A World in Flames

As one more shell crashed above, Sergeant Henderson looked

around his position, comparing it to a flaming cauldron. Sniffing
the air around him, he smelled the smoke of the flames and the
burning bodies of a tank crew that tried to escape too late. As he
called out orders to his men, he thought of the friends he had lost
securing and holding this town. He called out orders that made his
men uneasy about the coming battle. “Eckels, get that 50 cal ready
for jerry.” “Johnson, I don’t see any fritz tanks around, but when I
do, I want to see that 57 firing.” “All right boys, check your
weapons and ammo, especially you Taylor.” Even as he said these
orders, there was a sound of thunder in the air. Everyone looked
around, waiting for the assault. Suddenly, there were cracks of
rifle and sub-machinegun fire, and out of the flames came a Tiger
tank! Henderson screamed, “Bazooka, bazooka now!” Even as his
screams were drowned out by the battle, he saw Private Taylor
leveling his weapon, aiming straight for the great beasts’ tracks.
He fired. With that one shot, the tanks track slid off, destroyed by
Taylor, a hero among the men. But a hero no longer. For in the
daze that overcame him, a German rifleman, no hero in the eyes of
any man, had killed him with a shot to the chest. Henderson
screamed to his men “Get out of here! Get out of this position and
flank that kraut tank!” Out of instinct alone, Henderson’s men
scrambled to a new position, leaving the fallen Taylor’s’ bazooka.
As they ran from their positions, one, two, three more fell to
German fire. “All right,” he ordered his men on the 57mm anti-
tank gun, “Now aim for the turret and blow that tank to kingdom
come!” Without any word at all, Johnson’s’ anti-tank team fired,
and destroyed the enemy tank in a shower of sound and light. The
great beast was finally dead. As his men cleared the town of
anymore opposition, he called Corporal Carter, his squads’ radio
man. “Call Major Burwell and tell him that the town is secure.”
“Oh, and tell him to bring some armor for us, ok?” “Ok, Sarge,
ok.”

Captain Livingston sat in the commanders seat of his Crusader

infantry tank looking out over the bleak situation. His armored
company had been mostly destroyed by a German one the other
day, and they had created an encirclement around his position. As
he felt that his last moments were drawing near, he told the driver
to send them forward. As they moved forward, he could identify at
least five of his own tanks. “All right everyone, if we are to die, let
us die with honor.” “All right sir”, was the reply from one of the
tanks. “Same here” said another. “All right then gents, lets move
it up.” Right then, a Panzer III E appeared. Its’ gun fired at one of
the tanks. Luckily, it didn’t penetrate, and all guns were focused
on the enemy tank. There was nothing but a smoking hole left as
the British tanks moved out of the enemy blockade. As they went,
they encountered more enemy tanks, so, using speed and the dust
blown up by the tanks movement as an advantage, they slowly
made there way out of the trap. Suddenly, he spotted a tank.
Acting on his instinct, he told the gunner to careen the gun toward
his target as he looked to identify his quarry. But it was not an
enemy tank. In fact, it was the complete opposite. It was a group
of Churchill and Matilda heavy tanks, coming to escort him out of
the pocket. He had never been so overjoyed in all of his life. But
the joy stopped there, for he noticed only two similar shouts of joy.
He looked back in horror; there were only two tanks left, and one
badly damaged. Looking at them, he said, “All right gents. Let’s
go home.”

“Come on comrades! We shall fight for the glorious Soviet Union,

for Stalin, and for Mother Russia!” These inspiring words came
out of the mouth of Commissar Letlev. He himself was too old to
fight the Germans, but through his ‘special’ connections, he had
been made a political commissar. As he checked out his new
equipment, he noticed a megaphone, which he knew would be used
to amplify his voice, and a sidearm. When he asked what the
sidearm was for, the reply was quick and to the point. “Comrade,
that is for fascists and cowards.” Letlev was shocked. It had been
his job so far to motivate troops. He had no intention of killing
another man, let alone one of his own. But that sidearm would
come in handy, for he was to take part in one of the bloodiest
battles of the Great Patriotic War. He was going to Stalingrad, the
city which bore his great leaders name. As his troop ship crossed
the Volga, he made a great patriotic speech to his men, but it did
no good; they still shivered like cornered rats, both from the cold
and common sense. And they had good reason to. For even as
they crossed the river to what would become a graveyard, many
more were dying on the beach that led to Stalingrad’s’ Red Square.
As he got off of his boat, a terrific crash was heard, and the boat
was gone. “Thank my luck,” he said as he began to give out rifles
to the men. But there was one thing he noticed; there was another
commissar talking into his megaphone, “The man with the rifle
shoots. The man without the rifle follows. When the man with the
rifle is killed, the man without the rifle picks up the dead mans rifle
and shoots!” He could not believe it! Here, even now as they
were taking back one of the most important cities in the Soviet
Union, they did not have enough rifles to go around! But he knew
his duty. He gave one man a rifle, while not giving one to another.
Soon, he fond himself rushing to a post were another commissar
had been killed. He took out his sidearm and started yelling,
“Move on comrades! Those who retreat will be shot!” He saw
one soldier falling back, making a logical decision. But he knew
his orders all too well. He leveled his sidearm and fired. The
bullet found its’ mark. The young soldier threw up his arms and
fell down to the ground. Letlev knew he had done his duty. Even
as his morally compromised soul dealt with the fact that he had just
killed a man, the Soviet soldiers rallied themselves and began to
take back the city. But Commissar Letlev was checking the body
of the soldier he had killed. But then, a frown came upon his face
and he began to cry. For the soldier that he killed had been his
own son.

Oberst Zimmerman stood by his Focke-Wulf FW-190, smiling

proudly. For not only had he been promoted from hauptmann to
oberst and reached his sixtieth kill, but his squadron had been
thought fit enough to receive the new FW-190, hot from the
factory. Zimmerman thought to himself that he would take the
new interceptor for a joy ride over the channel after his personal
painter and wingman Oberfeldwebel Hoffmann was finished
painting his signature nose art and kill stripes onto his plane. As
he oversaw the affair, he thought of the amusement as the British
Spitfires would have to find a way to shoot him down. From the
training films he and his squadron had received with the new
planes two days earlier, he new that his new plane could perform
excellently at low altitudes, while the Spitfires could not. He also
knew through personal experience that the British plane had two
cannon and four machineguns, which where very dangerous if the
pilot could use them correctly. This would put him at equal odds
with the Spitfire, and maybe even an advantage, seeing as how his
own plane had the same number of guns, although his planes
machineguns where of a higher caliber. As his plane was being
finished, he noted that he and he alone was preparing for a flight.
“Oh well,” he mumbled,”More kills for me.” As he climbed into
the cockpit, he went over the newer controls; this was far more
advanced than his old ME-109G. As he pulled out of his hanger,
he noticed how big his engine was; it was huge! He wondered if
he could take off without crashing. As he took off, he noticed the
speed of his bird. It was amazing; it was like he was flying
himself. But then he noticed something else; it was his wingman,
Hoffmann! “Ready for a fight?” asked Zimmerman. “Sure thing,
colonel!” Hoffmann replied. As they both sped over the channel,
they began scouring the sky for the enemy planes. And find them
they did. For up in the sky were five Spitfires, flying in their usual
formation. As the two pilots began to climb towards their enemies,
the British pilots remained on course. “Guns ready? Check.
Engine at full power? Check. All right then, lets go get ‘em!”,
said Zimmerman and Hoffman as they went over their planes’
equipment. As they neared their prey, the British pilots began to
notice them and started to dive towards their enemies. “Of course,
they had not expected to be dogfighting with Germanys’ finest.”
thought Zimmerman as he began to release red hot tracers showing
him if his bullets were nearing his mark. One, two, three enemy
fighters went down in flames to his bullets. But then he noticed
something; there was another enemy fighter in the sky, but he had
never seen anything like it. “Oh well,” he thought,” Just another
British fighter, might as well take it down as well.” But as he
neared it, he noticed that it was coming after him as well. But as
he started to fire, he felt his machine start to rattle in a way he
knew all to well; his machine was being pummeled by enemy
cannon fire. As he felt his machine starting to escape his control,
he reached for the escape hatch and pulled. As he escaped his
burning wreck of a plane, he thought of if he would be able to get
back to France and his beloved squadron, or if a British ship would
take him prisoner.

Huang Hoi Sei leveled his sniper rifle at the American squad and
fired. His bullet, an iron angel of death, sped toward its target and
hit its mark. An American soldier screamed in agony as the color
of his trousers turned from a deep caramel to a blood red stain. As
the rest of the squad searched for the assassin, Sei worked
feverishly to reload his rifle without the Americans noticing him.
Something in his mind told him to retreat to another tree, but the
ropes that held him in his lofty bunker and his fierce Japanese
spirit said otherwise. But as he finished the last steps of reloading
his rifle, out of the corner of his eye he say an American soldier.
As he turned to face the American, the soldier ran back into the
jungle. Sei fired several rounds into the mess of trees and foliage,
knowing that he had not killed the American, but frightened him,
possibly even sending him back to the beach he and the other
Americans had come from, for today, an American invasion force
had come to knock the Japanese off of the island they were on.
But as Sei looked back at the squad of Americans, he saw that one
of them was pointing a rifle at him. He hurried again to reload his
rifle, but it was too late. The American had already fired two
rounds into his cranium.