DISCLAIMER: Drifters belongs to Kouta Hirano. The scenario and original characters are mine.
A glossary will be available at the end of the chapter.
Chapter I
August 27th, 1918
The Hindenburg Line
'Another day, another chance to get my ass blown off…' Unteroffizier* Hans Wertheim thought miserably as he nursed what little coffee he'd managed to scrounge. The rest of his men were busying themselves with the MG08, getting it ready for the "Morning Hate".
Marcus was inserting the two-hundred and fifty-round belt into the gun while Emil pushed the charging handle forward twice, getting the 7.9257mm belt into place. Wentz was fetching the extra ammunition boxes for the gun alongside Andreas. Finally, Gerhardt was feeding the hose from the water box into the gun's mantle.
There was a creak from his left. Wertheim wasn't surprised when he spotted the Scharfschütze*. The Scharfschütze had been with them since the first half of nineteen-fifteen. Wertheim didn't know much about the man. He believed the man was a Bavarian, given his accent, and he tended to scratch his neck out of habit. Wertheim guessed this was due to the old thin scar across the man's neck.
"Hey Marcus, got a Kippe*?" Gerhardt asked as he finished getting the hose into place.
Marcus gave his fellow Schütze* a deadpan look. "How did you smoke all of yours already?"
"I didn't. Left mine back in my bunk."
"Really? That's the fourth time this month. Maybe you ought to keep them in your pocket?"
"I would, but that's where I keep the picture of your mother."
The two men laughed at that before Marcus handed a cigarette over, with a promise from Gerhardt that'd he be repaid with one of his own. Wertheim finished his coffee and pulled out his pocket watch. With a nod to himself, he stepped up to the side of the gun and raised his field glasses.
No Man's Land still looked the same. Dead landscape, various shell holes and craters, mud, corpses, et cetera, et cetera. He knew that as the Gewehrführer, he was supposed to take a look each day and see if there was any sign of enemy raiding parties or an attack. It was a stupid order, of course, but then they all were, weren't they? Stupid orders for an equally stupid and pointless war. All for what? Some archduke who wasn't even German?
"Hans," Emil asked, his voice as quiet as ever, "Wentz and Andreas are back. Shall we start?"
"No. Wait until the others start. Don't want to give the Tommies a singular target."
"Fair enough."
The group jumped when the sound of thunder echoed from their left, where the Scharfschütze was. With an audible tink, the fired round hit the duck planks and rolled to a stop by Wertheim's boot.
"I take it you got one?" Andreas asked, his voice soft and smooth, indicative of his home on the Rhine.
The Scharfschütze glanced at him briefly with a frown as he brought up a small crucifix. He mouthed something in Latin, if Wertheim wasn't mistaken, and kissed it. Andreas rolled his eyes as he tugged on the sling of his rifle, a Gewehr 1888/05. He was one of the few machine gun crew members who carried their rifle on them. Wentz and Gerhardt were much the same, though they had the shorter Karabiner 1898AZs. Wertheim's rifle, a Gewehr 1898 he'd… picked up during a charge was laying against the parapet on the gun's right like Marcus's 1898 and Emil's 98AZ. They all had their standard issue pistols, of course, but they'd scrounged the rifles from the corpses in No Man's Land… or Andreas and Wentz did, at any rate.
Those two were often sent out during the night raids. Often times, it was up in the air who they were raiding, since this spot was where the Entente lines met between the Tommies and the Frogs. They'd even brought a couple of Frog handguns back once. One was a compact, semi-automatic handgun with a checkered wood grip and a nine-round magazine. The other was a small double action revolver with a right-side swing-out six shot cylinder. Wertheim never asked how the pair had gotten the two pistols.
In total, the six-man machine gun team had eight pistols: Wertheim's Pistole 08, Gerhardt's Mauser M1914, Emil's own Pistole 08, Marcus's C96, the spare M1879 Reichsrevolver and Pistole 08, and finally the two procured pistols. Alongside those, they'd scrounged up a total of thirty-seven grenades, giving roughly each of them six grenades, though Wertheim got an extra. He was the leader of the gun team after all. They were a big help when the Tommies or the Frogs got a little too close for comfort.
"Unteroffizier?" a new voice called from behind them.
Wertheim turned and came to attention as an Oberleutnant* came up, a pipe dangling from his mustached face.
"Sir."
"I'm sorry, but you and your crew have been picked."
"Sir?"
"You'll be going over the top today."
"Understood, sir. When will we-"
"In three hours. You'll have enough time to have breakfast, but once you've had it, you'll report to Feldwebel* Berchtold. You're aware of where he is?"
"I'm not, but Schützen Riedel and Myers do, sir."
"Good. Once again, I am sorry. God be with you boys."
"And you, sir," Wertheim replied as the Oberleutnant moved away, smoke drifting from his pipe.
Once the man was out of earshot, the machine gunners cursed, muttered, or sighed at their predicament. Going over the top would be certain death. That, however, was three hours from now. Their thoughts were brought back to the current moment as the rattle of multiple machine guns and the boom of artillery shells hitting No Man's Land sounded out.
Emil placed his hands over the gun's spade-grip while Marcus held the ammo belt straight, Gerhardt coming to stand behind Emil to relay Wertheim's orders.
"Fire," the Unteroffizier ordered, Gerhardt giving a gentle smack on Emil's shoulder. Soon, their gun added its own rattling burst to the others.
They were answered by the Frogs and the Tommies own Vickers and Hotchkiss guns. Their artillery also replied to their German counterparts. It was like clockwork. What wasn't, however, was the shell that came screaming down on them. None of the seven men who were standing in that part of the Hindenburg Line ever saw it coming. Their bodies would never be found, and they would be listed as "Missing in Action". What really happened to them was far stranger.
Unknown Year
Unknown Place
Wertheim blinked once. He couldn't believe his eyes. One moment, he, his men, and the Scharfschütze had been doing their part in their little piece of the Hell that was the French countryside. The next? They were here, in this strange white hallway, his rifle on the floor beside Marcus's and Emil's rifles. The three men manning the MG08 dropped to the floor alongside the gun, said gun jamming as the belt was held aloft by the falling Marcus.
The Scharfschütze fell too, having leaned against the trench parapet that had disappeared. The bag full of grenades landed in Gerhardt's lap. Wertheim breathed a sigh of relief inwardly. He knew it was silly to think they would go off if they hit the ground, but accidents had happened before. Wertheim watched as the Scharfschütze made sure to fall onto his back rather than on his rifle and more specifically the scope mounted on said rifle. Andreas and Wentz were standing beside Wertheim, looking just as bewildered as he was.
"What the fuck?!" Wertheim heard Emil shout.
He looked down and saw the man sit up, reaching for his stahlhelm*. It must have come off when he fell. Marcus was trying to stand up, being helped up by an already standing Gerhardt. I glanced at the Scharfschütze, and saw Andreas and Wentz helping him get to his feet. I offered a hand to Emil.
"Thanks," he muttered as he refastened his helmet. I gave him a nod and looked around. That's when the Unteroffizier saw the man.
Wertheim couldn't see any real details about the man as he was seated behind a large desk. He could see what was on said desk, though. The first item was a strange rectangular device with the number "79" with "Please take a number" written above it. Other items included a pot of coffee, a mug of the stuff, a few books, and a full ashtray. The man was reading a newspaper.
The paper he read was confusing. The page facing the machine gun team and Scharfschütze stated, in big, bold letters, "Battle of Amiens Continues, Over 50,000 Troops and 500 Guns Taken by The Allies". On it were pictures of his team, a Tommy tank in the middle of traversing a ditch, a crowd of German prisoners, and finally a group of Allied troops walking by an armored car. Wertheim didn't understand how this man had pictures of himself and his team along with the info on the paper. Was it Allied propaganda?
The man lowered the newspaper and turned his head to regard the group of machine gunners. He was a blond-haired man with a slicked hairstyle and deep blue eyes. He wore a beige sweater, a light blue colored shirt with a red tie, and a pair of rectangular glasses. A cigarette hung from his mouth as he gazed upon Wertheim, the Scharfschütze, and his men.
"Who are you?" Wertheim asked, one of his hands coming to rest on his pistol.
The others glanced up at him and then noticed the man. Each of them, including the Scharfschütze, aimed their weapons at the man. Emil and Marcus had to grab their rifles, of course, but once they did, Wertheim picked his own up as well as the bag of grenades. The Unteroffizier slung the bag over his shoulder as he held his rifle with the barrel pointed down but toward the man.
"Lower your weapons, all of you. He's a civilian," Wertheim ordered, much to the others embarrassment, though he could hardly blame them. They had been on the frontline only a few seconds ago.
The man looked down at the newspaper and began to fold it. The machine gunners grew even more puzzled as he did this. None of this made sense. With a flourish, the man removed the sign hanging from his desk before removing the cigarette from his mouth. He then looked at his watch. With an almost imperceptible nod to himself, the man lifted a piece of paper that had been on his desk, the light of the hall making his eyes invisible behind his glasses.
The man then uttered a single sentence in a monotone voice, "Next please."
The six machine gunners and single Scharfschütze all uttered a single word in reply, "What?"
A pair of doors on either side of the groups then opened. One on the Scharfschütze's left, the other on the machine gunners' right. The MG08 slid into the right doorway and was soon followed by its crew. The Scharfschütze was pulled through the other doorway. The barrel of the man's rifle was the last thing to go through.
The Machine Gun Team
The crew of the machine gun once again fell flat, though this time on more familiar ground. Andreas was the first man on his feet this time, followed by Gerhardt, Emil, Wertheim, Marcus, and finally Wentz.
"Where the Hell are we? Somewhere behind the lines?" Andreas wondered aloud, his rifle off his shoulder as he scanned the surroundings.
"Marcus, Gerhardt, get that jam fixed. I'd rather have the gun be operable than not," Wertheim ordered as he slung his rifle and pulled out his field glasses.
Wentz, on the other hand, replied to Andreas, "Seems more like the Black Forest to me."
"What, you think we're back home?"
"Quiet you two. Let me get a look around."
"No offense, Hans, but you can't really see shit here."
"You say that, but… there. Let's make for those ruins up there. Once we get there, I want numbers on all that we have. That means rations, ammunition, equipment, everything. Marcus, Gerhardt, is that gun fixed?"
"Yes, Unteroffizier," the two chorused, one holding the unfired bullet.
"I'd keep a hold of that. No telling when we'll be able to get more, considering we have no idea where the Hell we are."
Gerhardt nodded and pocketed the round. With that done, Wertheim disconnected the water box from the gun, while Marcus, Emil, and Gerhardt further disassembled the weapon for transport.
"Wentz, Andreas, you'll be our escort. Keep your eyes open for any Tommies or Frogs, yeah?"
"No need to say that twice. Lead the way, Unteroffizier."
The Scharfschütze
Schütze Karl Hautzig groaned as he sat up. His rifle lay in his lap. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that had descended on his mind, before scanning his surroundings. It was an arid, dry place that he found himself in.
'What happened?' the Scharfschütze thought as he went to stand. He dusted himself off, the dust leaving small stains on his Feldgrau* clothing. He glanced up at the sky, trying to determine what the time was. He quickly shielded his eyes as the sun blinded him.
The sun was overhead. How could that be? It was before dawn only moments ago!
He perked up as he heard shouting. He couldn't make out the words, but the shouting seemed close by. Locals, perhaps? Maybe they could help him. He grasped at the crucifix around his neck and sent a short prayer above before moving towards the shouting.
It was another hour before he came upon a strange scene. There was a small dust cloud that seemed to be the source of the shouting. As he came closer, he thought he could make out some of it, but it still didn't make sense. After all, outside of the church, no one spoke Latin!
"{-ated me! Cannae, Zama, you copied me both times you little brat!}*" one voice cried, old and haggard.
Another voice, one not quite as old, cried back, "{I won, so it's not an imitation!}"
"{When I get back, I'll burn Carthage to the ground!}"
"{When I get back, I will spread salt in Rome!}"
'Rome? Carthage? What are they going on about?' Hautzig thought as he stopped a few feet away.
"Ahem," the Scharfschütze began, "{Excuse me?}"
The two arguers turned to him, malice in their eyes, which quickly turned to confusion upon seeing him. The dust cloud disappeared slowly, revealing an elderly man with a long white beard and hair. He had a small cloth acting as an eyepatch for his left eye. The other man was quite muscular, and was clearly younger than the old man, though not much younger. He wore a toga, and had short, sand-colored hair.
"{Who are you?!}" the toga-wearer asked, wary of him. The elderly man was much the same.
"{Forgive me, but Latin is not my strong suit,}" Karl began, holding a hand up and taking a step forward, "{though you may call me Karl. Are you two familiar with this place?}"
"{Karl? That is not a Roman name…}" the elderly man commented before the younger one answered, "{No. We are not. From where do you hail, Karl?}"
"{Germany, good sir. Why do you ask?}"
"{Ah, a barbarian.}"
"{Huh?}"
"{Pardon me,}" a new voice cut in from the trio's side.
Karl had his rifle out and pointed at the newcomer in an eye blink. The newcomer, a man around his own age, looked the strangest out of all them. He wore a white Double-breasted coat with a high collar and decorative gold buttons in two vertical rows. There was a green tie that seemed to be both connected and unconnected to the uniform as well. He also had a pair of white gloves and a small white beret. His pants and boots were the same color, and to cap it all off, he wore a pair of round glasses.
"Who are you?" the Scharfschütze ordered, his rifle barrel trained on the man's chest.
The man, looking somehow both excited and resigned at the same time, maneuvered the barrel away with a hand, and answered in perfect German, "A way out of this desert."
"And why should I trust you?"
"Would you rather stay out here and die from lack of water? I can tell you there is none for several miles."
Karl frowned, but did reluctantly lower the gun.
"If you'll follow me, there is a wagon nearby that will take us to the city of Carneades. I'll explain more about your situation on the way there."
"Situation? What are you talking about?"
"Follow, and all will be revealed."
Karl's frown deepened, and though he still did not trust the newcomer, he felt he had no choice. He sighed and slung his rifle onto his back. Once that was accomplished, he pulled out one of the few Kippe he had left and stuck it into his mouth.
"After you, then."
"{What are they saying?}"
"{No idea.}"
"{Merely getting him to agree with coming with us, of course. He is just like you too, it appears.}"
"{He's like us? How? His clothing is so…}"
"{Did I not already tell you, Scipio? You Drifters, from what the Grand Master says, come from all walks and periods of life. Don't be surprised if you see some strange ones.}"
The Machine Gun Team
By the time Wertheim and his men could see the ruined castle, it was already night. They were all quite tired by this point.
"Alright, stop here. We'll rest for a time before we get inside."
The five Schützen nodded in agreement. Some took their canteens off and unscrewed them while others pulled out cigarettes after they'd set the gun down. Wertheim took a swig from the small flask he'd kept since Ypres*.
"Hans?" Marcus asked, coming to stand beside the Unteroffizier.
"Hm?"
"You notice anything weird about this place?"
"Like what?"
"Well, have you noticed there hasn't been any shell fire or any other sounds from the front?"
Wertheim was about to respond to that when he took a second to think about it. Marcus was right. There hadn't been anything resembling the sounds of the Western Front ever since they'd arrived in this place. Surely they were still in France, right? It was insane to think otherwise… then again, weren't all of them supposed to be dead? He'd heard the shell, felt the ground rumble, heard the explosion…
"|Halt!|" a voice cried out from behind and above the group. The men quickly reacted, scooping up their weapons and diving for whatever cover they could find.
The Forest Drifters
The group of six men scampered out of sight, their clothing helping them blend into the darkness. Their dress was an odd gray color, same as the metal kabuto* they wear. Two of them are wearing what look like large, segmented metal chest plates. The weapons they carry are reminiscent of Nobunaga's musket, yet at the same time, they look quite different. There is also the larger object they'd been carrying.
"Zeig dich, Bastard!" he hears one call. They are definitely not Japanese.
Another one calls out from behind a nearby tree, in the same language. "Wo zum Teufel ist er?!"
"Andreas, Marcus und Gerhardt gehen um ihn herum. Wir werden seine Aufmerksamkeit auf uns richten!"
Another voice, closer to him, spoke up in a bewildered tone. "Wir werden?"
A trio of voices replied with "Ja, Unteroffizier", not the Yoichi understood what they said. The shuffle of moving feet told him all he needed though. He leaped from his branch and sprinted atop the castle wall to his left, managing to get behind one of the foreign men.
"Move, and I will put an arrow through your neck," he stated, switching to Japanese.
"Hey, what's going on out there?!"
'Dammit Nobunaga," Yoichi thought as the fifty-year-old man came stumbling out of the ruined castle. His musket was in hand.
"Scheiβe!"
"Nobunaga, get back inside, they have muskets!"
"Halt! Lass die Waffe fallen, alter Mann," the leader, or at least the one who seemed to be giving orders, called up to Nobunaga, pointing his own weird musket up at the man.
"Warte, Hans, sie sprechen Japanisch!"
"Was? Gerhardt, wovon redest du?"
"Lass mich mit ihnen sprechen, Ich kenne ihre Sprache!"
"Ach ... na gut, sehen sie ob sie dieses chaos beseitigen können."
One of them cleared his throat, and spoke in slightly accented Japanese, "How about we all calm down, alright?"
"You speak Japanese?"
"Yes. There is no need for either of our sides to kill each other, so how about we lower our weapons and talk peacefully?"
"I'm inclined to agree," Nobunaga put in, still being held at gunpoint. The young archer gazed at the speaker before lowering his bow.
"Hans, du kannst dein Gewehr senken," the man replied to his leader. The leader nodded and lowered his musket before slinging it onto his back.
"Now that we can speak, my name is Gerhardt. What are your names?"
"I am Yoichi, and the old oaf who nearly got himself shot is Oda Nobunaga."
The man nodded his head at Nobunaga, who nodded in return.
"Sorry for all of this. It's been a very strange day for all of us. If it's alright, may we speak inside? We can leave the gun down here if you'd like?"
Gerhardt pointed back at the large object that lay on the ground. Yoichi glanced at Nobunaga, and when the old man nodded, turned back to Gerhardt.
"That is acceptable, though we would have you bring your gun with you. Don't want the locals to run off with it. If you don't mind helping us, we were preparing dinner."
"Dinner sounds lovely. Can't really remember the last time we had a meal," Gerhardt commented as he began to approach.
The Machine Gun Team/Forest Drifters
Wertheim took a bite of the roasted duck he and his men had helped to pluck. After having turnip stew, bread, and bloody canned meat for the past two years, it was euphoric. Hell, the past three months there had been barely any real food.
"Gerhardt, tell that Yoichi thanks for getting these ducks!" Andreas called, his mouth mostly full.
"[I heard my name. What are they talking about?]" the young archer said, an eyebrow raising.
"[They wish to thank you, for the food. Me as well. The last time we ate this well was three months ago, when Wentz and Andreas scavenged a good bit of meat for some our cigarettes.]"
"[They are welcome. I must say, though, I dread to think what could lead to such dire straits.]"
"[Haven't they heard about the war in Japan?]"
"[What war? There have been several throughout the ages]" the other man, Nobunaga, put in.
"[The only war that matters. The Great War.]"
"[That seems to be a horrible name. There are no 'great' wars.]"
"[You don't seem to understand. It's called the 'Great War' because of how bloody massive it is.]"
"[How do you mean?]"
"Hey, what are you all talking about?"
"You're not gonna believe me, but these two haven't heard about the war!"
"What?" Marcus yelped before coughing up a storm, a bit of duck going down hard from his outburst.
Emil and Wentz both cried, incredulously, "Bullshit!"
Wertheim was silent. How could these two not know about the war? Even Japan had gotten involved, however brief it had been. Then an idea occurred to him.
"Ask them what the year is."
"Hans?"
"The year, Gerhardt."
"Unteroffizier Wertheim [wishes to know what the year is, from your perspectives.]"
"[Ah, I was wondering when we were going to get to that. Nobunaga? It may be better if you answered rather than I.]"
"[When I was brought here]" Nobunaga began, "[it was Tenshō* ten, but I believe the Portuguese would say that it was 'the year of our lord, fifteen-eighty-two'.]"
"Well?"
"They… they say that they are from fifteen-eighty-two, Hans."
Wertheim's mind went blank. They were from the sixteenth century? How?
"Tell them what the year was when we arrived here. I doubt they'll believe us."
"Yes Unteroffizier. [For us, when we left, the year was nineteen-eighteen.]"
The two Japanese bore equally shocked faces at that news. Wertheim wasn't surprised. Hard to reconcile the men sitting across from you were from three hundred and thirty years into your future, just as it was knowing the two men across from his own were from that far in the past.
"[You know, I honestly shouldn't be all that shocked by it, considering Yoichi, but still. Three hundred years…]"
"[What do you mean? Is Yoichi not from your time?]"
"[No. He is a hero of old in my time, having fought in the Genpei War some four hundred years ago.]"
"[What?!]"
"What is it?!"
"Yoichi, the younger one, he isn't from fifteen-eighty-two, but eleven-eighty-two!"
"That's impossible! How can that boy be from the twelfth century?"
"Yet more and more questions… perhaps we should wait for answers in the morning."
"Hans?"
"It's very late, and we've all had quite the day. Perhaps it would be best if we all rested. Gerhardt, ask them if they have a watch rotation."
"[My] Unteroffizier [wishes to know if you have a guard schedule between yourselves. You know, like one man is awake while the other sleeps for a time?]"
"[Indeed, we do. Why?]"
"They want to know why, Hans."
"Tell them it's because we plan to stay here with them, and that we'll help with that. By the way, ask if there's a way to the upper floor while you're at it. I'd like to set the machine gun up there, plus get a look around."
The Scharfschütze
Karl sat by the fire, the two old men, who he now knew were bloody Scipio and Hannibal, bickering with each other again. It was not as violent as it was in the desert. The man in the white uniform, Kafeto, was speaking with the cart drivers, a pair of American outlaws of all things. Famous ones, to boot: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
A cigarette hung from his lips as he sat, his rifle standing up next him. It was all he could do at that moment. If he did anything else, his whole world may come crashing down, and why wouldn't it? This world was even more mad than the one he left. At least some things on the Western Front were bloody normal!
"Ya doing alright partner?" Butch Cassidy asked from behind him, causing the Scharfschütze to jump.
"Scheiβe! Don't do zat!" Karl replied in accented English.
"'Pologies. You were bein' kinda quiet, so I thought I'd check on ya."
"I appreciate ze zought, but it is just… all of zis. Zis vorld zat is so different from our own."
"I understand that feelin'. When me and Sundance got here, we couldn't believe it. A place like this, right outta some damn dime novel?"
"Heh."
"Beggin' your pardon, but ya got another o' them coffin nails?"
"Coffin… ah, zigaretten. Ja, I have a few left. Hat to stock up."
"Why, d'you somehow know you'd be coming here?"
"Nein. Ze var got me to do it. Never know vhen my last might be, after all. Here you are."
"Much obliged. Now, what's this about a war? I got that you were a soldier, but last I heard there weren't no war on."
"Vhat vas ze year vhen you left?"
"About nineteen-oh-eight I reckon. Why?"
"Ach, zat makes sense. Ze var didn't start until nineteen-fourteen, zough you Americans didn't join in until a year ago. Vhen I was brought here, ze year vas nineteen-eighteen."
"A war broke out in 'fourteen? How the hell-"
"To simplify a lot, some Serb shot an Austro-Hungarian archduke, and from zhere ze entirety of Europe, Russia, Africa, und even bloody Asia got involved in a massive var between zhe Entente, vhich vere Britain; France; Russia, zhough zhey dropped out after zheir little revolution last year; und Italy vhen zhey turned on us, and zen zere vas us: Germany, Austro-Hungary, und ze Ottoman Empire. Still qvuite complicated, but it is, in many vays, simplified."
"And y'all been fightin' for four years?" a new voice, that of the Sundance Kid, cut in.
"Ja. Ze var bogged down into a stalemate not zree days after ve first met ze Frösche at ze river Marne."
"Ah, here we are!" Kafeto exclaimed happily, holding up a bag.
"Find that bag o' yours?"
"Indeed. Now we won't have such an issue with communicating with one another."
"Vhat do you mean?"
"See these strips of parchment? They're an instant translation spell, which should help us all converse with one another without needing to learn each other's birth language."
"Hm. Do you have proof zat zey verk?"
"How do you think I was able to speak to both you, Hannibal, and Scipio before?"
"I see… very vell. Vhat do I need to do to make it verk?"
One Month Later
The Forest Drifters
"\Timber\*!" Marcus called out.
Nobunaga moved to the side as the tree fell. The Germans, as they referred to themselves, had been busy this past month. What had once been a mere ruin of a castle was now a small fortress. The entrance now had a few logs to constrict it's size, making it much harder to shoot bullets or arrows into, as well as making it that much harder to get several men in at once. There was a small structure they called a "bunker" on the castle's second floor. Their weapon, which they called an "MG08 machine gun", was inside, facing the quickly diminishing forest surrounding them.
Even a month later, he still marveled at the gun. It had taken three hundred years of firearms to collate into it but the fact that it existed at all gave him glee. Weapons like them would change the course of war forever. In fact, they already had, given what he knew of the Great War, as told by their counterparts from nineteen-eighteen. There would no longer be massed lines of rifles or spearmen. They'd be cut down in seconds by a single one of these weapons!
The only downside, and one he hoped to fix one day, was the production of ammunition. If he remembered correctly the Germans had brought seven and a quarter boxes with them, counting the one still in the gun. Each box contained over two-hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition. In total, the gun had eighteen hundred rounds of ammunition. As long they didn't get stuck in a lengthy engagement, they should have enough to last for a long time.
"[Geez," Nobunaga said as he glanced at the third youngest German, "[how much wood are you guys planning to gather?]"
The Germans had managed to pick up some Japanese over the past month, just as Yoichi and Nobunaga had managed to pick up snippets of German, given they were around it all the time.
"[Not much more]" Marcus replied with a grin, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The other held a massive knife they called a 'bayonet'. Seemed more like a short sword to Nobunaga.
"[Hey, where's Wertheim?]"
"[Up top, with his] \field glasses\."
"[I see.] \Thanks!\"
"\You're welcome,\" the German replied as he sat down on the felled tree.
Nobunaga approached the castle and nodded to Emil and Wentz as they stood guard. Gerhardt, Andreas, and Yoichi were busy hunting. Yoichi was trying to help them master the bow, while Andreas had taken it upon himself to teach Yoichi how to use the rifles (though mainly his) if he somehow was unable to use his Yumi*. It had been an odd sight when he first stumbled upon them.
He himself had also been taught how to use the rifles and pistols they'd brought, though he was unsure why the Germans were being so trusting. Did they not worry they were giving away their advantage? Part of him figured they were simply naïve, though the other part guessed it was likely because they didn't see why they shouldn't. It wasn't like Yoichi or himself would try to kill the only other people from their world, after all. It was still reckless though, that he wouldn't deny.
"\Wertheim, you up here?\"
"\Yes. Just taking a look around, Nobunaga.\"
"[What?]"
"\Ah, sorry,\ [looking around]."
"[Ah. How goes it?]"
"\Well,\ [there is nothing new.]"
"[Then why go on?]"
"[What?]"
"[Ah, sorry] \why continue?\"
"\Keeps my mind sharp\."
Nobunaga grunted as the lead German lowered the field glasses. He then pulled out a cigarette, and Nobunaga had to marvel at just how many each of them had on them. They smoked about one or two a day. He'd figured they'd be running out sooner or later, but Wertheim had told them they'd "stocked up", whatever that meant. The German offered him one, and Nobunaga turned it down. He'd tried smoking once and that had been enough.
"[You know, I have a] \feeling\."
"[Eh? Oh, feeling. What about?]"
"[Seems like something big is about to hit us.]"
"['Something big'?]"
"\Chalk it up to our time in the trenches.\"
"[Eh?]"
"[Let's just say me and my boys got a sense for these things.] \Felt it at Verdun, then the Somme, Champagne, Arras, Cambrai*…\ [you get the idea.]"
"[Indeed. Makes me think of Honno-Ji*.]"
The two stood in silence for a long period after that, the only sound coming from the woods around them.
Andreas disengaged the safety on his rifle as he aimed at the beautifully large red stag in the distance. He would do his damndest to get a head shot. No reason to let the animal suffer.
"[Are you certain you can make that shot?]" Yoichi asks on his left, perched atop a branch.
The secondary spare* shushed the twelfth-century archer quietly, "[You'll scare the] \game.\"
He heard both Gerhardt and Yoichi chuckle quietly as he breathed in. With a gentle appliance of pressure, the trigger broke and a boom echoed throughout the forest. The stag seized instantly and toppled over. Andreas lifted up on the bolt handle and pulled back, ejecting the spent round. He picked the round up back up after it had cooled down.
Pocketing it, the trio began moving toward the dead stag.
"\How much do you think it weighed?\" Gerhardt asked, cradling Marcus's 1898. His own 98AZ was back at the castle since it was far too short for hunting purposes. The recoil would throw off the shot, and none of them wanted the animals to suffer. Spoils the appetite to know the animal suffered.
"\I'd say about two-hundred thirty kilos, give or take.\"
"[Hm?]"
"[I was wondering how much the deer weighed. Andrea's said two-thirty] \kilograms\."
"\Kilograms?\ [Another new word…]"
"[Ah, apologies. I don't know what the weight would be in your terms, especially since you're from the twelfth century.]"
"[In my time, it was kan. Honestly, though, I don't really care. All I need to know is that it's big. We should be able to eat at least half. Not sure what we could do with the rest.]"
"[Maybe the] \Unteroffizier\ [and Nobunaga will know?]"
"[Perhaps.]"
"[If you two are done conversing, I could use a hand with this.]"
The Octobrists/The Wagon Drifters
"Sir Hautzig, could you lend me a hand?" Kafeto asked as he began helping Scipio and Hannibal off the wagon.
Karl nodded as he tugged on his rifle sling. "Of course. Hannibal?"
"Feh! I do not need help!"
"You're nearly seventy, sir."
"I do not need to be reminded of that!"
"Very well. I was only doing as I was asked."
"That old rat still being a nuisance?" Cassidy asked as he smoked one of his few remaining cigarettes. Sundance stood behind him, stretching from being stuck behind the covered item in the back of the wagon.
"What can you expect, though? He's proud old sod."
"That he is," Sundance said as he finished stretching and jumped off the wagon, "but he ain't a bad feller."
"Agreed."
"Greetings everyone," a new voice cut in.
The Scharfschütze glanced behind him and saw a young man in much the same uniform as Kafeto, though his seemed infinitely more senior despite his age. Kafeto bowed low to the man.
"Grandmaster."
"I see you managed to bring all three here. Excellent. We'll make more formal introductions later, but for now, I am Abe no Haruakira, Grandmaster of the Octobrists."
"I see. We have much to discuss then, if what Kafeto said is to be believed," Scipio spoke up, Hannibal nodding behind him.
"Indeed," Abe replied, turning to him, "for now-"
"Ab solem eete Drifter?" a harsh voice interrupted.
It was another man, dressed much like a Saracen of old, accompanied by two similar men wearing turbans. Abe and the men walked away from the wagon group, the Drifters all confused.
"The Hell? Weren't we s'posed to understand fellers like him?" Butch asked sourly as he threw the remains of his cigarette away.
Kafeto sighed before looking up at the Wild Bunch member. "Not really. The spell was only meant for your fellow Drifters. It's part of the reason why we came here."
"Well, ain't that just dandy?"
"I'm with Butch on this one. I'm not liking the looks some of these bastards are giving us and just makes it worse if we don't understand what they're sayin'," Sundance agreed as he grabbed the old Winchester from the wagon, placing it on his shoulder.
Karl unslung his rifle and made sure there was a round in the chamber, just in case the watchmen around here got any funny ideas. Scipio and Hannibal were tense too. Kafeto looked uncomfortable.
"I know it's not ideal, but we need all of you to work with them if we're to fight the Black King."
"We understand that," Karl began before gesturing to the watchmen, "but do they?"
Abe's voice came from off to their right. "They will, in time. They have no choice."
The Wagon Drifters looked at the man as he approached, the harsh speaker following after him with a dyspeptic look. The dyspeptic man grunted before saying a couple more words to the Grandmaster. He then took his leave, his men giving the Drifters suspicious looks.
"I've secured you all some lodgings, as well provisions. If you'll follow me?"
"If y'all don't mind, me and Sundance'll stay here. Keep an eye on the wagon. Don't trust the folk 'round here to leave it be."
"I'll bring you something if you two want?" Karl offered, stopping for a moment as the others followed after the Grandmaster.
"Decent of ya. See ya soon Karl," Butch replied as he sat down against the wall, nodding to the Scharfschütze.
Sundance did much the same. "Yeah, take care."
Karl nodded and gave a quick salute before hurrying after Abe and the others.
The fortress's dining hall was not all that impressive. There were several long tables within the room, each packed with bodies. Karl could already tell they weren't welcome here despite what Abe believed. The Grandmaster of the Octobrists was currently showing them to their own table, in a far off spot of the hall.
"We'll be dining here. I'll see if I can get a meal for your fellow Drifters made up. In the meantime, I'd advise you get your food while it is warm," the Grandmaster said before walking off.
"So, what do you think?" Hannibal asked as he surreptitiously glanced around at the men at the other tables.
Scipio did much the same before he replied. "I am unsure. Given time to prepare? A couple of months, maybe more if they are led well."
"Led by us, you mean?"
"Indeed."
"What about you, Karl?"
"I'm not so sure. Given what we're facing I'd say a couple of days, maybe a week at most, unaided by us. With us at the helm? Maybe two to three weeks. If only we had heavier weaponry."
"Like what?"
"You remember some of the weapons from my time that I talked about on the way here?"
"The 'artillery', I think you called them?"
"Yep. If we had a few of those with us, I might not be so pessimistic. Either those or a few stuttering aunts*."
"Well, we don't, unfortunately. Though the tale of how you got here does give me a small glimmer of hope I may see those weapons someday…"
"Perhaps. Though for now, I say we fill our bellies. It should keep us sharp."
"You, maybe, but I have no need for food to keep me sharp," Scipio needled, causing the two Second Punic War generals to devolve into bickering once more.
Karl's face grew dull as he heard them argue about tactical plagiarism for the… he didn't even know how many times it had been now. It was becoming ridiculous.
"Well, I'll be getting my food. You two are welcome to join me."
Karl stood from the table and made his way over to where the fortress guard were ladling what he believed was some kind of stew into wooden bowls. He could feel eyes on him as he approached. He ignored them as he picked up a bowl. He waited in line with the guards, most of who were too preoccupied with getting their food to notice him.
As he looked into the pot of stew, he wondered about the last time he'd had a decent meal. Food was scarce on the Western Front. Meals were few and far between on most days. When they raided the English or French lines, they'd gather as much as they could before they were inevitably forced back to their own. He was jealous of them for that.
He'd eaten more while coming to this place, of course. This world had much more on offer than the front ever had. Forests full of game and rivers full of tasty fish. The meals on the way here were fantastic to someone like him.
"Keffat tepap seth iht hotuul, Drifter?" a voice asked from behind him as he finished ladling.
'Was wondering when something like this was gonna happen…' Karl thought resignedly as he turned to face the man who'd spoken.
The man was a tall, stocky fellow. He wore the same armor as the others, minus the turban. His hair was a dark brown, and his eyes were a grayish color. Karl's free hand came to rest on a spiked wooden club that he'd taken to carrying in the trenches.
"Back off, before I plant this in your head."
The man glanced down at the club, then back up to Karl's face. The two stared at each other for several seconds before the man scoffed and moved away. Karl's hand came away from the club as he patiently went back to his table. Hannibal and Scipio had bowls too, so it seemed they'd followed after him after all.
"Good work on handling that brute. Had you struck him, I'd have no doubt the others would have retaliated," Scipio commented as he dipped a small wooden spoon into the bowl.
Karl nodded as he set the bowl down. He wondered how often he and his fellow Drifters would butt heads with the guard. Only time would tell.
It was nightfall when Abe let him go with a pair of bowls. He mentioned that Butch and Sundance were still by the wagon, and Karl took it upon himself to bring them their food. They were his friends after all. As he moved toward the wagon, he found himself looking up at the sky. He still couldn't get over how it looked. After three years of being on the front, he'd gotten used to the clouds and smoke that blocked the sky both night and day.
Here, the sky was so clear. The stars shown brightly above with nary a cloud in sight. The moon, a half-one, was bright enough that it was almost like it was still day. Because of these two factors, Karl managed to pick out a single shape gliding through the air.
'What the Hell?' he thought as he watched the shape, 'a black bird? Where'd that come from?'
He continued to watch it as he moved, but after a while, he disregarded it. It was only a bird after all.
The Forest Drifters
The Forest Drifters were seated around a makeshift table, made by Wentz, Emil, and Marcus from some of the trees they'd taken down. On the table were playing cards and a small pile of cigarettes, plus a pair of Nobunaga's rings and a Tantō from Yoichi.
"\Last call for bets.\" Gerhardt said "\Anyone raising?\"
Andreas gave an answer with a shake of his head. Wentz, meanwhile, glanced at his cards, and placed one of his cigarettes in the center of the makeshift table. "I'll raise."
Nobunaga chuckled and called, with Yoichi following suit. Wertheim and Emil followed after them, then me. Marcus, meanwhile, checked as that was all he could do. He'd gone all-in the last game and lost to the Unteroffizier. The turn made its way back to Andreas. He also called Wentz's bet.
"\Alright, reveal.\" Gerhardt said before he fanned his cards out, "\Two pair and a high card.\"
Andreas revealed his hand next. It consisted of three fives, a four and a three. "Three of a kind."
Wentz swore quietly as he flipped his cards on the table. "\I've got nothing but shit.\"
That drew a small chuckle out of everyone.
"\I have a\ [two, three, four, five, and six.]" Nobunaga said as he slapped his cards onto the table. "[That's a…] \straight\?"
"\Correct.\" Wertheim nodded, "[And is currently the] \winning hand\ [unless someone does better.]"
Emil produced a pair of queens, much to his chagrin. Wertheim flipped over a three-of-a-kind, an all threes. "\Shit.\"
"\Quite the difficult game, is it not.\" Yoichi whined in a mutter as he revealed two pairs of his own, sevens and eights. Marcus's hand was not much better.
Gerhardt motioned to Nobunaga, "[Congratulations. You won.]"
Nobunaga grinned before dragging his winnings toward himself.
Yoichi stiffened before he snapped his head toward the castle entrance. "[Someone approaches.]"
"\Damn, and the game was just getting good. Marcus, Gerhardt and Emil, man the gun.\ [Andreas, Nobunaga, Wentz, and I will cover the lower floor. Assuming of course you take no issue with that, Nobunaga?]"
"[No. Yoichi? Go stop our incoming guests.]"
"[Yes.]"
The Drifters were off in a flash. The Gunner, Spotter, and Assistant Gunner raced upstairs while Wertheim and his band took positions around the door. Nobunaga sat in front of the flag he'd brought with him, his tanegashima in hand. Andreas and Wentz had their rifles pointed at the entrance, same as Wertheim. Wertheim placed himself closest to the doorway and peeked out.
A pair of Elf boys were rushing toward the castle, carrying something across their shoulders. He noticed a slight flicker of motion as Yoichi appeared on a tree branch behind them. He placed the crosshairs on his rifle on the older boy's chest and shouted.
The Elves/The Nephew
"Halt!" a voice called out from the ruins ahead. Mark and Marsha stiffened with the Drifter they carried before another voice called to them.
"Eef yoo git any klozer to ze kastle, I kiil yoo! Eef yoo turn bak, I kiil yoo! Eef yoo screem, I kiil you! Woot yo want?"
Marsha swallowed before speaking, "Th-this is o-one of you, yes? It's dying! …It took a lot from us both to get it to you!"
"Speek sloolee. I no undahstand. Eef yoo do not, I kiil yoo!"
Both Elves' faces grew dull as they glanced at one another.
"Ite, nani itteru den Elfen sagst?*" the voice from the castle called.
"Ich frage den Elfen hoshī… er… wollen sie!*"
"Karera wa hontōni rikai shite… ah… Erinnert sich jemand daran, was das Wort 'verstehen' auf Japanisch ist?*"
"Ich weiβ nicht…*"
"Verdammt. Und du?*"
"Nein, Ich erinnere mich nicht.*"
"Gott Verdammt.*"
"UGH! It's dying!" Marsha shouted before pointing at the new Drifter.
Mark did much the same, shouting: "Look!"
The boys heard an intake of breath before the voice behind them spoke again. "Leeve eet zere."
"I swear, every time we come to them, I can never understand them," Mark mumbled as he led the way back to their village.
Marsha tailed behind him, replying "Oh forget it. Let's just get home before the lord finds out."
"Agreed."
The Forest Drifters
"\Who is it?\" Wertheim asked as he watched the two Elf children leave the dead man before them.
Yoichi hopped down from his branch and crouched by the man. "\It's a samurai.\"
"\A samurai? What's that?\"
"\Like your knights. He's clinging to life, but barely.\"
"\Nobunaga, any ideas?\"
"\We bring him inside.\ [Yoichi, tend to his wounds. Fate may yet allow him to survive.]" Nobunaga ordered, gesturing to Wentz.
"Unteroffizier?"
"\Go ahead and give Yoichi a hand. Andreas, tell the others it's alright. Wentz and I'll give Yoichi a hand if he needs it.\"
"\Yes,\ Unteroffizier."
August 6th, 1915
Osowiec Fortress
Mladshiy-unterofitser* Lachinov Valentinovich spat a piece of his lungs onto the ground. He gripped his bayoneted Mosin tightly as he slowly advanced alongside his fellows against the Teutons*. In total, they couldn't have numbered more than one hundred men. Kotlinsky was leading the charge toward the stupefied Teutons.
It was not long before the shock wore off, but by then Lachinov and the fellow defenders of Osowiec were upon them. Bullets, blades, clubs, cries, shouts, orders. It became chaos. Lachinov skewered one Teuton before kicking the screaming man off his rifle, turning to another Teuton and blowing his gas-masked head off. Such was the power of the 7.6254R cartridge. A third Teuton was charging at him with one of their saw-backed bayonets in hand.
"Stirbt ihr bastard!*" the man roared as he swung the blade at Lachinov. Lachinov snarled and swung his rifle like a club, bashing the man down with a crunch. He swung again and caved the man's skull in.
Rifle fire and barking pistols were all around, and though the Teutons outnumbered them thirty to ten, he and his fellow Russians were giving a good account of themselves. It certainly helped that most of the Teutons had run. What had been a veritable ocean of men before had become little more than a puddle. He couldn't necessarily blame them of course. He knew damn well what the gas had done to him and his fellow defenders. Even now it was causing him no small amount of pain as he coughed some more blood out.
He pulled up on the bolt of his rifle after getting it back into firing position. The spent casing flew from the chamber as he pulled back before pushing the bolt forward and slapping it down. He frantically looked around, searching for more targets, when he felt a blade dig deep into his ribs. He turned and stared into the masked face of a Teuton, who shrank in fear at the sheer rage on Lachinov's face. Lachinov jerked away from the man, taking the shovel that was buried there with him as he swung the Mosin around. He fired point blank into the Teuton's chest. The man crumpled with a cry as Lachinov rushed toward him with an animalistic yell. His rifle's bayonet sunk deep into the neck of the Teuton, and with a savage yank, he broke the man's neck.
As he brought his rifle up a second time, he took two more hits. One was a shot through his gut from a Teuton pistol. The other hit came from a club smashing into his face, breaking his nose. He swung his bayonet into the club owner's sternum. It broke through it easily through Lachinov's sheer adrenaline but did not pull out as easily. Lachinov took three more shots before he managed to pull his rifle free and use it as a club once again.
Blood was flowing from his mouth in a steady stream. Exactly like it was from his chemically burned eyes. His breathing, which was already ragged from the gas, was even more so now, coming out in wheezes and coughs.
He felt himself growing weaker and weaker from the various hits, but he would not stop. He would make the Teutons pay for what they did to not only him, but his little brother. His little brother had been luckier than him. He managed to die from the gas. Unfortunately for the Teutons, he hadn't.
Then everything stopped. He boggled at the phenomenon. Was this what it was like to die? He couldn't be dead yet! He still had work to do! He growled, sounding like a wild dog as reality seemed to… open? Was this some new gas the Teutons had concocted?
From between the two halves of reality that opened, a young dark-haired woman in a black dress and tie stepped out. There was something else hanging from her neck, though he didn't know what it was. She was giving him an arrogant smirk as remnants of the gas from the battlefield surrounding him leaked into the hole in reality.
"Join us," the girl said in perfect Russian, "your fellows who know your pain."
Lachinov glanced at the hand the girl offered to him. Really, what did he have here now? Everyone who knew him was dead or dying. His family was gone. There was nothing for him here at Osowiec or back home in Saint Petersburg. With very little trepidation, he took the offered hand.
Unknown Year
The Dead Man
"Does he live?" Lachinov heard a distorted voice say as he lay on the ground, bleeding. He feels a hand on his throat.
Another voice speaks, "Barely, my king. He is fading very fast."
"Then perhaps eet would be bettair eef we left eem 'ere?" a female voice speaks, a strange accent making her hard to understand.
"I will not leave him," another female voice.
"Then, if I may suggest, my king, you heal his wounds?"
"Very well."
"Ooh, I can't wait to find out who this fellow is! He's certainly a tough one!" a young, brash voice cut in with glee.
Lachinov was in and out of consciousness for several days after that. By the second week, he had regained some control and forced his eyes to open.
"He is awake, princess," a glasses-wearing man with a large beret and red and white checkered scarf stated. Alongside the scarf and beret, he wore black robes with purple and white edges and cuffs. His gloves were white, and from what Lachinov could see when he turned over to face the man, he had purple shoes.
A young woman with drooping eyes and white hair approached. She wore an all-white dress and regarded him coldly. She looked familiar…
"What is your name?" she asked without preamble. Lachinov answered promptly.
"Mladshiy-unterofitser Lachinov Valentinovich, of the Two-Hundred Twenty-Sixth Zemlyansky."
"Where were you stationed during the war, Mladshiy-unterofitser?"
"Osowiec Fortress, ma'am."
"Osowiec…"
"My, my. A war hero. We are so blessed," the man said, his tone somehow being both mocking and sincere at the same time.
"War hero? What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Mind your tongue, Valentinovich! You are in the presence of royalty!"
"What?"
"Do you not recognize the princess?"
Lachinov frowned at the man before looking at the young woman. He searched his memory for several moments until it clicked. He was sitting in the presence of Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova… princess of Russia and its empire! He shot to his feet immediately and saluted.
"Your highness, forgive my impertinence! I have been at the frontline too long!"
"Do calm yourself, Mladshiy-unterofitser Valentinovich," the man said, pushing his glasses up on his nose, "it is only understandable, given what happened there all those years ago."
"Years? What?"
"Allow me to explain: my name is Grigori Rasputin, and each one of us has met an untimely demise back home. For you, it was fighting the Kaiser's Men* at Osowiec. For me, an assassination by our countrymen, same as our princess. Of course, my assassins were not traitors to the Russian Empire."
"I'm sorry, what? You are not making sense. Years? Assassinations? Traitors?"
"Oh dear. Perhaps it would be better to show you?" Rasputin asked, pointing to the exit of the tent the three were standing in.
Lachinov moved to the tent's flap and opened it. What he saw outside that tent changed his entire world.
GLOSSARY
Unteroffizier = Corporal (By Modern NATO Standards, it is a Sergeant)
Scharfschütze = Sharpshooter
Kippe = German Slang for Cigarette
Schütze = Rifleman (In terms of rank when compared to a modern military, a Private)
Gewehrführer = Rifle Commander (Commanding NCO of a Machine Gun Team)
Oberleutnant = First Lieutenant
Feldwebel = For all intents and purposes (from my understanding), a Company Sergeant Major
Stahlhelm = German helmet that first began production in 1916, but became the standard helmet for German soldiers until after WWII, with Police and Border Guards sticking with the helmets until the 1990's.
"{}" = Latin Language
Ypres = Referring (in this instance) to the First Battle of Ypres in 1914.
"" = Elven Language
"]" = Japanese Language
Tenshō Ten = Tenth year of the Tenshō Era
"\\" = German Language
Verdun = Referring to the Battle of Verdun, 1916
The Somme = Referring to the Battle of the Somme, 1916
Champagne = Referring to the Third Battle of Champagne, 1917
Arras = Referring to the Battle of Arras, 1917
Cambrai = Referring to the Second Battle of Cambrai, 1918
Honno-Ji = Referring to the Honno-Ji Incident, 1582
Spare = A position on the Machine Gun Team, particularly the extra soldiers assigned to one gun crew
Stuttering aunts = Slang for Machine Gun
Mladshiy-unterofitser = Junior NCO, akin to the rank of Lance Corporal
Teutons = Slang for the Germans
The Kaiser's Men = Slang for the Reichswehr
Author's Note:
Felt compelled to write a Drifters fic after watching the anime again. This story will not have a consistent upload schedule. That is all.