of their lives.

      Narrowing his eyes into slits he felt his submachine gun fall from his grasp and hit the ground. The man nodded. "Good choice. Tell your men to do the same." He nodded at the group who stood just feet away.

      Looking over his shoulder he shouted. "Boys! Lay down your weapons."

      There were glances around, and one finally shouted, Private Lewis. "Sorry, Sergeant but you can go and f-"

      "Lewis, unless you want an anti-tank round blowing your sorry ass to bits, throw your weapon on the ground in front of you and start praying." The voice was sharp, and everything got quiet. Lewis didn't give a reply. "Form up on me." Jackson ordered.

      The man from the Big Red One nodded. He looked at them all. "Just put your hands on your head and follow me. Don't say a damn word, and keep your eyes on the ground. These krauts are a bit… tipsy."

      Lewis listened and didn't know what he was hearing, his hand reached up, were placed behind his skull and he walked forward along with the rest of them. They were surrendering, damn- he would rather go down fighting than surrendering to those Huns.

      What other choice did he have? He couldn't take them on anyway, with his weapon now behind him, and no side arm he was on his defenseless. Looking around, he could see his squad was in the same disposition.

      Damn, weren't they having a bad day…

      Oberleutnant Achim Sankt walked down the narrow hallway, he was escorted by three men, on their arms was an arm band showing the swastika, black, tattooed on a white background. They were not officers; he knew that, the Reich's "Protection Squadron" soldiers wore a brown shirts and black tie instead of the all dark uniform of their officers.

      He didn't dare look into their eyes; he did when they were taking the elevator up to his Fuhrer's Eagle's Nest. That was what the diplomats called it; he had seen some Italian officials marvel at its majesty as they looked over the landscape of Austria.

      Sankt was led into a rather large room and he saw the storm troopers disperse.

      The room was dotted with circular tables, and chairs surrounding them. To his right was a large fireplace, and on the wall directly in front of him dotted large paned windows. Standing in front of the windows a man shorter than himself, his back turned.

      Sankt stood rigid and didn't move, "Mein Fuhrer!"

      The man turned, he looked at the young man with his pale blue eyes. His hair was slicked to the side; a mustache was tucked beneath his nose. His uniform was crisp and clean. His Fuhrer nodded.

      The appearance was much different from Sankt, his uniform was a bit sloppy. Eyes a dark brown, but hair a shade of blond. He stood a full head taller than his leader.

      Sankt lowered his stance and slowly but silently exhaled.

      "Proceed." The man said in a dry tone.

      "Message from the frontlines," Nervously reaching into his pocket he withdrew a piece of paper. "It is from Fuhrer's Generalfeldmarschall Rommel. The allies are retreating from the French coast with full haste. The Soviets are also holding back their assaults on the eastern front, fearing this new enemy."

      The Fuhrer nodded to this information stiffly.


      Time for the bad news.

      "Mein Fuhrer but…" He inhaled sharply. "This enemy is concentrating their assaults on us. Hamburg has been burned to a cinder."

      The Fuhrer's eye brows rose.

      "Their armies have launched a great assault on the city of Munchen… Or forces that have been pulled from the eastern regions are having a hard time coping with this threat. Most haven't slept in days to rush back to your nation. Rommel is asking that he pull from Normandy, and remove all divisions from Italy."

      Turning, Sankt watched his leader look outside at the landscape, his back to him. "Rommel may proceed to pull the division from Italy. The Normandy divisions must stay- the allies may attempt another invasion."

      "If I may just offer my input."

      "No. I did not ask for it." The man glanced over his shoulder. "Tell Rommel to hold Normandy, no matter what the costs. Let this new enemy fear the wraith of the Reich and Germany. Let our armies march over their dead. Am I clear?"

      "Yes, my Fuhrer."

      "Good. You may leave."

      Sankt turned but instead of walking out the three storm troopers hustled him out quickly. Guiding him towards the elevator, Rommel wasn't going to like this… Not at all.

      The Desert Fox was notable for many things, a feared soldier, inspiring leader but his superior must've saw him as a joke. Ever since Rundstedt's to a strike from Himmel-Männer or as the allies liked to call them, the "Sky Men" he was now in command of the remaining armies in the Western Front but he did have some power involved with the other regions.

      He looked at the telegram in his hand, before rubbing the sweat of his brow. To hold Normandy was something dire. It would weaken the remaining forces. This new enemy had technology that couldn't even comprehend.

      The Fox crushed it in his grip, eyes narrowed; he looked around the small command tent that was twenty-three miles east of Paris. He stared at his staff. "Send message to all Divisions. They are to pull out of Normandy, avoid Paris and make a front running from Somme to Aisne. Today." He growled.

      Most of them had read the telegram and they hesitated, but with the quick bark of: "Now!"

      They moved fast, getting to work, sending the orders- after all, who would dare defy one of Germany's greatest commanders?

What If Tales: The United Nations [Part Three]
Date: 1 August 2008, 3:02 pm


      The skies were black, thunder boomed in the distance and waves lapped the sides of the USS George E. Badger, the ship had been called back from its journey to the Pacific and back to the Channel to help with security operations there.

      Timothy frowned quietly; leaning against the railing he watched the water lap into the sea. He was waiting for his assistant who had helped him with the situation before; he found the boy's name was Jamie A. Isaac, the West Point graduate. His rank was a lieutenant.

      He heard paper rustling behind him, turning Howard saw the young man, tucked under his arm was several tubes which held the maps they had taken from the bunker that was their headquarters back on the beaches of Omaha.

      "Got what you requested, Colonel." The boy shifted uneasily. "The General has just gotten aboard, he's in the bridge." He gave another uneasy shift, trying to get a better grip with the maps.

      "Thank you, lieutenant." He moved away from the railing, looking at the young man's crop of red hair and anxious emerald eyes. The boy almost looked like Howard when he came out of West Point, but then again, when he came out of West Point he was fighting the Huns.

      Shaking his head, and I'm doing it again.

      He turned, preparing to move inside the hull of the massive ship, and he gave one final glance at the sky. In clouds close by, they moved slowly to them, they were dark. It was strange, since he couldn't see the sheets of rain coming down from them. "Lieutenant, do you know what the forecast for the channel is?"

      Isaac shook his head. "No…" He steadied the maps. "Sir, all I know that we've been getting frequent storms." He looked at the sky as well. "But that is a bit strange."

      He nodded, moving through the bulkhead door. "Yes, lieutenant, I would have to agree."

      The lieutenant followed, green eyes giving a lasting glance at the darkening skies.

      "So… Colonel, what you're telling me is that these beings are here to exterminate the allies and axis?" He was a man whom made a speech just a few weeks before, he inspired a group of nations that caused them to rally and push the kraut bastards back. He went commonly by the nickname Ike. But Howard would always refer to him as the General. He damn well deserved the honor.

      "This was the conclusion my assistant and I came up with. It seems these creatures have no preferences on whom or what they are killing. They forced the Nazis from Paris, harshly. We walked into Paris before they fired on us. They racked on most of the casualties for the twenty-eighth infantry division and elements of the first infantry division before causing the largest massacre, in what we could say, in world history."

      The General was a balding man, but he still rubbed his hand through his bare scalp and sighed. He looked down at the table that dominated the interior of the Destroyer's Bridge. Usually it would be crowded, packed with people but today it was partially empty, not even the General's staff were there attending. Only key members of the crew, including the ship's commander were in the bridge.

      The ship crew was reminded this was classified information and that if any leaks were to occur the whole bridge crew would be detained and would be charged with treason. He also reminded them that they would most likely be in front of the firing squad for their actions. The crew did their best to try and ignore the three men.

      This was just between Howard, Isaac and the Supreme Allied Commander.

      "So what do you suggest we do? I can't give up Normandy, Colonel. You know that, our Generals know that and Roosevelt knows that. We sacrificed too much to give it all up."

      "Sir, we need to find out why they're here. We need to meet with their leaders, or communicate somehow between them. Then we could settle for some… ceasefire or maybe even an alliance." Howard leaned forward onto the table, looking at his maps, glaring at them harshly as if he wanted to burn a hole in them.

      "I doubt they would want to talk, Colonel. I want Paris back, and I want to know what the Germans are up to. We haven't had much contact with them ever since Paris."

      "I'll get right on it."

      "Find out where Montgomery is; get him back to London as soon as possible. I have a feeling, a bad feeling that this new enemy is doing something, that I pray they aren't."

      "What are they doing, General?"

      "You don't want to know, Colonel. Because if I'm right… May God help us."

      There was a long and awkward silence.

      The lieutenant looked up from the map; wanting to speak, but something caught his eye. A dark shadow that swooped low at the ship, there were no patrols in this area. It wasn't theirs.

      The Colonel saw it, moved toward the window.

      He shifted his low, letting him be able to look further up into the sky. The dark clouds were right above them, and beneath them swarmed small tear shape craft.

      "What the hell?"

      The squad was slumped against the side of Panther tank, their hands weren't bound, but their weapons were gone.

      Standing over them were two squads of Nazi soldiers and the Benedict Arnold. The traitor didn't have a weapon; he stood there, slumped shoulders, eyes looking intently on the ground.

      What would happen now? His mind questioned. Prison camps? Execution?

      Jackson found the former more convincing, they wouldn't trudge a group of prisoners out of there. But for the lack of other vehicles, most likely this group of Germans were as far from their lines as they were. Maybe farther.

      They were well north of Paris and the Germans pulled out to the south and west. Why did the Germans capture them? It made no sense.

      One German, he didn't wear the traditional helmet that the others wore but wore a cap. Dangling from his hat was a pair of tanker's goggles. Kneeling down, the goggled German cocked his head to the side. His voice was heavily accented. "Guten Tag, American."

      Now he knew why they sent Arnold first, they could never pass for Americans or any of the allies for that matter. The man looked into Jackson's face, waiting for a reply. "What? Nothing to say, well I can't see you speaking any way. You're African tongue can't… materialize words as well us."

      A smile formed on his face. "You remind me of the Rhineland bastards I had known in my youth. Unintelligent and moronic fools, much like yourself."

      "Go to hell, you kraut son of a bitch."

      It was Jackson but the voice of Lewis who spoke up.

      "That's why it was a bunch of us you routed your bastards back in Paris." Lewis was near the edge of the tank, his voice echoed over the plains. Or in Jackson's head it did. Turning his head to the right Jackson could see a few Germans taking a step toward the Private.

      The German commander held up hand and they backed off. Jackson took a moment to comment. "You've got your dogs whipped."

      The two Germans who moved Lewis turned and one shouted something in German, raising his MP-40. The German commander spoke something in their native tongue, and the German with the machine gun smiled. He then turned, locking eyes with Wilshire and raised his weapon.

      Jackson saw what was about to happen. And so did Wilshire.

      Private Ingram Wilshire shuffled his body angling just as a burst of rounds hit the tank behind him. He moved moments before the German had pulled the trigger. But he was fast enough for the second burst that raked across his leg. The young private howled in pain, he reached down, crimson liquid seeping through the pink holes in his right thigh.

      "You son a…" He bit back and looked over Greene. "Patch him up."

      The Germans raised their weapons as Greene moved from the other end of the tank and walked over Wilshire but the commander barked something again. He took off his pack and knelt down beside him. At least they were still bound somewhat to the Geneva Convention.

      The Nazi commander spoke to Jackson. "Look… Sergeant. You're men are not in a… position to be insulting. I insist you think with that low intelligence mind of yours, before you sputter." The German raised a hand and gave a brotherly tap to Jackson's face, twice. Then in a quick motion, he gave a third, but this time his hand was balled into a fist.

      Jackson's face exploded with pain, he hit the ground and cursed quietly. He saw the German out of the corner of his eye stand, and walk back into the squad. The German who shot Wilshire watched over them, his blue eyes like a hawk's.

      McKenzie reached the edge of the forest; he saw the last spot he was in, a burned out hole. No trees, no grass. He just saw a shiny material which almost looked like glass. He moved closer, it was glass.

      Looks like he and Parker dodged a hell of a bullet with that one or whatever the vehicle launched at them. Crouching down he cautiously moved forward to the edge of the forest, seeing the plains below he saw wreckage, and he saw bodies.

      Two of them, well one of the bodies as bent in an awkward angle; it seemed as if one of the poor souls was bent in half. The other was a few meters away, but seemed in a much more natural position.

      He then looked to his right, more plains but then his eyes caught something to his left. McKenzie almost shouted as he saw the panzer tank, looming on the hill. Around the massive vehicle was about maybe a dozen krauts. He didn't see his squad anywhere.

      Jesus, no. Lowering the bazooka, he set it aside. No, they had to be alive. He hadn't heard any gun-

      There was clatter of an automatic weapon and a scream. Damn it.

      Shaking his head, he felt a stinging sensation in his eyes; he had been with those men since basic. They were all the family he had left. His pack with the ammo left his shoulders and he found himself moving down the hill, slinking through the long grass quietly. He didn't want to attract any attention.

      The wreckage of the two vehicles were now near, massive purple vehicles that were still threatening even destroyed. The innards of the craft were spread all over the field, but he ignored them, the technology was way more advanced than his comprehension. He wasn't going to try and hypothesize what each part was used for.

      Moving silently, his M1 Thompson sweeping the area in front of him, he came upon the body that was bloodied. He knew it was Abrams, even though he couldn't recognize the face, around his neck he saw the eastern orthodox pendant the man always wore.

      The body of Abrams was basically folded like a piece of paper; his spine was completely snapped in two. His face was tucked near is knees. His M1 Garand was near by; it –like his spine- was snapped in two.

      He continued on, another KIA for the boys back home.

      McKenzie moved around the tank and out a few meters he saw the other body. This one was intact, perfectly. He quickly moved toward it, and saw it was Private Poles. Kneeling down the man he slung his Thompson over his shoulder and roughly grabbed the private by his shoulders and began to shake.

      "Poles wake up."

      Nothing, just a shallow breathing.

      "Damn it, Poles. Wake up." Reeling back with his hand, it came down fast and hard.

      It was abruptly stopped.

      "What the hell?" It was almost like reflex, Poles eyes were barely open, and he coughed quietly. "You don't have to slap me to wake me."

      "Right, sleeping beauty. Get up, we're in trouble."

      Poles groaned. "Do you have to speak so loud? It feels like I spent a day drinking at Murphy's bar and the hangover just started." Grabbing his head, McKenzie inspected the man, everything outwardly seemed fine. A slight concussion, and since Poles wasn't screaming, he had no broken bones.

      A better situation than he would've expected.

      "Where are we?" Poles asked.

      "Normandy. France. The Sarge and the squad are captured." I hope. "We've got to save them."

      Poles felt the events of that day flood back into his mind. He remembered tumbling through the air and hitting the grass after an explosion. "Okay… Okay… Where are they?"

      Glancing around, making sure they were still in the clear; McKenzie wiped sweat from his forehead. "We've got to move. We're not safe out here in the open."

      "Thank you for stating the obvious." Poles replied, he rolled onto his side, then his stomach and slowly began to push up onto his knees. He saw his M1 Garand just a few inches away. He grabbed it and checked his pouches to make sure he had ammo. Five clips. Good enough.

      "Let's…" His head throbbed. "Let's get going."

      He bit urge to throw up. Inhaling sharply, he looked over to McKenzie who was crawling quickly back to the tree line. Inhaling sharply, Poles followed.

      "Captain, get me communications with the RAF, I want you to see if they can scramble their fighters." The Captain heard the order, and yelled at one of his crew members to get it done. You didn't make the Allied Supreme Commander wait.

      The radio man given the job turned from his post and said. "Sir, we're being jammed."

      "By who?"

      "I would assume it would be the enemy, sir." The radioman gave a nervous reply back.

      The Captain turned to his executive officer. "Battle stations!"

      "General, we need to get you off this ship." Colonel Howard said. "Captain, I would suggest you head for a port. We cannot risk the General's life."

      "You make that sound easy." Klaxons sounded. "The ports are full. The evacuations are still going on, Colonel. We're heading to open water, if we can get to the Atlantic…" His voice trailed off.

      Howards took a step forward. "Are you nuts, Captain? That's U-Boat central, and I'm not jeopardizing the General's life on a run like that. Especially when the fleet doesn't know the General is on this ship."

      "So what do you expect me to do, head towards Strait of Dover? Last time I checked the krauts-"

      "Enough." The voice was unusually calm. Their eyes spun to the man named Ike.

      "Gentlemen. We're heading towards the Atlantic. Tell the fleet that they have orders to head to open water. If they are at a port, evacuate all ships. I don't know what these bastards are up to, but I will not let them kill more of our boys. Am I clear?"

      "Yes sir, but the radios are still jammed…" The radioman said. His eyes focused intently on the console. He then paused, the static faded and the radioman's eyes widened. "Uh sir… I think you should come and hear this…"

      Ike moved forward, he dropped down next to the radio man, the radio man slipped off his head set and Ike slipped it on his own. A voice… deep voice but almost in human, but the ways the words came it; it also seemed almost inhuman at the same time.

      But, the message was all the same.

      "Your destruction is by the will of Gods. And we are their instruments."

      American patrols weren't uncommon now; the Royal Air Force had been in unending combat to the north with the new bastards with their advanced technology. They sure as hell were piss poor fliers however; his squadron was in the lead with kills.


      Not much, but considering their losses were way less than expected from an force that could burn cities using beams that could split clouds from its heat and descended from the sky –it was damn good.

      There was only seven in the small squadron; they flew in a V-Formation heading towards the channel. He was at point, a small frown holding on his face as he stared out the bubble canopy of his cockpit.

      Outside was far from peaceful, there were dozens of speeding little tear shaped fighters zigzagging through the skies, resembling a swarm of bees, they weren't attacking the fleet but it seemed like they were waiting for something.

      Looking off to the west, he some dark clouds but ignored them, a storm rolling off the Atlantic. An English summer. He spoke into his headset; they were all flying in P-51 mustangs, the nimble fighters could hold their own for a short time. After all this was a distraction, just so the fleet could get away.

      "Okay boys, I want you to keep it close. Tighten up, stay with your partner and you'll get through this. No heroics, we're just gonna tie them up until our-" There was a burst of static over his head.

      A voice shouted over the radio. "Bandits! Up high!"

      "Calm down. Break formation…" Pushing forward on the yoke, the fighter accelerated, around him his squadron broke into pairs and he was left alone. Yes, he was a damn hypocrite but he's the one who scored one of the two skills his squadron had.

      The fighter accelerated toward the ground, at twenty thousand feet he saw the ground rush toward him. He eased back on the stick, and he was a mere five hundred feet above the channel. He looked up, the swarm of bogeys had organized, they had formed into their own flights and he saw the one that was meant to take him out.

      Four fighters, all a hell of lot bigger than his accelerating toward him from above, they weren't going extreme speeds, just enough so they could pull up just before they smashed into the channel.

      The Captain pulled up on the stick, giving a few hundred more feet, and felt his hand quiver. A slight fear tingled over him; the sensation of thousands of ants marching over his skin was felt. A beat of sweat rolled down his forehead.

      The first of the enemy bolts flew over his wings, the large spheres of light narrowly missed the aluminum plating of his fighter. The small amount of bolts increased until it was hail, he made his fighter shift left to right, presenting a smaller target.

      Yanking up on the stick, he pushed himself into the sky, knowing that he had to do something. Having one fighter of your ass was bad, but four was unbearable.

      Pulling up into the sky, he was at a forty five degree angle, accelerating towards the horde above, which had dispatched another flight of fighters after him. He had only been flying of eight minutes and he was already outgunned.

      This new flight had taken position right up ahead of him, closing fast. They unleashed a wave of ordinance. He saw the blobs splash against his right wing, it burned like tissue paper. The inner workings of the fighter were exposed.

      His finger pulled down hard on the trigger, the six machine guns on the mustang's wings erupted into flame, rounds tore through the air at the incoming fighters. He scored hits, but the rounds had simply bumped off the invisible shield that each one of those things had.

      Evans narrowed his eyes into slits, slammed his feet on the left pedal, and the plane groaned as it gave a high speed roll to the right, letting a second salvo of enemy ordinance slam into the flight behind him, while narrowly grazing his left wing.

      Looking over his left shoulder, he saw the wave hit the pursuing fighters and two exploded, their invisible shielding must've overloaded and the two lead fighters took the brunt of the attack, and just boiled away under the force.

      Captain Evans smiled. "Yeah…" He whispered.

      It was short lived victory, because as he pulled back on the stick, leveling out of his fighter, the group that had been destroyed and the group that was in front of him joined into one and pursued after him with new intensity.

      He hoped that this little sacrifice for the fleet was bloody well worth it.

      His fighter shuttered and he looked at his right wing. The inner workings had been hit, the metal glowed a pale red. His eyes widened, headed south toward France.

      A voice squeaked over the radio again. "Sir, where are you going?"

      "Trying to get these bandits off of me-"

      "I got him-"

      "Like hell you do, do not engage. I repeat, do not engage." He said. It would be fruitless anyway, their weapons were ineffective, and the only way they were able to counter the fighter attacks was by using trick maneuvers. The creatures were so damned brash that they didn't learn, they repeatedly had fallen for the same tricks over and over again.

      Good for them, but it only worked for a short period of time, and after the dumb little freaks were out of commission it only left the smart ones to handle.

      And they didn't go down as easy.

      Pushing the throttle forward, he dropped his altitude down to one thousand feet and pushed his plane to its limits. He gave a glance at his right wing, the wing was still intact but the craft gave an uneasy shutter that he didn't like. He eyed the innards of the wing, and was brought back to focus when white hot strobes flashed over his left wing.

      The bastards were still pursuing, he didn't have a prayer in the world. The P51 Mustang was a hell of a bird but it couldn't hold its own against these bad boys.

      Normandy came into view; he could see evacuation ships still getting troops off the coast. He increased his altitude to two thousand feet, leveled out and shook his head for the plan that was formulating inside his skull. He must be nuts. Hell if he committed to the plan, he would be on the ranks of the insane.

      Evans frowned, he better be made a Major for this. He yanked hard on the stick, the fighter strained under the stresses as he pulled upward, and then continued to peel back until he was completely upside down and heading straight for one of his attackers, who must've been surprised to see the lone fighter come straight back at them.

      Holding down on the trigger, he unleashed a torrent of rounds in their direction, the rounds bounced off the invisible shields the enemy fighter craft had. Narrowing his gaze, the distance between them closed, and upside down, the blood continued to rush to his skull.

      He reached a hand up, unlocking and popping open the canopy, wind rushed in and he narrowed his eyes into slits.

      One hundred feet away, and Evans unbuckled his harness and checked his parachute.

      Fifty feet away, he steadied the stick and gave a quick prayer.

      At point blank his fighter continued forward. Just as the enemy craft began to peel away, it was bit to late for that.

      The two crafts met.

      An explosion shook the skies.