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Five Good Men
by Jokr

Good day to you!

As I'd said before, the amount of cooperation needed to start a fight is pretty incredible. And now its going to start any day, and I'd rather be fixing the roof.

Looking around me, I can see the rest of my team, five good men. We're at the cross section of Market street and the Eastern forest, waiting calmly for hordes of Germans to come down this road, right into our two strings of mines and one 50mm gun.

Usually on Tuesdays the Swedish farmer comes by early in the morning, tapping his stock, guiding them gently as they're lead to slaughter. How ironic.

I saw an aerolplane this morning, flying above the trees westward. It didn't look French, and the far off sound of its guns chattering assured of that fact. Hundreds of rounds fell into the forest, and the plane circled, raptor like, then fired a few more rounds to assure itself of a job well done. It flew away then, preening, feeling the sun on its skin.

The rest of our army, that which could be mobilized in time, is spread out in the country side trying to pick a fight. An enormous tank drove by earlier, and we had to rap hard on its side to prevent it from going across our mine strings! The driver popped out, perplexed, wondering what the hell we were doing mining this road. They had an officer with them but the radio had been pulled for repairs.

Still, its a beutiful morning. Me, our gun, and five good men. I pass around some food that I'd scrounged on the way in. One fellow has a jug of water on his bike and we use that to wash down the bread.

I check out the mount again, see that its firmly based. The barrel points inquiringly up the road, towards Germany, poking its nose around the corner for a look see. Our mutual duty is to wait here, see what comes, and if it looks hostile, turn it away.

How did this all start, something about telephone poles I think. It will be funny in fifty years, I bet.

So here we are, Detachment 41, with our mighty gun, 50 rounds of armor piercing amunition, 20 rounds of explosive ammunition, some rations, our mighty gun, and two strings of mines. Is it cowardice to want peace or to just go home and fix my roof?

One man is quite adamant that this is a good fight, worth fighting off evil, tyranny, and everything else synonymous with not French. I hear his fear.

Some miles away we hear artillery impacts, a flurry of them, and then a later explosion. A discussion follows, and we try to recall what might have been in that direction.

Again I study the gun, thinking those hard thoughts. How much effort did it take to make this, from material dug from the ground, machined together, fitted, attached, welded, bored, and then brought out here. How much effort will it take for the German army to reduce our gun to less than it is?

I slight tremble is felt, and a haziness is seen approaching the bend; dust thrown up by the approaching army, I'd guess.

I must go to work now; the war is here now.