Pretoria, Gauteng. Aclus Occupation Zone
July 20th, 1912
"Have you heard the news?" inquired Beaunard Badenhorst, commander of Gauteng Section of the Brotherhood's Army, as he stood bouncing on his heels in the dimly lit, smoke filled room known as the Command Center. It was here that most major decisions for the Brotherhood were made, and it was here that Christiaan Botha spent most of his time.
"Of course I have, the NAD sent a message down the line earlier. The Red's occupied the Port, this is good. We're close to independence men, soon we shall be occupied no more!" Botha shouted giving rise to a cheer from the various men in the large Command Center.
"Beaunard, put the men on high alert, I want the Flying Divisions ready to move at a moment notice. Get word to the other Section commanders, when the code word is given they are to strike, and the Stars shall rise once more over the Traansval."
Kairo, Aegyptus. Reichskommisarrat der Borland
July 22nd, 1912
Fritz Steyn poked his head out the window and looked up and down the street, checking to see if any local Warglorian soldiers were patroling. Satisfied that they were in the clear, he stepped back into the roof and walked out into the courtyard of the building complex. This was the local barracks for the 33rd Liberty Battalion, one of several stationed with the Kairo Flying Division in the city. The men of the battalion stood in their uniforms, with rifles loaded and in their hands. Steyn ran up to Majoor de Beer, who stood looking at a map of the city and speaking with his officers.
"Sir, coast is clear, no Jackboots in sight." Steyn relayed to his Majoor, who nodded with a smile at the information.
"Good to hear Korporaal, get into line with the rest of the men and get ready" Majoor de Beer said before turning back to his officers.
Steyn saluted Majoor de Beer and then ran over to get into line with his Platoon. He grabbed his Pretorian-Mauser 1903 rifle off a crate and stuffed a Manticoran M1900 pistol into his belt before lining up with the rest of the Platoon. The men were looking at a local newspaper run by the Warglorians, and laughing over the articles which wrote about the Brotherhood and calling them Terrorists and other words. Steyn moved the bolt on his rifle back and checked to make sure it was loaded before putting it back by his side.
Majoor de Beer handed off the map to one of his officers and gave a shout to his men, bringing them to attention. Steyn gave a small groan as he readied himself for more drilling, and suppressed said groan as he heard the order to fix bayonets. He reached to his belt to grasp his bayonet, and fixed it to his rifle. He brought it to the ready position, and with the rest of his platoon stepped forward and speared the sandbags in front of them with the Bayonet before moving back.
After a couple of hours, the order to stop came, and all came to attention. Then the faces came. Left face, they turned, and marched. Right face, they turned and march. Left, Right, About, Front, Left, Right, About, Front, Left, Right, About, Front, Left, Right, About, Front. By the time they were done, Steyn practically dropped in exhaustion with the rest of them. He felt the bliss of rest come just as the Majoor gave the order to stand up, cutting any expectation of rest short.
Bloemfontain, Orange Free State. Reichskommisarrat der Borland.
July, 22nd, 1912.
Rudolf de Wet clutched the pint of dark brown liquid in his hands as his head bobbed up and down as he attempted to fight off the sleep that creeped at the edges of his mind. He downed what was left in his mug and placed it down on the counter; propped his head up with his hand and started riffling through his coat for some Occupation Notes, the term used for the special Warglorian Dollars used in the Reichskommisarrat. He slapped them down on the counter and the bartender sweeped them up along with the empty glass.
"Ha, I think you took this out by accident feller," the bartender said, handing over a picture to de Wet, who didn't remember ever having such a picture. He looked at the photograph, understanding immediately its signifigance, and committed the mans face to memory. Said face was of a young man, somewhere between twenty and thirty, with light sand colored hair and blue eyes. Thin lips and a small nose, the most notable feature being his high cheek bones.
That, and the SS Officers cap on his head, and the dark black uniform of the Gestapo.
Rudolf flipped the photo over to see a time and address listed on it. He nodded to the bartender and stuffed the photograph into his coat, then slid off the barstool and hobbled out of the restaurant. With his ratty fedora pulled over over his eyes and his large stained coat covering his body, he moved through the masses and crowds that litered Bloemfontain's streets. Finally he came to a street corner, around the bend he could see the street continue on, right past the old General Post Office, which had since been converted to a Gestapo Field Office.
A few old pieces of newspaper and a old shipping box would soon become a makeshift shelter, with de Wit huddled underneath a few blankets inside; a tin cup in his hand and a "Spare Change" on his lips. For hours he sat there, collecting a few dollars worth of change from some generous Boers and a boot from a not so generous soldier.
It was around the time when the sun began to dip below the horizon that Rudolf saw Him coming out of the building, out of uniform and in a suit, but unmistakenly him. The streets had cleared a bit of people, and there was nothing but empty sidewalk between Rudolf and the man, who was now holding a cigarette between his lips as he reached for a lighter. As Rudolf looked, the two mens eyes connected, and after a moment of confusion the mans eyes suddenly widdened as he realized the man was staring at him, and in his line of work that only meant one thing.
The cigarette fell along with the lighter, hitting the ground and bouncing as the two men both moved for their guns. But Rudolf, prepared, was quicker, and the sound of a gunshot echoed across the square as the man clutched his chest. Rudolf stood up quickly, throwing off the blankets, and quickly fired another two shots into the mans chest, causing him to collapse to the ground. De Wit ran up to him and searched the man as he lay there, bleeding, but still alive. He slipped the mans pistol into his coat and grabbed a shief of papers stuffed into an inside pocket. Rudolf stood up and emptied the clip of his pistol into the man, making sure he was dead, before breaking out in a sprint. By now, the shots had been heard, and men in both suits and black uniforms were coming out of the old GPO building to see what was going on. Bullets struck the concrete around De Wit, but he kept sprinting.
He ducked into a alley, its route twisting and turning before he finally came to its end. A manhole was located there, and two dumpsters on each side of it.
"Liberty!" He shouted into the air.
The dumpster's lids came flying off and three men hopped out, Manticoran Submachines guns in hand. One of them, a man with a cocked hat, ran up to De Wit with his hand held out.
"Good to see you made it Rudolf, the boys are waiting down below. We'll cover ya."
De Wit nodded and ran to the now open manhole, which had two of the men kneeling next to it. Behind him, he could hear shouting in Warglorian, and the sound of boots approaching. The men took positions, ready to fire. De Wit slipped down the ladder and into the darkness of the sewer. He looked to the side and saw a dimly lit lantern and quickly picked it up, adjusting the valve to allow more gas to the flame. He began to walk down the path, and only stopped when he heard the echoes of gunshots from behind. He kept walking until he saw a iron door marked with a yellow sign saying "Maintenance", promptly opening it and entering the small corridor behind it.
The exit to the corridor revealed a dimly lit tunnel, and the grinning face of Gunther and his hand cart sitting on the rails.
"Good to see you Rudolf, I thought the gunshots might have been Karma catching up with you finally. Hop on!"
Rudolf chuckled and took Gunther's advice, taking a seat on the bench opposite him and resting his arms on the carts pump. Gunther passed Rudolf a cigarette, which he gladly accepted, along with the lit match soon to follow. The two sat there, smoking in silence as they waited on pins and needles. That is, until the door burst open to see their comrades rushing through, carrying one of their own who they soon slid onto the cart.
"What happened?" Rudolf inquired.
"Heinz got hit in the leg, they missed the artery but he can't walk." Truslow said. Trusty Truslow, leader for the Bloemfontain NAD Cell.
"Jesus..." Gunther said as he looked at the bloody wound, he face turning green.
"No time to get sick, get us out of here now!" Truslow shouted at Gunther and Rudolf, bringing them out of their stupor. The two grasped the pump and soon the cart began to move down the rails, down towards the Safehouse. Down towards home.
Somewhere in southern Lombardie, Arengin Occupation Zone.
July 30th, 1912
Danie Theron clutched the Malinklo 1884 rifle in his hand, an Arengin rifle captured during one of their raids, as he looked at the empty savannah. A sea of grass only disturbed by the occassional tree and the railtracks which sat silent and still. Theron looked to his left at the line of men under his command, a section of the larger Band under Joubert. Theron had around fourty-eight men here with him, all of them armed with an assortment of rifles, pistols, and knives. All of them looked anxious to fight, and fight they soon do.
The first thing they saw was the smoke, pillowing into the sky from beyond the horizon. Then the train itself came into view, chugging its way slowly towards them from a long distance away. Theron looked to his second, who nodded and laid down his rifle, moving over to the red detonator box. He unhooked a latch and set the plunger. The whole section waited while the train came closer and closer, until finally it passed the white painted post that they had placed earlier. Theron nodded, and his second press down on the plunger.
At first, nothing happened. Then, everything happened. The Dynamite blew, sending a small cloud of fire into the sky, immediately alerting the train which hit the brakes. The train took long to stop, but eventually it did. Immediately the crew on board jumped off to inspect the rail, while several Arengin soldiers also jumped off to look around the flat lands to see what had caused this. It was now that Theron decided to strike; he rose to his knees and shouted the order to fire, which was followed by his section which soon began to levy volleys of rifle fire on the poor stranded train and its soldiers.
Several of said soldiers were hit, and those who weren't ran to the train. The crew jumped back on board and began to reverse, but this was cut short after a Oswyn Cocktail, a makeshift incendiary device named after the Arengin Royal Family, was thrown into the cabin and set the lead Engine ablaze. Splinters of wood rose up from the rifle and pistol rounds being fired into the trains carriges, and soon enough one of the Arengin Soldiers would raise a Rifle into the air with a white napkin tied to it. Theron and his men would hoot and holer with joy as they ran towards the train, which was now theirs.
While his men cleared the upper cars of soldiers, Theron and a few men went to the car at the back. He slid the door open to reveal crates stacked ceiling high in rows. One of Therons men slipped out his Bowe Knife and jammed it into the side of one of the crates, throwing it open to reveals several Arengin rifles stacked inside. The men immediately shouted with joy, for they had just captured a large shipment of Arengin weapons bound for the Garrison at Soweto. Theron just stood back, glad that the tip he got from his informant had been correct.
As Theron mounted his horse, his men loading the crates onto the wagons they had stowed a mile back in a grove of trees, his second in command ran up to him. "Sir, we've got about twenty or so Soldiers surrendered, and it seemed the train had some passengers, a dozen or so still left sir." He relayed to his commander.
Theron grunted, then pointed over towards an area opposite the tracks, "Theres a ditch right over there, you know what to do."
As Theron rode off into the sunset, following the tracks, he imagined the praise and glory he'd get. Riding back into camp with a whole shipment of Arengin guns and ammo behind him on the wagons, and not a single man lost. Today had been a good day. He began to doze off in his saddle, the last thing he heard was the sound of gunshots coming from an area opposite the train tracks. Soon they would be gone from the site, the only things left behind to show they had been there were the bodies, the burnt carcass of the train, and a Boer Flag flying from the former steam engine
