Vladimir's WWII: The Politics Four Gunshots filled the indigo night, lighting up the inky sky with flashes of fire and smoke as the battle raged on between soldiers clad in thin cloth that was tattered, torn, and dyed with blood. Shouts sounded threw the air, and bullets whizzed past Vladimir as he ran across the battle-field carrying a young man bleeding to death on his shoulder.Vladimir's WWII: The Politics Four17 hours ago in Historical More Like This
"Волков тащи свою задницу сюда" The General yelled angrily, shooting furiously at the German's on the opposite side.
Vladimir coughed, his lungs filled with thick smoke from the gunfire and cannons. But he kept pushing on until he felt a bullet dig into the muscle on his left leg. The Russian soldier staggered, falling face-down into the soaked ground causing an abandoned Hitler Youth Knife to stab into his right eye.
Blood ran li
Lange vergessenEin Bettler sucht Zuflucht vor dem kalten Wind. Erst erkennt er sie nicht, die alte Schmiede. Sie ist nur noch eine Ruine, das Dach löchrig, die Tür ausgehängt. Boden und Esse von feinem Schnee bedeckt. Verlassen und ihrer Schätze, ihrer Werkzeuge beraubt.Lange vergessen22 hours ago in Historical More Like This
Er sieht nicht viel besser aus mit seinem zerschlissenen Reisemantel, seinen eingefallenen Wangen und dem zerzausten Bart. Doch als seine knochigen Hände über den Amboss streifen, wird sie kurz lebendig, die goldene Zeit, da hier von seinen Händen die Schwerter des Königs geschmiedet wurden. Für einen Moment erinnert er sich seines Namens. Und des Schwertes, das er trug.
The StrandedThe StrandedThe Stranded14 hours ago in Historical More Like This
The jungle was thick. The fog was thicker. It impeded his vision as he moved through the heavy underbrush. His military uniform shielded his skin from the thorns and the roots. He moved like a pioneer, like an explorer, with purpose, aspiration, and dreams. Even though he didn’t quite know the path on which he was going he pressed onwards, oblivious to his blistered feet and aching calves. An M1 Garand rifle was slung lazily from his shoulder, the trigger lightly rusted from a lack of use and several months spent in the harsh, humid environment. His name was Jonathan Sinclair, Jack to his friends, and he pondered his days as a soldier as he pushed through the ever-deepening jungle.
As Jack pushed through, he didn’t notice the person who had been trailing him, hiding in the shadows, trained in stealth and guerilla tactics. The man moved in the low hanging tree branches, stepping nimbly onto each one, not even disturbing the birds that were nesting there. He had