This iPod short was written entirely on the way home from work. Thirty minutes of walking and typing as I did so. No further editing to tidy up the prose, bar deleting an irrelevant line.
Even after a year's passing, the Bitter Peace still stuck in the national craw of the British, and especially the English. 1922 April 23rd, St. George's Day. The day when the Great Struggle came to an end. The day when the Great Generals of the Alliance were forced to capitulate and agree to Germany's terms. A day designed to humiliate the British Empire in every way possible.
Among the myriad of caveats and stipulations was a section outlining how observers from the Imperial German Army and the Austro-Hungarian Army would oversee the disarmament of the allied armies, as well as making sure that they were not making attempts to rebuild their strength.
Which is why Captain Eric Yungenfrau was striding along Pall Mall as if he owned it, arrogantly pushing aside those who truly had a right to it as if they were nothing but sheep.
Bastard's loving every minute of it, thought Blaise as he followed at a discreet distance. He scratched at his neck where the material of his cheap shirt irritated it and shrugged his shoulders to make the awful jacket he was wearing sit better.
Dressed as a low-level worker, his job was to tail the German wherever he met, note whoever he spoke to, and ensure that he didn't find any evidence of a military build-up.
The Captain had proven to be very thorough. Germanically thorough. Somehow he had found out about the new clock mechanisms that were being used in the timers for the new Mark12 Torpedo.
On their own, they were nothing. Unfortunately a clerical oversight had seen an order for ten thousand to be processed and the Captain, who was working in the Procurement Oversight Committee had seen it.
Now, he was making his way to the offices of the company that produced them. A company that Her Majesty's Imperial Government did not want anyone to discover.
Glancing across the road, Blaise made sure that Thatcher was with him. A quick touch of the brim on his bowler hat brought Thatcher onto the same side.
Five more yards and the German would turn onto a side street. A street that, until today, had been cleared of bomb damage, but which now was littered with detritus.
Quick in and out, Blaise felt the adrenalin surge as their target turned into the aide street. He knew that they had to act as soon as possible. He closed the gap between them, drawing his knife.
'Knights of St George!' the battle cry of the English Resistance Movement echoed off the Walls of the street.
The Captain whirled around, dropping his papers and going for his gun.
No you fucking don't, thought Blaise, as he rammed his knife up into his target's diaphragm, twisting it viciously before ripping it out.
The Captain opened his mouth to scream. To maybe ask for mercy, for help, for the reason why. All that came out was blood. With his diaphragm punctured he couldn't draw breath and, if blood loss didn't kill him first, would suffocate.
'Quickly Thatcher!' they grabbed his papers and dashed to a pile of wreckage. Pulling it aside they dashed into the building behind it.
Two minutes later they were on another street.
'A good day's work Thatcher, I feel the need for a nice Glenmorangie. Care to join me?'
His sergeant chuckled 'Love to sir, love to.'
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