Posted in Posted by Ted DeKker
All Mitt wanted to do was lie down and just rest in remorse for just a few moments. But he knew that should he do that, the lines would break. How he even kept on his feet was a mystery. For any commander it was hard to loose men you trained with, fought side by side with. The runner came back with the information that the batteries were sending a signalman to direct fire better. They’d set up a signal relay system, but hadn’t gotten one out their way yet.
“Good man!” he said, patting him on the back, “Now this is important, go to each of the companies and see if you can find out how many casualties they have. Then report back to me; you got it?”
The runner nodded and he was sent off again. He disappeared behind the many houses that were interlocking the positions they held. It seemed like hours passed before the runner returned. Thankfully, the enemy had not; not yet anyways.
“Well?” Mitt questioned, “What are our losses?”
The runner shook his head, “Things are not good. The fall back caused many casualties. Company A is down fifty-seven men; twenty killed, sixteen wounded and forty-one captured. Company B was hit just as hard, but they didn’t loose as many; only ten killed, twenty wounded and four missing. D Company suffered the worst sir; sixty-four men dead. Including Lt. Paulus, he was shot as he covered the withdrawal of first platoon through some of the houses. C Company was the only one that actually held until the withdrawal, only twelve men wounded.”
Mitt pondered these facts in his head. He’d served with Paulus since the formation of the original Vorsage Battalion in May 1865. He would never forget the camaraderie or the patriotism he lead with. Never would he have thought a Sardinian bullet would have cut short his life. Shells from the newly arrived Sardinian batteries interrupted his thoughts. They were hitting the edge of town.
“They must still think we are in the front of the town,” Mitt said to Otis, “We’ll sit tight. See how things develop. Remember Otis, this is the last line. We have no third line of defense. If things get too hot, we have the strongest companies mount a short-term assault to cover the other weaker companies and then under smoke shells we withdraw back to the main line of resistance with the Division.”
Otis nodded and went to spread the word to the rest of the company commanders, who would in turn inform the men. Of course the propaganda had filled their minds that they were invincible, that the enemy wouldn’t be able to handle the skill with which they fought. Unfortunately for the young men of the 4th, those propaganda posters had failed to note that the enemy had Divisions that twice outweighed anything that could be thrown by the Ruhr, especially the Sardinian National Defense Divisions. These were tough, battle-trained soldiers of the Sardinian Population only called upon in times when the safety of the nation was at risk. These Divisions were thirty-thousand men strong, comprised of a Dragoon’s Brigade, an Artillery Brigade and a Fifteen-thousand man strong Division of infantry. Any strategist of the day could have seen that the little battalion of Vorsage Dragoons had not a chance in the world to hold. But that propaganda came into play this time around.
The men were shocked they had to withdraw, but they knew that the enemy had had to withdraw as well to stop from getting beaten up too badly. Mitt had seen the colors flying behind the main line of infantry that had marched towards them before the attack. It looked like two full regiments had been committed to throw them out of Cabras. Mitt hadn’t shown any emotion, but his heart dropped when he saw he was up against the 23rd and 29th Sassari Regiments. When he had stayed in Sardinia to view some military parades and exercises, he had met the commander of these regiments, the brigade commander. His name was Col. Antonio Rizzo. He hated to fight such a valiant outfit, but it was his duty.
Both regiments began to make the onslaught again, and both times they were thrown back, with heavy losses. The barricade seemed to be holding up nicely. Very few men had been hit or killed in the last few engagements. The dragoons put to practice the technique they had learned in training. One man fires, the other waits until he has ducked down behind the barricade. Once he is down, that man raises to fire while the other loads. They take turns firing so that way it is a continuous fire, and it doesn’t let the enemy get closer to take the position.
Soon mid-day had crept upon them. The artillery observer from the batteries back on the line finally arrived. Mitt almost screamed at him, but he held his cool, for he knew the man had to run down to the down and he couldn’t ride a horse down; none could be spared.
“What news do you bring?” Mitt asked him, hoping that the other battalions had captured their objectives and were holding on.
“Well,” the observer said, catching his breath, “the other four Battalions of Dragoons have reached their objectives, but they are being hit as you are. The rest of the division is holding on, but by its fingernails. These Sardinians keep coming out of nowhere!”
“Well, we’ll give ‘em something to think about, won’t we?!” Mitt said with a grin.
The young man nodded and took out the field glasses that were in his pack. He glassed the surrounding terrain and the batteries firing on the bluffs in the distance. He put the glasses around his neck and he ran to the church tower that was almost in the middle of town. Mitt saw him re-appear at the top, waving his flags like there was no tomorrow. Soon artillery shells began falling all over the place, most of it landing on the Sardinian Batteries. The results were phenomenal; the guns of the Sardinians almost seemed to cease firing.
Then the shells from their own artillery ceased. Mitt looked back up to see what was wrong. Then his heart dropped again. The young man who had been so brave to race to get them artillery support was hanging over one of the railings in the tower, and what looked like a bullet hole in his forehead.
Mitt shook his head and said, “Now, we wait.”
Something then happened that shocked everyone who witnessed it. A young sergeant from A Company ran to the tower and ran up the stairs to the position where the young observer lay, draped unceremoniously over the railing. Grabbing the flags he began directing an artillery barrage on the enemy just as the enemy began advancing close to the secondary position. The shells began exploding in the town, disrupting the attack, throwing men in the air, shrapnel flying. Survivors of the attack began retreating slowly, dragging comrades behind them that had been wounded. The young sergeant continued directing artillery for the Dragoons, calling in scores of hits.
The day pressed on, attacks by the Sicilians being thwarted time after time by the many coordinated volleys of the Dragoons. Losses continued to be minimal, only a man here or there had been wounded. The brave young sergeant in the tower was directing the gunfire not only on the advancing infantry, but also on the new batteries continually setting up on the bluffs to the east. Mitt was proud of the Battalion, but he was remorseful that he had let his own Battalion be chopped up by the fire of the enemy in such a disorganized state. Many commanders might have let the defense go to pieces, but somehow the Dragoons held.
Mitt went from man to man, encouraging them and congratulating them on holding the enemy back. In his mind he knew it wouldn’t last. They were running low on ammunition and the enemy’s resistance was mounting. Mitt realized that the two regiments were receiving some support from the rear, possibly more regiments or battalions were joining in the battle.
“STAY LOW BOYS!” Mitt shouted as the enemy began another advance.
The ranks of soldiers in grey and white uniforms could be seen marching down the streets, converging on their position. Mitt could here the command being given to halt and then prepare arms.
At the premium moment, Mitt rose up and gave the command, “FIRE!”
An explosion of sound erupted from the line of Dragoons as they poured murderous fire on the open ranks. In coordination the artillery began to rain a hail of shell and shrapnel upon the hapless men of Sardinia. This time they did not retreat or fall back. They held firm and then poured their own fire back into the Dragoons. Men began to fall this time, not many, but it was critical indeed. One more volley from the Dragoons turned back the enemy in a hail of lead and confusion.
Mitt looked up at the town clock, and it seemed to continue functioning as if none of the confusion of battle were going on. It read 1:50, and Mitt seemed perplexed by this.
“We’ve held out for seven hours?” he said in almost a whisper.
“What’s that?” Otis questioned.
“Nothing, nothing Otis; go and get the runner, tell him to meet me by the clock.” Mitt ordered.
Otis saluted and ran to go and get the runner who was on the line in the B Company sector. The runner came up to the clock in a dash and saluted Mitt and queried as to what he wished of him.
“I need you to go and tell A and D Companies to pull off the line, B Company to Stretch out and E Company to move Up to the line. Do you have all that?”
The runner looked like he might faint after Mitt finished speaking, but he answered, “Yes sir, does that mean we’re all withdrawing? There won’t be any re-enforcements?”
“I’m afraid so son,” Mitt said in a hollow tone, “Now get going.”
The runner saluted again and ran off. Slowly the lines of Dragoons began flowing back towards the rear. It was executed brilliantly, and the line looked almost as though none had gone. But seeing his Dragoons having to withdraw nearly broke his heart. Never in his life had he thought that any soldier under his command would have to withdraw or retreat in the face of the enemy; never.
By 2:15 the withdrawal of A and D Companies was complete. When E Company moved up it might have scared the enemy, for when they came up to the line the Sardinians moved back, thinking it was re-enforcements. Of course the respite wouldn’t last, but it was a relief to those still on the line. Mitt had gone up into the tower before the withdrawal and spoke to the young Sergeant manning the flags for the entire battalion.
“Son,” he asked, “I’m ordering the withdrawals of both your Company, A Company, and D Company, do you want to go with them. If you do, I will man the flags for you.”
The response of this young Sergeant was astounding, but showed the values instilled into him, “I’d rather stay here sir; I seem to be doing more good than back with my company.”
Mitt patted him on the back and went back down to inform 2nd Lt. Gahlegehr, acting commander of A Company; Lt. Price, he learned later, had been captured during the withdrawal. The enemy began a rush at the position, causing Mitt to take cover in the alcove before the entrance to the clock tower. He watched as the enemy came within five feet of the barricades, and then turned back because of the volume of fire being put upon them.
“All of this stress could cause a heart attack!” he said to himself as he went to inform Gahlegehr.
His talk was short, as the men were pulling out. Gahlegehr wasn’t too unhappy that the sergeant wanted to stay. In fact he was somewhat glad.
“He could do more here, he made the right choice,” Gahlegehr told Mitt.
Mitt shook Gahlegehr’s hand and then saluted him, watching as he led his men in a crouch away from the line. Of course Mitt knew that their strength would be sorely missed on the line, but he knew if they didn’t withdraw, he wouldn’t have a battalion to command. If he didn’t make it, there wouldn’t be a battalion to be commanded. Ammunition began running dangerously low, and he knew the time to withdraw the remnants of his proud battalion was nigh. The clock showed three, only an hour before had A and D Companies mounted up and rode out.
“Courage, we must have courage!” he muttered to himself as he mounted the steps to the tower again.
The Sergeant was continuing to call fire on the enemy, but he looked weary. Mitt handed him a flask of water and watched as he downed it, sweat pouring down his face.
“Now, do you know how to call for the smoke?” Mitt asked him.
“I’ve got an idea sir,” the Sergeant said, “but I’m not entirely positive.”
“Okay, I can help with that. This one,” he said, picking up a grey and black checkered flag, “is the one you’ll use. Now, what I want you to do, is wave it erratically, that will signal that the entire front needs to be bombarded, and hopefully, the guns will bombard the entire area of the town to the front, and a quarter of a mile north and south, that should give us enough time to clear out. Once the smoke is thick enough, you grab those flags and run like the entire Sardinian Army is after you to the horses, you got it?”
The Sergeant nodded, and then Mitt encouraged him again and left to go to the line. Turning back to the young man he paused.
“Thank you,” he said, “You’ve done us a great service, now don’t forget. On my signal, you wave that flag like it’s the Great Flag Day!”
He thanked Mitt and then saluted. Mitt went back to the line, hoping, praying that they would survive to withdraw and that they would not be slaughtered. Time dragged on, wearying the men after each Sardinian counter-attack. It seemed like the countless waves of men would never end! The dead of the enemy began to pile, and each attack led to greater piles, and greater pushes to get through the piles. Time began to toll from the Great Clock, or so Mitt called it, and he thought that maybe it had been the time for some special occasion.
“Quitting time maybe,” he remarked to himself.
Tipping his cap to the Sergeant he began to order the withdrawal. The Sergeant waved the flag of checkered grey and black, and the rounds began pouring in.
“ALRIGHT MEN; PICK UP YOU’RE WEAPONS AND HEAD FOR THE HORSES! WE’RE MOVIN’ OUT! OFFICERS LAST! I DON’T WANT A DRAGOON LEFT BEHIND!”
Thick, bellowing smoke shells crashed into the town and areas around it, providing a cover perfect for withdrawal. Flames could be seen lurching from the buildings in the surrounding area, and one could reasonably guess that the shells had landed in or near the houses and they caught like the dry timber during a drought.
“WHEN WE REACH THE HORSES,” Mitt bellowed to the men running to the horses, “SQUADS AND COMPANIES MOUNT UP AND RIDE OUT! B COMPANY FIRST, THEN C COMPANY AND E COMPANY! IS THAT CLEAR?!”
A resounding “EEYAAH!” sounded from the men. Mitt smiled as he walked the line up and down, making sure that no man was left behind. When he looked up into the tower, the flags and the young Sergeant were gone. Mitt and the rest of the officers ran to catch up with their men, who were waiting for them in parade fashion.
“ALRIGHT BOYS,” Mitt shouted, “LET’S RIDE!”
The remnants of the battalion kicked their horses into full stride and rode out over the hill, leaving the destruction and chaos behind them. It took four hours for them to reach the Division’s lines; D and A Companies were waiting to give them a warm reception. The grizzled faces of the men of the 4th Dragoons broke forth into wide grins as they met their companions. Mitt rode off to find the runner to find out the total casualty count. When he finally found him he could barely keep his composure.
“How’d we finally make out?” Mitt asked, viciously trying to hold a straight face, barely winning.
“Well,” the runner began, “I don’t think it’s as bad as we first thought, but we got pretty badly mauled. A Company suffered a total of sixty-three casualties, including Lt. Price sir, no one’s seen or heard from him since he was seen defending a house with two other men. B Company suffered forty casualties total, I believe Lt. Mann was one of the casualties, but he’s not badly wounded. C Company, as you know, sustained the lightest casualties, and I think held out at only thirteen casualties. D Company lost seventy-six men total, the worst of the entire Companies sir, also with losing Lt. Paulus. E Company lost sixteen, also losing the second in command, 2nd Lt. Fritz von Maulein. All in total I have to say we lost two-hundred and eight men out of our original six-hundred and twenty-five. We have four-hundred and seventeen men left.”
Mitt thanked the runner and went off to find the Regimental Commander, Lt. Col. Maxwell von Schneider. Mitt had always enjoyed serving under their commander, but he had always dreaded when he would have to bring in the first casualty count. He knew that with two-hundred and eight casualties, they were down one third of their original strength. Mitt found the Regimental banner flying out front of Maxwell’s tent, and he came to the front, hoping that Maxwell would call him in.
“Ah, Mitt, I’ve been expecting you!” Maxwell said, waving him inside, “What news do you bring?”
A great smile was plastered across the Col.’s face, and Mitt knew he expected great news from him, as all the other battalions were fairing much better. Being that he had sent word of capturing Cabras without resistance being encountered, Mitt could tell that Maxwell thought he would be personally telling him that the Battalion held and Cabras remained firmly in their grasp.
“Sir, I have bad news; very, bad news.” Mitt’s somber tone and the look of seriousness on his face dampened the mood of the Col. “The 18th Sardinian National Defense Division hit us. We had a stagnant delaying action that led to serious casualties during the morning, but we held them to a fault, and then were forced to withdraw at four o’clock this afternoon. A third of my men are gone; killed, captured or wounded. The artillery observer sent to us had the unfortunate incident of being shot by one of the many snipers sent out by the enemy. It was a wonder that one of our Sergeants from A Company didn’t buy it while he was directing the artillery for us! Sir, before you criticize me on my leadership or tactics, let me defend my…”
Mitt was cut off, “Mitt, I know it wasn’t your fault. Yes, the losses were hard. And there are very few replacements so far; none, actually. But I tell you, you did good work. Holding them up at Cabras and then confusing and destroying as many of them as you could before having to withdraw was marvelous work. That should buy us some time to regroup and dig in. It doesn’t seem like we’ll be able to advance very far very fast, very soon. However, some among us seem to think that since you did say that you captured Cabras, and couldn’t hold it, you should make spectacles of some of the heroes of the fight.”
“Who says such things?!” Mitt demanded angrily, and rightfully so.
“Me,” said a voice from the shadows in the tent, stepping forward revealing Baron Tech von Aminger, one of the new members of the Order of the Knights of the Ruhr, “if a unit cannot hold, the men who were most valiant should pay, their sufferings could only hinder the success of the unit.”
“I will do no such thing!” Mitt nearly shouted at him, “Those men are the reason we live today! Now you get one thing straight! I, nor will anyone I know, follow these orders! And should you or any of your friends order us, I would shoot you before any of my own men! Good day!”
With that he stormed out of the tent. He went to go look after his troops, so tired from the battle that had raged only hours before. Once he found them he went amongst them, encouraging them and congratulating them on their well fit defense. Finding the runner again, he asked if he could do him one more favor before the day was done.
“Anything sir,” the runner said.
“Find the officers and tell them to meet me over in that glade over there,” Mitt said, pointing to the spot he wished them to meet in.
The runner nodded and headed off to find the officers. While he was gone, Mitt found the Sergeant who had so bravely continued directing the artillery for them.
“How are you son?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m doing fine now sir. I gave the flags back to one of the gunners in the artillery section we passed through. Was that okay sir?” he asked.
“That was fine; just fine!” Mitt said, “Now, I have something to ask of you, and I wish you not refuse me.”
“How could I sir?!”
“I am going to recommend you for a promotion to 2nd Lieutenant. And I am going to recommend you for the Cross of the Ruhr, for your valor and courage today. What do you think of that?” Mitt said, smile spreading wide across his face.
The Sergeant was dumbstruck with awe, and finally said, “Thank you sir!”
Posted in Posted by Ted DeKker
Hi Everyone! Ted Here. I've decided to post a battle scene from my book "The Silesian Chronicles - Book 4: Civil Unrest" I hope you all like it, and I would really appreciate it if y'all could comment. Please, Please, Pretty Please? I'm dying for comments to know how I'm doing with this stuff.
Battle for Cabras
The smoke settled over the plain before them. Citizens of the town of Cabras had burned the wheat and corn fields around them to prevent the usage by the armies of Imperial Ruhr. Mitt surveyed the landscape, looking for the familiar columns of troops he was trained to spot. They had seen the enemies’ colors flying over the ridge not a night before, and they had also spotted fires that weren’t the cause of the citizens of Sardinia. The Fourth Vorsage Dragoon’s Battalion was laying in wait in the houses of the town and behind barricades of furniture from the houses and sandbags filled in haste. Thankfully they were not the Cavalry. The Cavalry thrived off of mounted combat.
The Dragoons could dismount and occupy a town, riverbed or natural obstacle and not have to worry about having to ride all the time. Mitt had ordered that all the horses for the battalion be kept on the other side of the town, so in case of a heavy attack on the front of the town or in the case they needed to withdraw. Mitt truly didn’t know what to expect. The predawn light was casting eerie shadows through the wisps of smoke that left the burning chaff. Suddenly he spotted it. A column of soldiers was advancing up the road.
‘Not just one’ he noted.
Advancing up the road he could see column after column of soldiers coming closer and closer.
Mitt signaled his runner over to his side, “Go back to the battalion’s heavy guns and tell them to fire at grid mark seventeen, longitude forty-four!”
With a pat on the back his runner was off down the center of the street, past the battalion banner they had erected on the town flagpole and all the way down to where the horses were being kept. Mitt could see him hop on the fastest horse the battalion possessed and kick it to go as fast as it could go. A cloud of dust could be seen behind him as he road to the guns. As soon as he could no longer see the runner he turned his attention back to the advancing enemy.
“KEEP THOSE RIFLES STEADY!” he shouted as he walked up and down the line, “WHEN THEY GET CLOSE, LET ‘EM HAVE IT!”
Sweat glistened on his face. The advancing enemy looked formidable. But soon it would be a fair fight, unless they slipped around them and intercepted their runner. Then they would be doomed to fail, slaughtered on the third day of the invasion. Silence rained over the battlefield. The thump, thump, thump of soldiers’ feet on the road became louder as they came up the road. Officers shouting commands could be heard throughout the ranks of the approaching foot soldiers.
Mitt got the pistol out of the holster on his side and held it in the air as he went up and down the line encouraging the soldiers in their positions.
“Hold the line boys! If we don’t, heaven knows what they’ll do to the rest of our men!” he said.
They could hear the command being given to form battle ranks. Sections of the column began to break off to the right and the left, forming lines of men, four deep and goodness knows how many long.
‘This is going to get ugly,’ Mitt said to himself.
Battle flags were brandished all along the front of men marching towards them. From the flags he could tell they were up against a formidable foe. He called over 2nd Lieutenant Otis Mannheim, Battalion logistics coordinator and his personal second in command.
He pointed to the flag closest to them and asked him, “Do you see that flag?”
Otis nodded and asked in return, “What does it mean?”
“It means,” Mitt said, “That we are up against one of the best Divisions in the entirety of Sardinia. If we beat them, this could change the whole outlook of the war, if we don’t, we could be up against them for years to come. They, are apart of the 18th Sardinian National Defense Division.”
“But,” Otis began, astonished that his commander would seem so pessimistic, “we can fight them! We will win! You’ve seen how we fight and train! You trained us yourself!”
“You do not understand Otis!” Mitt said in a strained, hushed voice so as not to scare the men, “These men have been trained longer than us! They have live fire training. They’re commanders are more skilled in tactics. We’ve done only one maneuver, and in that one we came out second. Second! Our fire discipline is a bit lacking Otis. The key factor, though, is that they number ten times what we number. There is little chance we will all get out of this alive.”
The blood dropped from Otis’ face. He didn’t know what to say. All he could do was salute Mitt and then go back to his position on the line. Otis picked up the trusty Manwehr 33 he had always kept by his side and aimed for the first officer he saw. Whistling could be heard overhead, and Mitt smiled and knew; it was the artillery he had called for. The runner had gotten through.
“OPEN FIRE!” he yelled, pointing his pistol at the first Sardinian he saw.
The crash of the artillery could be seen in the distance, slowly coming forward. The ranks of the Sardinians began to waver as the shells and shrapnel began to make gaps and holes in their lines. Mitt squeezed the trigger and the pistol bucked in his hand. Down went the soldier he’d aimed at, a bullet in his chest. The resounding fire of muskets came from every gun in the town. Ranks of the enemy plunged as the bullets tore through them. Yells and the screams of the wounded could be heard throughout the ranks on the other side of the field. With a clear line of sight like this, it was impossible to miss. Mitt wondered why they hadn’t chosen one of the more concealed routes into the town.
He fired the rest of the shots in his pistol and then began to reload it. All along the lines the men of the 4th reloaded their rifles for a second volley. Despite the massive amount of casualties, the Sardinians pressed on across the charred ground. Closer and closer they came.
“FIRE!” Mitt shouted again, firing his pistol as last time.
The rounds tore through the ranks again, and still they came. They picked up the pace.
“FIX BAYONETS!” a Sardinian officer shouted, pointing a sword towards the line of houses ahead.
“FALL BACK!” Mitt yelled to the men.
At first they weren’t sure why he was ordering them back, and they hesitated. This would prove disaster. When the Sardinians fixed bayonets, the same officer gave the order to charge. They streamed through the lines of Dragoons. Men began falling left and right, yet they fought back and didn’t give in. Artillery began dropping in closer, but Mitt knew this wasn’t their own artillery now. He could see several Sardinian Artillery batteries setting up. Mitt began directing the men back to their secondary defenses. Almost all at once the men surged for the defenses, which almost made him happy, but he knew this was not what they had practiced. His fears became real, for he knew that when the men had turned their backs, the Sardinians would fire several volleys into the pack. The hot lead ripped through the ranks of men heading for the safety of the barricades.
Mitt’s heart sank as men fell to the ground dead. The men he had worked so hard to train; the men disciplined as hard fighters were being cut down like the chaff for the fire. The remnants jumped over the barricades and took aim at the Sardinians still advancing. Thundering rounds poured forth into the advancing ranks. This finally turned the Sardinians, but not for long.
Posted in Posted by Ted DeKker
Well, I guess It's been a while since I posted, huh? I've got some good news! I have finished working on Chapter 3 from TRAPPED!tm that I'm writing with Raina. Some of you might not know who she is, and that's okay. We've been posting most of our work on a blog we've named ThrillerBooks, but just as a warning we've got some pretty intense stuff there, so if you don't like that kind of writing, don't go there. Here's the Piece de la Resistance.
~
Ted
Britt sat back in his seat and smiled at Gwen. They had just ordered some of the finest cuisine this far out west and they began to catch up on all they missed since Britt had left all those years ago.
“So,” Brit said, smile on his face, “what on earth have you been doing all these years? I haven’t seen you since I left. I have to apologize though, I should have said goodbye before I tore out of that bar.”
“That’s fine!” Gwen said, putting her hand upon his in a reassuring manner, “I probably should be the one to apologize. It was my fault that we had that fight. I’m just glad you aren’t mad at me for what happened.”
They both smiled at each other and looked into each other’s eyes. Britt sighed and looked for June, hoping their food would come.
“Well, starting off on the right foot, I’ve been working as a small time journalist for the big news company back home, which wasn’t very big anyways. After you left, I kind of decided to leave too, though not before I stuck around seven months trying to keep the job at the news station. It was just so slow, and I realized I missed you more and more each time I saw your picture hanging on my wall. You remember; the one with us at the lake, near the dock? I just couldn’t take it any more and moved to San Francisco and got a job working for a small time paper downtown.”
Britt listened intently, yet all the while wondering how it could have been different if he hadn’t left; if he hadn’t been so stubborn. If he hadn’t been so willing to throw away what they had together.
Gwen continued on, “Even though I changed scenes I still couldn’t stop thinking about you. It kept eating at me until I was thinking about you every second. I just couldn’t keep that bottled up any more. So, I moved out and went on a trip to find a new job and maybe you. I went from town to town, doing odd writing jobs for papers and news stations, things like I was doing before. But it seemed the farther I got the more it seemed I couldn’t take it any more. Finally I reached a town I thought might be the one for me to settle down in, maybe meet a guy and have a family.
“That was two years ago,” she said, “I met a guy. We seemed to hit it off great…” Gwen trailed off, heaving an emotional sigh, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to cry,” She said, “but it didn’t end well. He was pretty abusive. I got out just in time, but I knew I couldn’t stay. I tried to get him arrested, but of course because I was in a small town nobody believed me and he got away clean. I finally ended up in Cheyenne, working at a nice local station as a reporter, and that’s how I ended up finding out about you. I heard you passed through and worked at the station for a while for some extra cash. And now here I am! I’ve got an assignment out here to cover, but it’s not for a few hours. It’s sort of a surprise, but what I can tell you is I’ll be here a few days!”
Britt was happy and a bit flustered at this announcement. He was happy that she was going to be here for a little, but he wasn’t sure how he truly felt about her sudden reappearance into his life. He’d gotten over her, but it took him a long time the first time around. This reappearing act might shatter his new life completely. Even the thought that she came back, and might even stay made his head swim. ‘If she could stay, she could leave,’ he’d said over and over to himself.
But it never seemed to work. And now that she’d come, it made him feel sick and joyful all at the same time. He literally had to grin and bear it, wearing that plastic smile all the while. June came by with their meals and they began eating. For a while neither of them spoke, leaving and uncomfortable silence dwelling in their midst. It seemed as though time stopped completely, the seconds dragging by monotonously. Suddenly the silence was shattered by the shot of a pistol, coming from the front door. A hooded man stood, pistol raised in the air, shouting at June to fill his bag with money from the register.
“PUT THE MONEY IN THE BAG AND NO ONE GETS HURT!” he yelled at June.
June was shaking from the fear that seeped through the air, drowning her in it. She grabbed the bag from him and began to get the money from the register into the bag. Of course June, and most of the customers, knew there wasn’t much money in their because today was Monday, and Monday was when June took all the cash out of the register and put it in the bank, and then opened for business. Seeing how little cash their was, the man with the pistol began to scream that he wanted everyone to put all of their money in the bag as he came around when all of the sudden he began to fall and clonked his head on the nearest table.
The gun went flying into the water pitcher closest to Gwen and sent water all over the food and her new dress. Silently she swore and began to dab her dress when she realized Britt wasn’t at the table. In fact, he was getting up from the floor near the would-be burglar. He dusted himself off and went back to sit down at their now soaked breakfast.
