IT WAS DARK out, very early morning, the sky cloudy and reddish-black. The clouds roiled and once in a while there would be thunder and a flash of lightning. The lightning highlighted forms creeping across the land in single-file, darting behind the occasional tree, jumping out from behind mounds and tiptoeing away again. Towards the middle of the field two Nazi officers led a large group of Jewish civilians towards the woods, prodding them on with their guns. Several of the women were weeping, but most were quiet. Though the Nazis had never said anything, they knew where they were headed.
An elderly man was at the front, one of the patriarchs of the group. One Nazi, the older one (both were quite young compared to him, probably only in their twenties), was keeping a sharp eye on him, suspecting that if there would be a rabble-rouser, it would be him. The other officer patrolled the back of the group, poking at one or another now and then, seemingly enjoying himself. Everybody's hands were tied with rope; the Nazis hadn't wanted to waste metal chain, seeing as these prisoners weren't going to be around much longer. At least, that was what they'd planned.
The creeping forms all bunched together at the base of an old crumbling wall; as the Nazis and the group of Jews in the field stopped near the edge of the woods, they stopped too, and soon three hundred ninety-nine guns were aimed at them.
The younger Nazi officer poked around the edges of the group, giggling sadistically and snapping like a wild dog. The other pulled out his telephone and started to call the base camp. [Note--I assume I meant those big clunky phone thingies they had on those huge packs they'd carry around, not a cellphone or anything...] He dialed the number, listened to the ring, and asked for the officer in charge. [Note--needless to say, IF they even had those things in WWII, I have no clue how they worked.]
"Geist!" [Note--that was probably italicized.]
The older Nazi's head shot up and he dropped the phone. The younger Nazi came running towards him, pointing wildly and gasping. "Geist! Up there!" he said in German.
"You're seeing things."
"But I saw one! He was right up there!" The younger officer started looking around, his eyes scanning the top of the old wall. "I saw him! He was looking down at us!"
"Maybe it was a soldier," the other said, undoing his holster and pulling out his gun.
"I don't know--" the younger one started uncertainly. "He didn't look natural..."
"Fool! The dark makes everything look unnatural! Now shut up and get your gun out!"
The Jews in the group started murmuring and shuffling around nervously. The patriarch at the head of the group worked his way to the front to see what was going on; a gun was shoved in his face, and he took a step back.
"You," the older Nazi warned. "You stay put. You make one move and you'll have a taste of this." He pulled the gun away and started towards the wall.
"I wouldn't go there," the younger one called.
"Shh! Fool! Only cowards are afraid of shadows!"
His companion responded by screaming and backing away, throwing up an arm to his eyes. The older officer whirled around to look up at the wall, and was stunned by what he saw.
Atop the wall stood what appeared to be a German soldier--a soldier of the Great War, over for years. He wore the spiked helmet of the Germans, at least. His cape flowed around him in the wind, whipping out to the side. His eyes glowed with an unnatural fire. And around him, on both sides, crouched hundreds of still forms, their eyes also glowing, with guns trained upon him.
"Ghosts," he whispered.
"They've come for us!" the younger Nazi cried hysterically. "They've come to take us!"
"Hush!" the older officer hissed. "And I'll make sure they leave with something too!" So saying, he held up his own gun and fired.
He was met by a barrage of bullets; evidently these were not ghosts, unless ghosts had recently learned to use guns. He yelped and dropped his gun, holding up his arms to shield his head from the blows. He was hit once in the shoulder, another time in the leg; he dropped to the ground.
The younger Nazi ran off screaming.
The Jews and their patriarch stood in their group, watching with awe, also thinking the shadows upon the wall were supernatural. Soon the gunfire ceased; one of the forms stood up beside the taller one and started to descend the wall, but the tall one held it back.
"Let him go," it whispered, so that the Jews couldn't hear. "Let him 'spread the news.'"
The shorter shadow nodded and crouched back into place.
For a short while they stayed that way; the prisoners in their group on the ground, the shadows crouched up on the wall. After a while the tall one jumped down and skidded down the hill to the bottom; the other shadows started creeping over the wall as well, sliding down to join him, fanning out in all directions so the group was surrounded.
The Jews started crowding together even closer, considering how close they'd been before. Whimpers were heard; the shadows were ghosts of the Great War, and they'd come to take their revenge. The patriarch was the only one who stood his ground; he was old, he knew it, and he didn't fear death anymore. He only feared that it might visit his younger companions, who still had their lives ahead of him. [Note--that should probably be "ahead of them."] If this truly was a ghost, he was prepared to offer it himself.
The tall shadow came closer, its eyes glowing in the darkness; they were the only feature he could make of its face; in fact the whole thing was just blackness surrounding two yellow eyes. [Note--there should probably be an "out" following "make."] But as it came closer he saw it start to gain more natural features; eyes, nose, mouth; and as it stepped into the "light," or whatever there was of it, he let out his breath as he realized it wasn't a ghost at all, but a rat, like himself. A soldier. And most definitely not a German soldier.
"Who are you?" he asked it--him--in German.
The rat got a stunned look, then looked confused. The shorter rat--the one who'd started to follow the escaped Nazi--whispered something in his ear, and he looked relieved, and nodded. He turned his head and motioned for one of the other rats to come forward; one did, one almost as tall as he, wearing a dark red cape with a small white cross on his arm. The tall one--the patriarch realized he must be the leader--said something to him in a low voice, and the one with the cross nodded and turned to him.
"We're Americans," he said, in near-perfect German.
The patriarch let out his breath with relief. He couldn't, nor did he wish to, suppress the large smile that spread across his face. "Americans," he said in English, startling them all. "What a relief! What a salvation!"
"You speak English," the tall one said.
"Yes, yes, of course I do. I was educated at Oxford. [Note--er--!! I have no idea!!] What a relief! What a wondrous miracle! We thought that you and your men were ghosts. The Nazis thought the same thing too!"
The shorter one smiled at the leader. [Note--yes, there are THREE rats here and I keep talking as if there are two. By "the tall one" I obviously mean Camo, and by "the shorter one" I mean Drake. The one in red is of course Burgundy.] "Told you," he said, and, pulling out a trench knife, proceeded to cut the bonds of the Jews in the group. Several of the other rats joined him in freeing the prisoners.
The tall one just looked amazed. "We really didn't think it would work that way," he said.
The old Jew gaped at him. "You mean, you intended to look like ghosts? Well! Even if you hadn't you'd have done a pretty good job!" He laughed. "My name is Liebowitz, Sergeant--?"
"Camo," the sergeant replied. He motioned to the shorter rat still cutting the ropes which bound the Jews' hands together. "That's my corporal, Drake, and this is my chief surgeon, Burgundy."
"I'm most pleased to meet you all. If you hadn't come along when you did, then we would all be dead by now."
Burgundy went off into the group to search for injuries; Drake and the other rats finished slicing the bonds and began looking for injuries also. "Tell me," Camo said in a low voice, "what would they have done to you out here?"
"They would have shot and buried us," Liebowitz replied sadly. "In a large pit. They've been doing this, but now it's getting too slow so they have to find other ways."
"Too slow? What are they doing now?"
"Now, I've heard that they have build [sic] large chambers, and they release gas into them--poisonous gas, which kills you only after a long time. I've heard it makes you choke until you die. And I've heard that they're taking some of my people, and using them for horrible experiments."
That seemed to interest the sergeant; "What kinds of experiments? Do you know?" he asked.
Liebowitz shrugged. "What they are, I do not know. But they must be terrible; too terrible to imagine. I would much rather be subjected to the gas. Sergeant Camo, they've been taking trainloads of my people and dumping them in pits, and burning them; they loot the bodies and then dump them into giant ovens and burn them until they turn to ashes. I've seen rooms full of boxes full of rings--wedding rings, tooth fillings, watches, clothing. And sometimes they don't burn the bodies--they do even worse things to them. Sergeant Camo, please tell me you've come to help us?"
"I have," Camo said. "We have. We've heard about what's been going on here. I assembled a battalion specifically for this purpose. Be assured, Mr. Liebowitz, we'll do everything in our power to make sure this carnage is stopped."
Just then Drake passed by; Liebowitz stopped him, putting out a thin hand and holding his necklace to the light. "My son--you're one of us!"
Drake smiled grimly at him. "You could say that. Grandpa, we'll get you all out of here--we have a headquarters and we'll take you there, and we'll feed you all. You'll be safe there. Just tell them that they have to trust us, and we'll be on our way."
Liebowitz turned to the Jews and explained what was going on; at first the prisoners were wary, especially when they saw the huge dogs the rats were bringing in, one by one, with giant baskets hanging from their sides. But on hearing of the headquarters, they again looked hopeful, and followed Burgundy when he told them to climb into the baskets. As soon as all of the ex-prisoners were accounted for, and placed safely within the carrying-baskets, the dogs stood up and the rats gathered around them, and they were all on their way out of that place. [Note--what about the wounded Nazi?? Cripes. Heartless bastards.]
Word spread quickly amongst the Nazis that there was a new enemy, an enemy so fast and so silent that they'd been mistaken for ghosts. For of course the frightened young Nazi's story of geists guarding the battlefield was taken lightly; the older soldiers knew the story couldn't be true, but when other reports of the strange new adversaries started coming in they knew they were facing something that at least seemed supernatural. Nevertheless, the young Nazi had been so frightened by his experience that he absolutely refused to go anywhere near that place again.
The more level-headed soldiers amongst them began coming back with tales of the shadowy creatures which would appear out of thin air and quickly and efficiently thin their ranks, sometimes by shooting but mostly by taking prisoners. Two would be walking along only for the one in front to turn around and find his companion missing. And every time the Nazis had prisoners of their own the shadows just seemed to come along faster and more furious in ever, arriving en masse to startle the troops into releasing their hostages. [Note--that should be "more furious than ever." Also, I misused the word "hostages." It should be prisoners or something.] They didn't know what they were. But whatever they were, they were good at what they did.
Finally a Nazi came back with the statement that he'd heard the soldiers talking to one another during one raid; and they were speaking English, not German, which ruled out the theory that they were renegades as their costumes suggested. And finally those in charge concluded that they were Americans--only the Americans would so something like this, and on this great a scale, for they knew their number to be around half a thousand. None of them had been killed or captured yet, so no questions could be asked. They were, other than what was known about them from this, a complete mystery, and the Nazis ended up dubbing them the "Trench Rats."
It was Drake who, about a month after their first raid, intercepted a communique between two German base camps and deciphered it. He chuckled at their confusion, and listened with interest to their conclusions.
"'Trench Rats,' hm?" Camo mused, listening to Drake's interpretation. "So that's what they're calling us over there."
"Well, we needed a name, didn't we?" Drake offered. "And I think that's a pretty fitting one. 'Trench Rats.' For once the Nazis did something good."
Soon they'd all adopted the name, and Liebowitz, staying in their temporary residence for rescued prisoners, had one of his cohorts draw up their logo--a rat's head with crossbones, and the words TRENCH RATS written in capital letters. [Note--this was copied after a skateboarding logo.] It was made into a flag which he presented proudly to the sergeant and corporal, and they displayed it inside their headquarters.
Work on the headquarters had been started even before they'd arrived on foreign soil; some of their partisans had taken the liberty of digging immense trenches far out in the woods, away from any spying eyes, and constructing crude walls within the tunnels to create a sunken fortress. [Note--not in the newest version; in that, no outsiders (supposedly), except for Papillon, know the Trench Rats HQ's location. Also, I'm not sure if it should be "Trench Rat HQ," "Trench Rats HQ," or "Trench Rats' HQ." Meh.] Once the Rats arrived they refurbished it, replacing the walls with stone and concrete and reinforcing the roof in case of bombing raids should they ever be discovered--which was unlikely, as the whole place was camouflaged so well that they had to take turns leading a sort of orientation to make sure they could find it. Further away was built the ex-prisoners' residence, in a separate building because they couldn't afford to be housed in with the soldiers themselves; Camo could never be sure when one might be an undercover spy, who might drop in and discover any plans the Rats would be working on. The refugees didn't mind; in fact, they now had more room than ever before, and hot food, and so were quite happy to be housed there until they could by escorted out of the country via disguised Rats hiding out in the cities.
Work progressed on the headquarters rapidly, with all of the Rats helping at one time or another. A sizable hospital was set up at the west end; Burgundy oversaw its construction, making sure the place was built even more stable than the other sections in case of the bombs hitting--he didn't want the building turning into a pile of rubble in an emergency just when it was needed most. An operations office was built for Camo, and numerous quarters branching off into the north and east wings, with multiple tunnels leading to the surface spreading out to the south. The mess hall and all public places were set in the west with the hospital. Within several months the whole place was in working order, and the Rats could concentrate on their original mission: finding the American prisoner.
The Trench Rats slept and guarded in shifts of two, each stationed at strategic places outside and inside the HQ. Every three hours the shift was changed and new Rats would go out to guard, so everybody ended up getting some sleep. [Note--I think maybe this is changed to four-hour shifts in later versions.] The battalion was for rescue purposes first and foremost, not battle, and so they didn't have to be out all the time fighting unless the need arose.
One day Camo retreated to his office with the announcement that he was going to take one of the captured Nazi's [sic] information and determine where and when any future rescues could be made. He told the higher officers he would first look at it alone, and then call them in for their opinions. [Note--um...higher officers? There's only Burgundy. I assume I meant Corporal Drake and maybe some of the lance-corporals, but...are those even officers??] Then he locked himself in his office, refusing any calls short of the Nazis storming their headquarters.
Drake took the time to rifle through the personnel files while Burgundy read through some patient histories he'd typed up for the refugees, sipping coffee as he glanced over the folders. Drake stood nearby, peering into the cabinet against the wall, occasionally pulling a file out and skimming over it.
"Oo, here's a good one," he said to Burgundy, looking at Purple's file. "This says Purple punched a drill sergeant and broke his nose. So that's why he was in solitary."
"Mm-hm," Burgundy said, only half-listening. It was something he could get away with, one, because he was good at it, and two, because he already knew what Drake was reading; he had, after all, written up most of those files.
"I was wondering about him," Drake murmured, replacing the file and pulling out another one. "'Turquoise. Bla bla bla, bla bla, bla bla bla bla--you know this guy?"
Burgundy nodded.
"This says he's good with ops. [Note--what the hell does that MEAN??] I think it's right. He didn't get lost once looking around this place." [Note--I doubt that "ops" means "good with directions"...in fact I just looked it up, and I think Turq would SUCK at ops.] Drake snorted and put the folder back, shuffling through them, going back to the C's. "You know, I think he navigates by the moon or something." [Note--an injoke on my part...considering that Turquoise is a Cancer--the sign ruled by the Moon.]
"Anything's possible."
"Hey, here's Sergeant Camo." Drake took the file and sat down a couple seats away from Burgundy, reading it. For a moment or two he was silent. "Hey, Burgundy, is this thing right? This says Camo was in an automobile accident and broke his neck."
"That's true, as far as I know."
"But it also says he was paralyzed. He walks just fine. He doesn't even limp or anything."
"He worked through that. The doctors couldn't keep him in bed nearly long enough. He kept getting out and working his legs, forcing himself to learn to walk." [Note--this is a kind of screwy story that nonetheless still stands in the newest version of events. Supposedly Camo broke his neck, but it was only his legs that couldn't move at first. I don't know enough about medicine to explain this. CAN a broken neck work that way? If not, then my backup explanation was that he'd also...injured his spine somehow...like slipped a disk or pinched a nerve or...something...in any case, he walks now, but only with a lot of pain. And his neck hurts. The end.]
"How long did it take?"
"About eight months."
"Only? Cripes! That's amazing." Drake fell silent again as he read further. "It also says he had a wife and daughter. What about--"
"They didn't make it through the crash," Burgundy cut him off, taking a drink. [Note--my stock tragic widower, shades of Trooper Broderick, Grand Master Jenson, Stick-In-The-Dirt, King Zoser, and like a million other characters of mine...] "They were killed instantly. Camo was the only one who survived. They told me they didn't even expect him to live through the night, much less eight months, much less learn to walk again."
"Lord." [Note--WOULD a Jewish person say that?? Granted, Drake is rather lapsed, but I doubt he'd lapse so much as to use Christian lingo...I just looked it up and it can be either Jewish or Christian, so...*shrug.*] Drake closed the file and sat in thought for a moment, then got back up and put it away, sliding the drawer shut with a click. He stood by the cabient [sic] for a while, thinking; he finally sighed and sat back down, crossing his legs and playing with a piece of string he found on the floor. [Note--I seem to recall getting writer's block right about here.]
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