A group of intensely peculiar young Witches makes an unauthorized visit to a military supply depot in rural Gallia.
Will mischief and hijinks ensue?
.
(Happy Birthday, Clock!)
.
.
(Horrido!)
.
.
"Only he who gives himself up for lost, is lost."
- Hans Ulrich Rudel
.
.
(Allez-hop!)
.
.
Rest and Refit
.
(Chapter One: "Field Station 27")
.
.
.
Time: War.
Location: Rural Northern Gallia. A slightly antiquated, slightly aristocratic hunting lodge. Currently pressed into service as a Karlsland military supply depot. The location also serves as a rudimentary Field Dressing Station - minor surgery, triage, and recuperation.
There is also a Field Repair Station.
A few dozen trucks and armored vehicles, in varying degrees of damage and repair.
A few dozen young Karlsland soldiers, in similar condition.
The main lodge is a rustic limestone building, tiled roofs, four wings arranged cruciform around a central main hall. The architecture is typical of the region, a somewhat amateurish but cheerful mid 19th century copy of the classic chalet style.
There are a few smaller outbuildings that are arranged around a cobblestone courtyard. There is a stone fountain in the courtyard, a bronze cherub spitting water into an octagonal pool.
But, the fountain has not been maintained properly, not for quite a while.
Instead of spitting, the cherub appears to be drooling.
.
.
One of the buildings surrounding the courtyard is a small half-timbered cottage. Inside the cottage, a 22 year old Karlsland soldier resides. He is the highest ranking officer currently assigned to the Field Station, and therefore the de facto commanding officer.
Not that there is really anything much at all to command, in this obscure little depot in the middle of nowhere.
.
(Hauptmann Hans Ritter. Panzergrenadier, Specialist Demolition Technician 2nd Class.)
("Eine Kleine Dummkopf")
.
He was not a particularly impressive specimen of humanity. It was about an hour after dawn, and he was wandering aimlessly around the rooms of his cottage. All five foot nine of him, all 150 pounds of him. He had been the smallest soldier in his regiment, at least until they had recently started recruiting young teenagers. He was neither asleep nor awake. He never seemed to be entirely asleep or awake. He was barefoot, and wearing his uniform trousers and shirt. His ash-blond hair had been barbered by a well-meaning but inept younger soldier, it was far too short at the back and sides, with bangs at the front that he could only comb back and try to ignore. It made him look more like a condemned prisoner than any kind of soldier.
His cottage was like a series of overlapping catastrophes, bundles of wire and radio components scattered everywhere, empty wine bottles and old blankets competing for space on the floor, an overflowing ashtray and a half-chewed crust of bread serving as a centrepiece on the kitchen table. And there was a smell, ungodly, like carbolic and mouldy paper, must and machine oil, sweat and pepper.
And frankly, his breath stank of recent vomit. He sat down on a chair by his desk, and poured some mint dentifrice into a tall glass. Then he thinned it back with some cheap Gallian white wine, gargled with it, and spat on the floor. Then he coughed violently for a moment, and spat on the floor again. Then he picked up a glass pill bottle from the desk, and swallowed three small blue pills. Then he just sort of slumped forward onto the desk, and put his hands over his ears. And felt very sorry for himself, indeed.
He had a white bandage over his left eye.
After a while, he realized that someone was knocking at the front door. And a short while after that, he realized that someone was now in fact hammering at the front door. He thought about standing up, but then decided against it. The door wasn't locked, and after all, there was only one person in the world it could possibly be.
.
(Leutnant Dietrich Schrader. Panzergrenadier, Specialist Assault Engineer 1st Class.)
("Gott der Schlacht")
.
Schrader finally gave up on pounding at the door, and started yelling instead. "Ritter! You dumb little son of a bitch! Are you alive or dead in there?"
"Yes!" came a muffled shout in reply.
Schrader's upper lip curled in disgust. Only a creature like Hans Ritter would think to answer a question like that with "yes".
Are you alive or dead? Yes. Yes of course I'm alive or dead. Stupid little idiot. Rittter's only discernable talent was his preternatural ability for blowing things up. Yes, he was very, very good at wrecking things. Other than that, he was essentially just a worthless, annoying little prick.
And the fact that he had somehow managed to attain the rank of Hauptmann, and then somehow find himself in command of a Field Station, or anything at all... This was merely more evidence that the Almighty really wasn't all that bright. Yes, Hans Ritter was one of God's little jokes, one of Nature's most ludicrous gaffes.
Schrader pressed the latch on the door, and pushed the door open. He hated walking into this reeking pesthole of a cottage, but sometimes it was unavoidable. He looked around for Ritter, and finally found him slumped over his desk.
My God, how could such a man live, Schrader wondered.
"Ritter! You decrepit little sodomite, stand up! I said stand up, you tragic little monkey! Stand up, and try to remember that you're supposed to be a soldier! Stand up!"
"And a very good morning to you, Dietrich." Ritter mumbled.
Schrader walked over to the desk, and leaned forward. "I said, stand up!" he shrieked into his Hauptmann's ear.
Ritter jolted with alarm, and staggered to his feet. "Good Christ, Schrader. I really wish you wouldn't do things like that."
"If you weren't such a walking abomination, I wouldn't have to do things like that." said Schrader.
"Sometimes I think you forget what a delicate and sensitive creature I am." said Ritter.
"The sight of you serves as a constant reminder of precisely what kind of creature you are." Schrader said. "My God, Hans. Just take a look at yourself. You're supposed to be an officer. You're supposed to be a Karlsland Panzergrenadier. Not some sort of cajun hillbilly postman. No, not even that. You would be a digrace to any uniform."
Ritter sighed wearily. "Every night, I dream that I am being torn apart by wild dogs. And every morning, I get chewed up by my overgrown Prussian wild dog."
"I'm not overgrown, and it's not my fault that you're just a little twerp scarecrow." said Schrader.
Ritter turned around and looked at his friend. Dietrich was six foot five, and built like a prizefighter. Squared shoulders, immaculate uniform. 25 years old, with the steady confident eyes of a mature veteran. Iron Cross, pinned correctly to his jacket. Even his boots were perfect, polished so they glistened like oiled obsidian. A jagged diagonal scar marred the right side of his otherwise iconic Karlsland handsome face.
He always looks like he just stepped out of a recruiting poster, Ritter thought.
"You know Dietrich, I do in fact outrank you." Ritter said, "I outrank you, and yet you're just so much taller than me. Taller, and so much better-looking, too."
"And what's your point, Hans?" Dietrich asked.
"My point is, that I find it extremely annoying." Hans said.
Dietrich laughed, and slapped his little friend on the shoulder. "Ha! You're a bit more like your old self this morning, Hans. Making stupid jokes, and being a thorough little ass-pain!"
Hans pretended that his shoulder was hurt. "Ow, damn it! Damn you, Dietrich. Wounded warrior, remember?"
Dietrich scoffed. "Wounded warrior? Shameless malingerer, more like it."
"I'm not shameless, I'm utterly shameful." Hans said, "In fact, I'm completely..."
Hans was abruptly wracked by a violent coughing spasm. He gagged and spat a wad of something dark and evil-looking on to the floor.
Dietrich looked at the viscous black stain on the floor. "What the hell? What the hell is all this now, Hans? How long have you been coughing up altered blood?"
Hans cleared his throat, and shrugged. "It's nothing, it's really nothing at all, Dietrich. The doctor said that I have the beginning of a peptic ulcer, that's all."
"And what's he going to do about it?" Dietrich asked.
"He gave me some white tablets to take, and he told me to avoid stress." Hans replied, "He told me to avoid stressful circumstances. You know, things like football matches, or horse racing. Or hopeless wars of conquest and utter annihilation, on doomed worlds."
Dietrich was suddenly angry with his friend. "Oh hell, you aren't back to this garbage again, are you? Hans, this isn't Armageddon. And you're not a ten year old altar boy anymore. You're just going to talk yourself into a padded cell, if you keep this up."
Hans looked out the window, and was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "And the sea became like unto the blood of the slaughtered, and every living soul upon the sea perished... Rather an apt description of a Neuroi red-lightning barrage on the Mediterranean, wouldn't you say?"
Dietrich shook his head. "Hans, the sea has been turning blood-red since the invention of naval warfare. Horatio Nelson turned the sea red, do you suppose he was in fact really the Devil?"
But Hans didn't seem to hear his friend. "Or the names of the Neuroi ships... Hellfire Class, Lucifer Class, Satan Class..."
"But those are just arbitrary names, that we gave them." Dietrich said, "and every nation has a different classification system, in Britannia those same ships are classed Alpha, Beta, and Delta. In Orussia, they're named after different songbirds, in Fuso it's different sea-shells... Do think that if we had decided to name them after the Seven Dwarfs, it would mean that we were at war with Walt Disney?"
Hans blinked. "Well, no. Probably not."
"And do you remember that newsreel we saw two weeks ago? A twenty-ship Neuroi fleet plowing through the sky, and a dozen tiny little schoolgirls calmly blasting them to flinders, without so much as getting a single lock of their precious hair mussed?"
"Well of course I remember that, we were laughing our asses off. And after they showed the newsreel, they showed some new Bugs Bunny cartoons from Liberion. Remember the one where Bugs was stealing the mean farmer's carrots, and..."
"Hans, let's never mind Bugs Bunny for the moment. The point I'm trying to make, if the Neuroi really are demons, if they are actually Powers and Princes of Hell, then how is it that a bunch of giggling little Witches can just fly up and smash the living snot out of them? How do you explain that?"
"Well, but it's like... You see, Witches are... different..."
"Different? Hans, in order to slay demons, the Witches would have to be far more than different. They would have to be Archangels. But, perhaps you believe that to be the case? Well, if Witches are Archangels, where would that leave our own glorious heroine of the Fatherland, Adolfine Galland? How would she fit into that scheme of things? Would she be the Blessed Virgin Mary?"
"Ah, no. That does sound highly unlikely, doesn't it? You may have a point, Dietrich."
"Well of course I have a point, you unbelievable little twit."
"Mind you, I do in fact have the highest admiration and regard for Fräulein Galland."
"Well, we all love our brave little Addie."
"Oh I know. In the newsreels, she always seems to have such a quiet reserved dignity."
"You're absolutely right, Hans. She represents the traditional values of the Karlsland soldier, quiet fortitude and unbreakable resolve."
Hans nodded. "In fact, I think that I would go as far as to say that Addie Galland symbolizes everything good and noble, not just for the Karlsland military, but for Karlsland itself. Just like the Liberians have their Statue of Liberty, we have our Adolfine Galland."
Dietrich was mildly surprised. "That's uncharacteristic for you, Hans. Normally, you don't seem to display very much patriotic sentiment, or national pride."
"Oh, I'm as True Karlsland as anyone, even if I don't like to yammer on about it, ad nauseum," Hans said, "Oh and by the way, have you ever noticed that Addie Galland has the most amazingly fantastic ass?"
"Um, what?" said Dietrich, understandably.
"You know, Addie's delightful little ass, surely you must have noticed?" said Hans.
Dietrich was decidedly nonplussed. "Well, I'll admit that I've never given that particular subject as much thought as it clearly deserves, but if pressed for an opinion, I believe I must agree with you. Addie Galland does in fact have a nice ass."
Hans scowled. "Don't just say it like that, you uncultured Prussian ape. Don't just grunt nice ass. This is Addie Galland that we are talking about. Saying that Adolfine Galland has a nice ass is like saying the Sistine Chapel has a nice ceiling."
"Oh. Well, that being the case, I apologize unreservedly to Addie's ass." Dietrich said, feeling like more than a bit of an ass, himself.
"Damn right you do." said Hans. "You know, Addie Galland has what the Gallians refer to as a perfect gymnast-type ass. They have a magazine devoted to the subject, you know."
"Devoted to what subject?" Dietrich said, regretting the question even as he uttered it.
"Devoted to the study and appreciation of the rear ends of Strike Witches." Hans explained. "If there is one good thing you can say about the Froggies, it's that they can be surprisingly diligent about such matters."
"The Gallians actually have such a magazine?" Dietrich said.
Hans nodded. "Indeed they do. Addie Galland was voted Rear of the Year in reader polls, two years in a row. Of course, Mio Sakamoto is also very highly rated. Another perfect gymnast-type, you see."
"I see." said Dietrich. I see that you're still as bizarre and disgusting as ever, he thought to himself.
"Mind you, I believe that there should be a separate category, for shorter girls of the gymnast-type." Hans elaborated. "I think that there should be a miniature-gymnast category, it would only be fair."
"Well, I have always admired your sense of fairness and justice, Hans." Dietrich said. You twisted little mutant, he thought to himself.
"Since gymnast-type is the second highest category, shorter girls often get left out." Hans said. "Although for all practical purposes, gymnast-type should be considered the very highest category. The Gallians have never been able to locate a Strike Witch with a perfect ballerina-type rear end. That's the theoretical highest category, ballerina-type. There just don't seem to be any Strike Witches with ballerina-type rear ends... But of course, the search continues."
"As you say, the Froggies are nothing if not diligent." Dietrich said.
"Yes well, oh damn wait a minute, let me think..." Hans snapped his fingers as if he had just remembered something. "Yes, of course. Breakfast! Just wait here a minute Dietrich, I've prepared something special for breakfast."
"Ah, there's no need to bother really," Dietrich said nervously, "We can just get some cheese tartines and coffee in the main hall, my dear fellow."
"Pfft. That doesn't sound like much. Just wait here a moment, Schrader."
Hans walked off into the kitchen. Dietrich worried was sort of odious crap Ritter had in store for breakfast. Probably something foreign and horrible that tasted like floor cleaner. Ritter had a weakness for spicy ethnic stuff, with unpronounceable names, vile-looking runny splat. On the few occasions when Dietrich had been to a restaurant with him, everyone else would order something normal like roast chicken or pork cutlets, but Ritter would invariably order the weirdest damn thing on the menu. Something like Gallian seafood stew, full of shells and claws and various boiled aquatic vermin. No wonder the little bugger was getting an ulcer.
"I won't be but a minute!" Hans shouted from the kitchen.
"How idyllic, breakfast with Caligula." Dietrich muttered.
"I heard that, you hateful knob!" Hans shouted cheerfully.
After a moment, Hans returned from the kitchen, carrying two cleanish glasses and a small liquor bottle.
"Just look, I managed to score a whole case of this stuff in town." Hans said proudly.
"Hans, isn't it a bit early in the day to start drinking?" said Dietrich.
"Pah, it's barely a splash in the glass. Just a taste, that's all. Not even deep enough to drown a mouse." Hans said, as he handed a glass to his friend.
Dietrich looked at the translucent amber fluid in his glass. "Just exactly what is this, anyway?"
"Oh, something quite rare." Hans said, as he started reading from the label on the bottle. "Ahem! This is Highland Tartan Bagpipe Glen, Premium Scotic Whiskey. Aged to perfection in Highland Oak Casks. The Historical Favorite of Bonnie Prince Charlie, Robert Burns, and the Loch Ness Monster."
Dietrich sniffed at the glass. "This doesn't smell like whiskey. I'm not entirely sure what it smells like."
"Well, I'm sure it tastes much better than it smells." Hans said.
"Let me see that bottle for a minute." Dietrich said.
Hans handed the bottle to his friend. Dietrich started reading the label. "Highland Tartan Bagpipe Glen, Premium Scotic Whiskey. Blah blah oak casks, blah blah Bonnie Prince Charlie, blah blah Loch Ness Monster."
Then Dietrich read the very fine print, at the very bottom of the label. "Product of the Manitoban Protectorate, Faraway Land Dominion."
Hans looked surprised. "But, how can Scotic Whiskey come from Faraway?"
Dietrich reached out and tapped Hans on the forehead with his index finger. "It can't, you halfwit. This is a fraudulent product, it's just some cheap hooch brewed up by some scheming Faraway fascists, it's only pretending to be Scotic Whiskey."
Hans shrugged. "Well, I'm sure it tastes okay, anyway. Here's how." Hans raised his glass in a toast, and then drank some of the strange liquid. Then he made a wry face. "Hmm, actually it really doesn't taste particularly pleasant. Actually it's a bit off-putting. Oh well." Hans drank some more of it.
"Hans, don't drink it if it tastes off!" Dietrich exclaimed. "It might be toxic, why for all we know it might be Manitoban rabbit piss!"
"Well, I doubt that it's rabbit piss." Hans said.
"Just don't drink it." said Dietrich.
"Just think of the number of rabbits that they would need at the distillery," said Hans, "There is simply no way that it could ever be cost-effective."
"Stop drinking it!" Dietrich shouted.
Hans continued talking and drinking. "Assuming for the sake of argument that each rabbit could produce, perhaps, a tenth of a liter of urine, every 24 hours. Now, bear in mind that most of that volume would be lost during distillation. I would estimate that they would require, at minimum, somewhere between 75,000 and 100,000 rabbits, which of course would be patently absurd."
Dietrich grabbed the bottle from his friend, and poured the remainder of the enigmatic liquor on the floor. "Whatever the hell it is, you shouldn't drink any more of it. You little chalky-faced Harz imbecile."
Hans gasped theatrically. "Harz imbecile? Chalky-faced? Why, that's regional bias. That's highly offensive, you ruddy-faced Prussian swine. Such bigotry, such hostility simmering just below the surface!"
Dietrich sighed. "Ritter, you know what? I think I liked you better when you were in a coma."
.
.
(Meanwhile!)
.
(Just a few kilometers away!)
.
.
A car is stopped at a crossroads. The car is an elegant Citroën Rosalie, painted in a tasteful two-tone, lime-gold/lime-silver. The occupants of the car are Strike Witches, wearing their standard-issue "scant" or "half-clad" uniforms, uniforms of various nationalities. Two of the Witches have exited the vehicle, and are scouting their immediate surroundings.
For none of them are at all sure which way to turn...
.
.
Shirley stuck her head out of the driver's side window. "Yo-yo! Hattie! You gals see anythin' like a road marker, or somethin'?"
Miyafuji shook her head. "Apologies, Yeager-san! There is a broken wooden post, but no sign of a sign!"
"Gol dang! No sign of a sign, dag nabbit!" Shirley was beginning to feel mildly annoyed.
"Perhaps, if you had considered the simple expedient of a road map." Clostermann said peevishly. Perrine was wearing a black beret pulled down nearly to her eyebrows, and was looking rather Left Bank. And was feeling rather bilious.
Shirley was now feeling somewhat more than mildly annoyed. "Look darlin', this is your damn car, ain't it? Who the heck ever heard of a car without a road map in the glove compartment?"
Perrine sniffed. "Hmpf. I keep gloves in the glove compartment. Strange as that may seem to you... you honky-tonk Libby."
"What did you call me?" Shirley snarled.
"Oh bloody hell, just stop it you two! If you're intent on murdering each other, could you at least wait until I'm not sitting between you?" Lynette was a kind and hopeful soul, and as such often naturally fell into the role of the Voice of Reason/Politeness Police.
Meanwhile in the back seat, another drama was unfolding. Francesca was tapping a semiconscious Hartmann on the shoulder, and expressing worry for her friend's well-being.
"Hey, Erica? Hey, Little Fritzie? You okay?" Francesca was genuinely concerned, because Hartmann seemed more than drowsy. In fact she seemed to be turning slightly green in the face.
Erica managed to open her eyes, and then she made a sound like this. "Urp... Ack..."
Francesca leaned forward, and looked into Erica's eyes. "You not look so good, Little Fritzie. Does urp-ack mean something in Herrensprache?"
Lynette turned around to look at Erica. "I'm afraid urp-ack probably means the same in Herrensprache as it does in Anglish, or Romagnan. Erica is not feeling at all well."
"Ja, ha-ha... I feel like seven shades of hell." Erica's usually pleasant Bavarian voice had none of its customary lilt, she sounded quite despondent and mopey.
"What seems to be the problem, darlin'?" Shirley asked.
"Don't you dare barf in my Citroën." Perrine commanded.
Erica shrugged. "Barkhorn was yelling at me, all morning. So mean, so mean... Not a milligram of mercy do I ever get from that girl..."
Francesca looked at Erica sympathetically. "Why is Tough Fritzie always so mean to my poor Little Fritzie?"
Erica sighed. "She hates me, she hates me. That's the only explanation. She hates me, down to the marrow of my bones. No matter how hard I try to make her like me. She always just growls and scowls, she glares and swears. But I... I really only want her to like me, is that so very terrible?"
"Maybe she just doesn't know how to relate to you." Lynette suggested.
"Maybe she's just playing hard to get." Shirley suggested.
"Maybe you're really just a worthless and unseemly little hoyden." Perrine suggested.
Lynette glared at Perrine. "Erica is not worthless!"
"Really? What earthly use is she?" Perrine asked casually.
Shirley raised an eyebrow. "How about 430 confirmed victories, Ace of Aces, Swords to the Knight's Cross with Silver Oakleaves. How about that?"
"Hmpf." said Perrine.
Erica grimaced, seemingly close to tears. "No, no. Perrine is right. Nothing I do ever seems to matter to Trude. I could strangle the Supreme Neuroi to death with my bare hands, but Barkhorn would still treat me like garbage. Nothing I do is ever good enough for her."
"Well, don't be so pessimistic," Lynette said gently, "Maybe you should judge Trude by what she hasn't done. I mean, you have to admit, sometimes you can be a bit of a git. But Trude has never beaten you with a cricket bat, or anything like that. So maybe the fact that she has never completely flipped out on you, maybe there's some affection behind that, wouldn't you say?"
Erica sniffled. "Do you really think so?"
Shirley reached out and tapped Erica on the shoulder. "Y'know, little darlin', you've got the blues in your shoes, and that's a fact. But, don't let ol' Trudy get ya down. Maybe you're just tryin' too hard. Maybe you should just lean back, and let her come to you. Never make a second pass, that's my motto. Let her figure things out, give her some time to realize just how great you really are. Better yet, do somethin' to make her get jealous. That'll learn her."
"If I was in your place, I would put some cyanide in Barkhorn's tea." Perrine stated matter-of-factly.
Lynette stared at Perrine. "Clostermann, were you dropped on your head repeatedly as a child?"
Perrine shrugged. "I am not saying Erica should do that. I am merely saying what I would do, in her circumstances."
"Jumpin' jiminy, what a nutbar." Shirley muttered.
Erica looked pensive for a moment. "That'll learn her? Oh wait, you mean learn her as in teach her, I get it now. Yes, I would like to learn her a thing or two. You know, she woke me up at 0400 this morning, just to yell at me. She said that I was a lazy little lump, and a slovenly little wretch, and a dopey little fartbag, and a scrawny little weasel, and a dozy little dormouse, and an empty-headed little tart, and a..."
"Please stop, we get the idea." said Lynette.
"Tough Fritzie is sooo mean!" said Francesca.
Erica nodded. "She just kept yelling at me, for hours. And I knew you girls wanted to get an early start this morning, because this was the first week of time-off that we've had in ages. And that we had reservations at a nice hotel, and a rented boat and everything. I didn't want to make everyone late, but Trude just wouldn't stop yelling at me. And by the time I got downstairs, you all were already in the car, waiting for me. I was famished, but there wasn't any leftover breakfast, not even any coffee. And you know I can't function in the morning without at least three cups of coffee. So anyway, I sort of, um..."
"You sort of um, what?" Francesca asked.
"I sort of um... ate the leftover coffee grounds." Erica admitted, shamefacedly.
"You did what?" Lynette yelped.
Shirley shook her head in disbelief. "Hoo-haw! Babydoll, you must be feelin' sicker than a pregnant polecat in a cement mixer!"
"Ohhh... indeed I am." Erica moaned.
Perrine recoiled in dismay. "Zut alors! You crazy little savage! Eating wet coffee grounds, out of the garbage! How revolting!"
"Definitely... not my wisest decision ever..." Erica groaned.
"How could you possibly even consider doing such a thing?" Lynette wondered.
Erica shook her head. "Damned if I know... But, it wasn't all my fault... Mostly it was Barkhorn's fault, for making me late... And also, I do tend to have... unorthodox ideas... Because I'm sort of avant-garde, sort of bohemian... Sort of a free spirit... Sort of jazzy... Sort of, sort of... Oh Jesus, I sort of have to regurgitate!"
Erica lunged toward the nearest window and started barfing her guts out. She made a sound like this. "Pauke-Pauke! Pauke-Pauke! Pauke-Pauke!"
"Don't get any of your disgusting Boche barfings on my car!" Perrine shouted.
"Does Pauke mean something in Herrensprache?" little Francesca asked.
Lynette nodded. "I believe that it means war-drums, but in this context I'm afraid that it just means Help, I can't stop puking."
"Poor Little Fritzie!" said Francesca.
.
.
It was at this point that Miyafuji and Hattori started walking back toward the car. They had abandoned their search for any road signs or markers, and were having a conversation in their native Formal Nihongo-Japonican language.
"Miyafuji-san! Dear One! We have failed in our assigned task. As true maidens of Fuso, how can we cope with the shame of our abject failure?"
"Hattori-san, Dear One. There is no shame in failing to complete an impossible task. The road sign had been broken off and carted away. Perhaps by Gallian hooligans, or perhaps by ambitious beavers. Worry not of shame, I beg of you. Also I implore you, stop being such a dumbass. At first I found your obsessive attention to duty to be a charming thing. But lately I must confess that I have the unworthy suspicion that you are merely some kind of idiot."
"Miyafuji-san, Dear One. I must plead with you, do not refer to me as a dumbass or an idiot. For it often seems to me that you are merely a hyperactive and opinionated little pipsqueak. With hair like a thatched roof. And no rear end to speak of."
"Hattori-san, Dear One. Would you seek to anger me? I must ask you to refrain from doing so. For if I did not value our friendship so highly, I would certainly punch you in the nose, right about now."
"Miyafuji-san, Amusing One. Are you attempting to make me laugh? If so, you are on the path to succeeding in that endeavor. For it seems to me that you are as small and weak as a starveling gerbil. And I could surely break you in half, without breaking a sweat."
"Hattori-san! Noisy One! Please silence yourself! For behold, yonder is our dear friend Hartmann, vomiting most prodigiously from the window of Dear Clostermann's most noble automobile!"
"Miyafuji-san, Observant One! You are correct! Dear Hartmann is vomiting in an altogether forceful manner! Oh dear, oh dear! I wonder what malady has afflicted our most esteemed friend. Do you suppose that it might be the morning sickness?"
"Hattori-san, Dull-witted One. How do you suppose that it could be the morning sickness? Perhaps it has escaped your attention, but we all live in an isolated compound, completely devoid of any contact with the male contingent of humanity. Have you no understanding of the basic principles of placental reproduction?"
"Miyafuji-san, Grouchy One. I was only asking a question. You don't have to bite my head off. Also, why the hell are we talking like this? No one in Fuso has spoken in Formal-form for the last 700 years. Can we stop now? I'm starting to feel like a complete tool."
"Hattori-san, I just thought it might be fun, that's all. I mean, sometimes Lynette recites poetry in Ancient Anglo-Saxon. You know, Beowulf and stuff like that. I just thought we could try out speaking in Formal-form, you know, sort of like a game."
"Well, it isn't much of a game, if you ask me. You sure think up some stupid games, Miyafuji-san."
"Okay Hattori-san, so we won't play anymore. But I guess that I better go see what the heck is wrong with Erica. Oh, and we better switch to speaking in Anglish, because every time we talk in Nihongo-Japonican in front of the other girls, they just assume that we must be talking about them."
"But Miyafuji-san, every time we talk Nihongo-Japonican in front of the other girls, we are talking about them!"
"Well yes of course, Hattori-san. And we can still get away with it, just as long as we're subtle about it."
.
.
Miyafuji and Hattori walked up to the Citroën. Erica was still hanging halfway out the rear passenger window, spitting and panting heavily.
"Hartmann-san, why have you been violently physically ill?" Miyafuji asked.
"Oh, it weren't nuthin' at all, Doll-face," Shirley interjected, "Erica just ate some old coffee grounds for breakfast, and they just staged a coup, that's all. Don't pay it no nevermind."
"Hartmann-san, why on earth would you eat old coffee grounds?" said Hattori.
"It's a Karlsland thing, you wouldn't understand." Erica rasped.
"Are you okay now?" asked Miyafuji.
"I think so, I think that I just need to get some air." Erica said, as she opened the rear passenger door and stepped out on to the road, carefully side-stepping the puddle of vomitous coffee grounds.
"Where are you going, sick Little Fritzie?" Francesca said.
"I'm just going for a little walk, I'll be right back." Erica said, as she wandered away at a slow, none too steady pace.
Hattori and Miyafuji walked around to the other side of the car, and slid into the back seat beside Francesca.
"Well, what shall we do now?" said Lynette.
Shirley threw up her hands in exasperation. "Well darlin', I guess all we can do is wait for Erica to mosey on back, and then I guess we can flip a coin to pick what direction to go. One thing I know, we need to get to a Michelin Station, and soon. We're way past bingo-fuel on the gas gauge, and the radiator was starting to sing like a tea-kettle before I stopped the engine. This overpriced Frogmobile needs gas and water, pronto. It sure would've been sweet if someone had thought to mention that we needed gas and water, before we set out on this little voyage of discovery."
Perrine snorted. "Meh, I would have thought that a pre-eminent mechanic like yourself would have checked such things, as a matter of course."
Lynette turned around to talk with Miyafuji. "Well, one thing's for certain, as soon as we get to the hotel, you're having a jolly good scrub in the tub. My grubby little wayfarer."
"But Lynette-san! Bath-time isn't until 1900 hours!" Miyafuji protested.
Lynette reached back and tapped Miyafuji gently on the nose. "Not at all, Yoshika-san. Bath-time is whenever you happen to need a bath."
Miyafuji relented. "Well, all right. But please, not that awful Lysol Soap again. It makes me smell like a chemist's shop."
"But Lysol Soap kills all known microbes." said Lynette.
"But as a pacifist, I am ethically opposed to wanton killing." said Miyafuji.
"Oh camon, you know it's good for you, even if it smells funny." said Lynette.
Miyafuji crossed her arms in front of her chest, and looked very much out of countenance with the prospect of Lysol Soap.
Lynette reached back and started stroking Miyafuji's hair. "Camon, camon. Please don't pout. Where's my good Little Fuso Girl? I'm a mess without my Little Fuso Girl."
Miyafuji blushed, and smiled in spite of herself. "Oh all right. Lysol Soap it is. You manipulative Britannic Witch, you always win every argument by making me smile."
Lynette grinned. "And you know that you love it, my Little Fuso Flower."
Miyafuji smirked. "Cor blimey, m'lady!"
Lynette mock-scowled at her. "Hey, hey. No more of that, you cheeky little chipmunk. You know I don't talk like that. I'm not some sort of Cockney reject."
Miyafuji laughed, and stuck her tongue out at Lynette. Lynette laughed and stuck her tongue out at Miyafuji.
Perrine screamed. "Aaaaagh! Will you two please stop all this cutesie-pie crap, before I'm the next one to start vomiting uncontrollably?"
.
About a hundred meters down the road, Luftwaffe Oberleutnant Erica Hartmann was walking along, and still feeling slightly woozy from her recent ordeal. The heat of the sun was getting to be a bit much for her, so she decided to rest for a few minutes under the shade of a small oak tree beside the road.
Erica pushed back some of the lower branches, so that she could lean against the trunk of the oak. It was then that she noticed a rectangular wooden sign, bolted to the trunk of the tree. She realized that Hattori and Miyafuji must not have seen the sign, because of the low-hanging foliage. Erica looked at the sign. At the top was a stencil of a Wehrmacht Eagle. And beneath that, in Gothic block-letters, the words Field Station 27. And an arrow pointing West, marked 3km. Erica read the rest of the sign. Field Dressing Station, Rest and Recuperation Facility, Vehicle Repair Station, Supply Depot.
Well, at least we could get directions and probably a map, Erica thought. Then she started examining the various service badges at the bottom of the sign. There were about twenty or so. Erica saw a Panzergrenadier badge, and wrinkled her nose. A bunch of Screaming Helmets, she thought. But then Erica noticed another badge. Luftwaffe Fallschirmjäger.
Good God, there were actual Fallschirmjägers at this Field Station place. The absolute elite of Karlsland's fighting forces. Tall and young and physically perfect. Combining ultimate Teutonic precision and primal ferocity. Trained to be harder than spring-steel. The best of the best. Dauntless young demigods, deadly heroes. (Who also tended to be deadly sexy, Erica thought, in an unguarded corner of her mind.) Fallschirmjägers were always doing amazing things, real Gekados stuff, stuff like deploying Fuel-Air Skyburner mines, wiping out entire Neuroi installations with insanely powerful shockwaves and heat like the surface of the sun. Fallschirmjägers, bright and dangerous. (Dangerously sexy, Erica thought, in another unguarded corner of her mind.) And there was a whole bunch of these airborne glory-boys, resting and recuperating, just 3000 meters thataway.
Erica smiled, and started hop-skip running back to the Citroën.
.
Erica was nearly out of breath by the time she reached the car. She grinned and said "Shirley! Three kilometers West! Field Station! Let's go!"
"Whoa, hold your horses, darlin'," Shirley said, "What kind of a Field Station?"
Erica laughed. "My kind of a Field Station! Karlsland Field Station 27! Those places are run by the Heer. And where you find the Heer, you find the beer! Let's go!"
Perrine gave Erica a fishy look. "And what makes you think that we will get permission to help ourselves to beer, and whatnot?"
Erica pointed to the Luftwaffe Eagle on her pilot jacket. "Here's our permission, sweetheart!"
"Erm, are you sure that will be enough?" Lynette asked.
Erica waved her arms in the air. "Camon, Witches! I'm Erica Hartmann. The Heer boys will recognize me. Heck, I'm even something of a pin-up girl, in certain sections of the Wehrmacht."
Perrine sneered. "The more desperate and addle-minded sections, obviously. Half-mad cross-eyed U-boat crews, that are slowly succumbing to carbon monoxide poisoning, for example."
Erica stared at Perrine. "Clostermann, I'll have you know that an article in Luftflotte West said that I was the Luftwaffe's sweet little Himmelhund."
Francesca snickered. "Tee-hee-hee! Little Fritzie, doesn't that mean Heavenly Hound?"
"Well, it sounds a lot sexier in Herrensprache." Erica said, sheepishly.
Shirley considered her options. "Well, this Field Station place is pretty darn close. And we do need some gas and water for the car. And we could probably get directions to the hotel, or at least back to a main road... Hmm, I wonder..."
Erica tapped her foot impatiently. "Camon, Shirley. This isn't rocket physics. Let's go!"
"I'm a-thinkin', I'm a-thinkin'..." Shirley said, noncommitally.
Finally Erica decided to say the magic word. "Fallschirmjägers. They have actual Fallschirmjägers at the Field Station."
Shirley's eyes widened as her eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. "Fallschirmjägers? Well, I'll be a ding-dang doozy! Why the heck didn't you say so?"
Lynette shook her head sadly. "Tall beautiful boys invariably have tall beautiful girlfriends. Fashion model types, cabaret singer types. They wouldn't give a bunch of teeny-tiny little tosspots like us a second glance."
Perrine nodded. "Those Fallschirmjäger stallions wouldn't cross the street to spit on the likes of us. The heartless Boche bastards."
"Why on earth would you want them to cross the street in order to spit on you?" Lynette asked.
"That is hardly the point, you Brit twit." said Perrine.
Shirley sighed. "Yep, I reckon you gals are right. Them Fallschirmjäger boys would take one look at us, and laugh. And then we'd all be feelin' lower than a lizard's loafers."
Erica waved her arms in the air, yet again. "Dear little dummies! It doesn't matter if they have girlfriends. Look around. We're in the middle of nowhere. Their girlfriends won't be with them. We will be the first girls that they have seen in weeks, or more likely months. Just us, no competition. So what if we're short, we're still girls, aren't we? And I bet we will look pretty damn good to a bunch of bored and lonely Fallschirmjägers."
Shirley, Lynette and Perrine looked at each other, and thought it over.
"Hmm, y'know, I'm thinkin' lil Erica just might have a point." said Shirley.
"Bien, it does have a certain logic, doesn't it?" said Perrine.
"I'm starting to think that this is a bit of all right." said Lynette.
Shirley, Lynette and Perrine looked at each other, and shared a sublime predatory smile.
"They probably are quite bored, don't you think?" said Lynette.
"Bored, and lonely." said Perrine.
"Bored, and lonely, and horny as all get out." said Shirley.
"I'm sure they would enjoy some female companionship." said Perrine.
"Some singing." said Lynette.
"Some dancing." said Shirley.
"Some snogging." said Lynette.
"I think our little jerry-friend has a Very Good Idea." said Perrine.
"Great, Fantastic! Let's go!" Erica said, and then she ran over to the other side of the car and crawled in the back seat with Francesca, Miyafuji and Hattori.
"Squish over, you layabouts. We've got places to go." said Erica.
Francesca tapped Erica on the shoulder. "Hey Little Fritzie, the Fritzie Army has boys as young as me, right?"
Erica nodded. "As young, or even a bit younger. Why do you ask?"
Francesca grinned. "Why do you think I ask, dear little dummy?"
Erica smiled, and patted Francesca on the head. "Don't be ridiculous. You're too young to be dating boys."
Francesca scowled. "No, don't you be ridiculous. My grandmother was married when she was my age."
Erica shrugged. "If you can find a boy that the rest of us approve of, I suppose we might let you talk to him."
"Talking, terrific." Francesca said glumly. "If I want to talk, I can get a parrot, you know."
"I suppose we might also let you play cards, or something." said Erica.
"Bleah." said Francesca. Then she tapped Erica on the shoulder again.
"Now what is it?" said Erica.
"I can have some beer, right?" Francesca asked, hopefully.
"Certainly not." said Erica.
"But my grandfather was a chronic alcoholic at my age!" Francesca protested.
"Too bad." said Erica.
"Maybe some wine?" said Francesca.
"Nein." said Erica.
"Some vodka?" said Francesca.
"Nyet." said Erica.
"Cigars?" said Francesca.
"No way." said Erica.
"Marijuana?" said Francesca.
"Dope? Nope!" said Erica.
"Well, what can I have, then?" Francesca demanded.
Erica thought about it. "Hmm... Oh, I know. You can have some Fanta. It is a popular Karlsland carbonated soft drink, available in great flavours like Bitter Apple, Sour Orange, Super-Sour Lemon, and Astringent Grape."
"Bitter Fizzy Fritzie Juice, terrific." said Francesca.
.
.
Meanwhile, Hattori and Miyafuji were having a quiet conversation, in (Modern) Nihongo-Japonican.
.
"Miyafuji-san, why are the Western girls all so excited about these... Fallschirmjägers?"
"Oh, it is an unfortunate flaw in the personalities of Western girls. They all go insane at the sight of tall beautiful boys."
"But are these Fallschirmjägers really so perfect and beautiful?"
"Well, yes they do tend to be, Hattori-san. The candidates for Fallschirmjäger training have to be young and physically perfect, in order to withstand the extremely rigorous regimen. And they have a minimum height requirement of six feet. And they have to have highly adapted reflexes, stamina, intelligence, strength, eyesight, everything. They do tend to be magnificent, in every way."
"Well, I have to say that they sound pretty good, Miyafuji-san."
"Yes Hattori-san, they are the airborne elite. They are like... implacable gods descended from heaven. And as you can see, these poor unfortunate Western girls have absolutely no self-control. Really, we should be thankful that we are Fuso girls. We have vastly superior mental discipline, and unlike these silly Western girls, we have an understanding of equanimity, and decorum."
"Are you sure about that, Miyafuji-san?"
"Why do you ask, Hattori-san?"
"I ask because I'm more than a little interested in seeing a tall beautiful implacable god, descended from heaven."
"Hattori-san, don't be so dumb. A boy is just a boy, even if he happens to look like a golden-haired celestial deity. Remember, equanimity and decorum, in all things."
"Miyafuji-san, why are your teeth chattering?"
"B-Because I think I'm going to die from excitement, you nitwit."
"What about our equanimity, and decorum?"
"I seem to be having difficulty maintaining either, at the moment."
"Yeah. Me too."
.
Meanwhile, Shirley was trying to get the car to start. She pressed the starter. The engine revved, and died. She pressed the starter again. The engine revved and died, again.
Stupid dang car, Shirley thought.
"Oh, please don't tell me it won't start." Lynette pleaded.
"Pour l'amour de Dieu, non." Perrine whispered.
"Just give me a cotton-pickin' minute, I'm gonna try somethin'." Shirley said.
Shirley hopped out of the car, walked forward and lifted the engine-bonnet. She looked down upon the uncooperative Gallian engine. She took a very deep breath.
"START! START-START! STAAAART!" Shirley screamed at the engine, at the top of her lungs.
Then Shirley closed the engine-bonnet, and hopped back into the car. She pressed the starter. The engine revved, and revved, and revved and revved, and revved, and roared to life.
"Told ya." said Shirley.
Lynette cheered, and gleefully slapped the dashboard as Shirley put the car in gear, and started driving West.
"Camon! Camon! Hurry up Shirley, camon!" Lynette chanted merrily.
"Allez-hop!" shouted Perrine.
"Tally-ho!" cried Lynnette.
"Geronimo!" howled Shirley.
"Avanti!" shrieked Francesca.
"Horrido!" screamed Erica.
"Banzai!" yowled Hattori.
"I think I'm having a heart attack!" squeaked Miyafuji.
.
.
.
Pause.
.
Chapter One - Notes and Deletes
.
Note:
"Never make a second pass." (Shirley Yeager, in her universe.)
"Never make a second pass." (Chuck Yeager, in our universe.)
.
Note:
Camon: 1920s slang (chiefly British). Derived from "Come on". An expression of encouragement, support, affirmation, etc. Also a call to action, or attention, etc. Pronounced "kah-mon". Similar to "C'mon".
Deleted Material:
From the deleted prologue.
.
(Ritter's Recurring Nightmare)
.
Darkness. Cold. Silence. Snow.
Artillery flares drifting slowly earthward.
A barren winter plain.
Thousands, tens of thousands...
Soldiers...
Civilians...
Frozen to the ground.
Bodies
Scattered to the horizon
Hundreds of thousands...
Shadows, magnesium flares drifting
Blinding blue flares
"Dietrich... What in God's name..."
"In God's name? In God's name..."
"...Dietrich?"
"In God's name... Nothing, nothing... Nothing in God's name..."
Dogs.
The sound of dogs...
.
.