Looking back.

RED SOIL​
Prologue​

A man sitting in the Library of Congress late at night went over his notes. Most of the shelves we're more or less empty. The books distorted long ago during the purge. He had been to the Library of Parliament in Ottawa and in London. They were more or less the same. Dividing his notes into their proper sections he covered them back up and returned them to his carrying case. A door opened behind him, turning with a jolt of fear he saw only the green shirted security guard that patrolled the old building.

"Oh Tony its just you." He said. "I guess Im just a jumpy old man."

"None to worry Congressman Hallsman." The guard said in a friendly voice. "Shouldn't be here this late though. Buildings been closed for hours. Why aren't you at home? Or in your office?"

"The Grand kids are over, and you know I cant work in the stuffy room. Richmond is a nice town but its nothing like Washington." Tony nodded. He was an African America from Georgia, but had lived in Washington since he was a young teen. Congressman Hallsman was from the Old Capital and always found himself wishing the old order hand never moved the nations heart. Tony walked over and opened a lunch box.
"Molly made some Chinese food for my dinner. Always makes too damned much for me. Want some?"
"I wouldn't mind, thanks." Hallsman sat back down. he had been planning on going home, but his wife and grand kids would be asleep now, no one would miss him.
"What were you working on? Some legislation to fix this place back up?" Tony had been a friend since Hallsman was first elected to Congress many years before.
"Oh, no. It's more of a historical paper really." Hallsman said not meeting his friend's eye. Even now, years after the old order fell most people didnt talk openly about the past.
"Oh? Is it now?" Tony asked. "When's it start?"
"1921, with the end of the Great War. And the start of our problems. I tried as best I could to cover the events in Europe, Canada, China, and of course in the old United States."
"Musta been hard. Not many people left alive from back then." Tony said almost off handedly. Death, by natural causes or otherwise was always off handed now. Hallsman looked at the two slightly charred crimson flags held in a glass case near them. The flags of two nations, their revolutions and partnership and their ideal that ruined the western world forever.
"It was hard... If you have time. I would love to tell you about it. I think its good to talk about these things. Don't you?"
"Course I do." Tony took out a rather large bucket of wonton soup. "And I think we have plenty of time."
 
"Well, it all started in London. The Empire needed more more troops for the front and we're down to two options. Conscript Women, or send the bared Socialists to fight. They chose to do the latter..."


RED SOIL


"What is the difference between the Workers and the solders? It's that they are expected to work, we are expected to die."

The Bullet (1920)


France, January 7th 1921, American lines.

Private Tommy "Constitution" Jefferson leaned on the muddy allied trench walls in Northern France. The last few miles of Belgium had fallen early last winter, with them most of Tommy's friends from back home. He had turned eight teen in 1919 and signed up for the army the next day. He had regretted in from the moment he got too this god forsaken country. He remembered sitting in the back of the truck on his way to the trenches for the first time and seeing the red stained soil and upturned earth distorted by the shells and trenches that had come to define Europe for nearly a decade. "Strange." He thought out loud, one of his fellow privates, a conscript from New York name Lue Macasso game him a searching look. "Just the dirt, its red." Macasso sighed and looked away.
"Its the blood kid. The blood mixes with the white chalk and when it gets turned up... well, you get this." Lue had been fighting since he was sixteen, he lied about his age to join his brothers back in 1916, Tommy didn't question him. He looked across at their Sargent who simply nodded his head. Tommy remembered the feeling at the moment, he still didn't know how he kept his breakfast down.

"Hey! Tom! Open your damned eyes!" His was drawn out of his memories by Lue, now Sargent and one of the few surviving friends he had. "Don't nod of damn it. We're going over soon." Lue strode on down the trench keeping his head low. Watching him go Tommy stepped forward redyeing his riffle. After fighting for two nearly two years he was thankful he still had never been shot. Shells landed on the German trenches, as they had been doing for hours; it was strange how one nearly forgot about the sound. There had been talk, back in 1918 of German surrender; but once the troops from the Russian front reached the lines and the assault at Passiondale failed, the talks ended. It came from the south at first, the whistle to go over the top. The shelling didn't ended and wouldn't for a while yet. The Rolling Artillery, the Canadians had invented it at Vimmy, then the Americans improved on it, then the Germans did too.

Almost as a single movement the men stepped up to the ladders at one end of the trench, and ran out into No-mans-land. Tommy got over and found his place behind one of the American tanks for cover when the Germans got to fight back. Seconds after the bombardment ended, the pings of bullets deflecting from the tanks started. Most Germans had stopped trying to shoot the tanks, that meant there were new conscripts in the enemy trench. German Artillery started falling around the advancing Americans. Form the corner of his eye Tommy saw men torn down by flying bits of mettle, rock, sometimes bone. A near by explosion sent bits of mettle whipping past him. Tommy didn't turn to see what it was, but guessed it was probably a tank. He took another step and a shocking fiery pain shot up his leg into his head numbing his thoughts.

Looking down at his feet he saw that a peace of shrapnel embedded in his thigh, and the burning hulk of a decimated tank in the back ground. Slowly the pain started to overwhelm his thoughts, the starts dimmed and the searing heat of the burning machine lessened.

When next Tommy opened his eyes he was greeted by a the smiling face of a Red Cross nurse. She had bright green eyes and solder length crimson hair. "Well hello there." Tommy said with some effort, thinking now he must be under the influence of some kind of drug.
"Bonjour." The nurse responded. "It's good you are up. You'll be 'appy to know dat you will be just fine. De doctor 'as said once your leg 'eals up you'll be sent back to your friends." Tommy nodded, disappointed in the thought of returning to the war.
"You're French. Am I in Paris?" Tommy asked his head swimming.
"No, I am Canadian. You are about fifty miles for da front. You'll be in Paris soon." The nurse stood and checked his charts. "Just call if you need anyting." before leaving she placed a few books on the bedside table. Tommy began to thumb though one, a copy of Huckleberry Finn when from between the pages a thin paper fell to his chest. Picking it up he first noticed the red ink picture of a bullet at its top. Followed by the words "Issue: #17 1920, for the men sick of war."
He had heard of this, some socialists in the British army had started writing pamphlets as soon as they reached the front. They had been told most had been shot, but rumors went around that the English privates had started to protect them. He never thought he would see a Bullet. He knew he should get rid of it, toss it in the trash, he could be shot for just having it. But he couldn't help, he started to read.
 
Interesting, although the image of vigor and stamina used as shrapnel was unintentionally quite funny. (Metal, not mettle. ;))
 
I can't see how the Germans can keep the war going this long. If the war went into 1919 the Germans would have been facing WW2 style tank attacks, and they really didn't have any means to deal with it. Not to mention their failing supplies of war materials and equipment. You could maybe make it last into 1919, but that's the limit I think.
 
"They say, back home; that the gears of the capitalist system is greased by the blood of the workers. If this is true, than the gears must be made from the bones of soldiers."​

The Bullet (1919)​

France, February 1st 1921, British lines.

Clement Wilson Andrews sat hunched over in the British front lines. Rain poured down his face washing dirt into his eyes that he would wipe away with the even dirtier sleeve of his uniform. There was just enough light piercing the grey clouds that we was able to make out the scribbling of "The Bullet". It was new, only about a week old and had made its way into the his trench. Some words had been misspelled and the English was off, which meant that the French had started to write too.

"Thumbs up Andy. Got a smoke?" A friend said. A code (passed by the Bullet itself) that someone was coming. Clement folded the paper up and with one finger placed it into his sleeve.

"Right up." He then went into a pocket to pull out a cigarette for the look out. Once the Sargent had passed he went back to reading:





...It is no longer a matter of winning the war. The war is unable to be won. Our comrades at home know it. Our comrades in the trenches know it. Our comrades in the German lines know it! And do not think for a moment, that they are not our comrades. The only thing separating them from us, is no-mans-land and different uniforms.​





Just as Clement finished the pamphlet someone approached with out warning. His hear moved into his throat and his blood ran cold. A Sargent looked him in the eye cold and unblinking.

"Gotta rag? Mine's been lost. A dog must have nicked it." Code, again.

"Here, it's a good one." He handed the Sargent some fabric from his pocket with the Bullet inside. He made as to wipe his hands then brush off his uniform, dropping the letter into a pocket. "Thanks mate." And walked on. That was it, that was how the messages we're spread up and down the trench lines. Each issue had a new code, a new set of warnings, a new way to pass it on. To always keep the anti-socialists guessing.

Feeling oddly empty with out the Bullet, Clement made his way to a dug out for rest, and with luck to dry up. He hadn't been a socialist back in England. The war had changed him the war had changed everything. He had worked on his fathers farm in Yorkshire far from any of the major cities. He had never questioned the establishment, until he saw only the poor, the working class being thrown to the slaughter, over and over since 1914. He didn't want too kill again, he hoped soon he wouldn't have too.

More people than not in his squadron read the bullet now. Something would have to break. Something had to come. And it had to come soon.
 
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"We're here because we're here, because we're here, because we're here... They're home because they're rich."​

The Bullet (1921)​


March 12th 1921, Canadian Medical Corps.

Marie O'Doyle sat next to the American Private Jefferson, she had taken a shining to the young American boy. So much like her brother Adrien. The war had taken him from her family. The war took everything and was now at this moment consuming more and more of Canada's best young men. And the young men of America and the nations of Europe. It was like a wild beast raging across the world consuming the souls of men and distorting the earth itself. The lands of France and Belgium had been some of the most beautiful in Europe and now they had been over turned, destroyed and turned into hundreds of miles of mud and desolation.

Private Jefferson tossed in his sleep, from the noises he mad he had was dreaming of the war, so many would never sleep well again. Carrying the memories of the war for all of time. Marie jotted down a few more notes to be passed on to a write in the trenches. Since the socialists started to arrive in larger and larger numbers networks had been set up all through the allied trenches. A rumour spoke of men in quieter regions of the front spreading copies of The Bullet to sympathetic Germans, though Marie had no idea if this was true, or effective.

There were rumours coming from home too. Well not Marie's home, but London. Conditions in the factories were getting worse for the men and women who worked in the home front. They said a General Strike had been called in London, only the Australians so far had held a strike during the war. But if the British people at home now had lost faith in the war, perhaps the revolution was closer that they had thought.

Looking down at the Private, Marie collected her things. Jefferson seemed to be sleeping well again. His leg had healed well and he would soon be released back to the front. Once again to be thrown into the mouth of the great beast. She hoped he would survive, no more people should die. She opened her locker putting back her paper work tucked into the Holy Bible. The Bible had been hollowed out and with in it Mary placed a revolver she had stolen from a dying British Officer. She then corrected her last thought. Enough good men had died. No where near enough of the others had died yet.
 
Good start

A good start to what looks like an intriguing TL. Like others I'm not convinced about a war lasting until 1921 however. I would have expected this sort of dissent and semi-mutinous behaviour to appear long before then. If you haven't already look up Tom Wintringham's book Mutiny for many accounts of soldier mutinies at the end and just after WW1 - in the French, German, Russian and British armies. There were also major disturbances back in the UK too involving troops - Luton Town Hall was burnt down in 1919 for example during a riot involving ex-servicemen.

Please try to do some more proofreading before you post though - it makes a big difference to ease of reading. All in all though, I'm looking forward to seeing how this develops.
 
"We must be thankful to the Bourgeoisie in a way. They have armed us and trained us better than could ever have been done at home."​

The Bullet (1921)​


March 23th 1921, British lines.


Clement Andrews sat in a dugout eating what passed for soup in the front. The day had started off quiet, with only a small exchange of fire. At least no one Clement knew had died today. Putting his feet up on the seat in front of him he took in a deep breath of the calm Wednesday air. He looked around at the muddy tired men in his unit. Many of them only seemed to have light in their eyes at times like this, when sitting; and eating.

Scratching at his head he remembered how long it had been since he was deloused. Or for that matter in any body of water not in a trench or ditch or hole somewhere. The lice must have thought the war to be a gift from god. Unlike the men they had not gone hungry a day since the war began. Laughing to himself Clement got up from the table to have a cig outside. His mood was far better than it had been in months, he was due for leave in a week; to Paris or another French city. Behind the lines was as near to Heaven as the front was to Hell. Wine, food, women; lighting his cig and keeping his head low Clement smiled again.

Then it happened. A man in a Canadian uniform came up to him openly passing him a folded piece of paper. It couldn't be a Bullet, and if it was this man was a rat or a moron. Clement took the paper from him giving him a look of confusion, the man looked frightened, and in away that was some how different than he had seen in years. Unfolding the paper and walking back into the dugout Clement began to read. It was a "Daily Mail" from back home, a few weeks old now. Suddenly the headline jumped out.




STRIKERS SHOT!

Monday the striking workers in London were given their finial order to return to work. Today order was restored and the striking men and women, many socialist with German sympathies were fired upon by London security personnel. A pitch battle was struck but quickly suppressed with the use of mounted officers and a machine gun encampment in front of Parliament.......​




Clement started to feel ill. Then a finger, the Canadian behind him tapped the bottom of the page. Scribbled in pen was a simple message.


Dead
131: Men
221: Women​


Clement dropped the paper on a table and turned to vomit in a corner. "EH! Watch it!" Someone called from behind him. "Shut up Jenkins." Another said. "Look." The room fell still. No one spoke, it was unlikely anyone even breathed. As Clement stood he say Jenkins fall to his knees and pull at his hair, tears streaming down his face.

"My sister! My sister works in London! She! What if! I'll!" He began te heave on the spot. The Canadian who delivered the paper and another man moved to help him stand. One man picked up a riffle and tossed it to another man. Then did the same with another.

"Bring the paper, others need to see this." The men who were not too deep in shock to walk took their weapons and moved down the trench lines. Clement stayed behind for a moment to catch this thoughts.





It had begun.
 
"Nations and their kings have come and gone. But labour always remains."

The Bullet (1919)


March 30th 1921, Canadian lines.

Charles Louis Dumont landed in a German trench rifle at the ready. Close behind him were several Canadian and American privates. The war was ending, this was stupid. Most of the English Army was now in mutiny and the front was collapsing.

The crack of gun fire surrounded the trench. Charles moved down then line stepping over the remains of Gray Uniformed Germans. He, as others; would pat down the German bodies from time to time looking for ammunition, sometimes finding German rations which had improved since the fall of Russia. As Charles pocketed a container of German food a much closer crack of rifle fire and stunning pain on the side of his knocked him to his back. One of the young Americans with him fired at a German in the trench as another pulled Charles to safety.

Reaching up to his head Charles felt heat of streams of blood but nothing else, he had lost an ear; if the shot had been any closer much more would have been lost. Hours later behind the line Charles had learned that the Canadian and American effort had taken the trench. And the better news, as far as Charles was concerned; was that he still had some of his ear.

That night for celebration Charles opened the tin of German rations marked as "Meckern Sie Suppe". Whatever that was it would be better than the shit from London. But he found very little food with in the tin. It had been resealed some how by the German and at its bottom was a small sack with a collection of small papers written in red ink. At the top of most as a picture of a red bullet, under that the words "Die Kugel". Charles simply tossed them to the dirt floor kicking them under a table and returned to the little amount of food he had.
 
Just want to say for the people following this. Sorry for the lack of activity. My new job has been doing a number on my and my sleeping patterns. But I'm set for it now so regular updates shall return.
 
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