And So It Goes Date Tuesday, April 23, 2024 - 01:51 PM PST Topic Entertainment Teutoburg Forest. A.D. 9 Sigimer and his friend Arnulf, both of the Cheruscan tribe, walked wearily together through the forest. Both the fighting and the inclement weather had taken its toll on the men, but now that the rain and slaughter had ceased an eerie calm was descending through the ancient wald, made nearly tangible by the thickening mist that clung to the forest floor. The only sounds to be heard now were their own heavy breathing and footfalls through the dampened underbrush. Though weary and bloodied, Arnulf’s step was light and a happy gleam shone in his eyes as they paused beneath the shelter of a venerable oak tree to survey their progress. Behind practically every tree and shrub around them lay the hacked and mangled bodies of Roman legionnaires and their own barbarian brothers, mingled together but still recognizable. Arnulf took his eyes from his environment and surveyed the features of his taciturn friend. “Are you not joyous?” Arnulf asked. “I am not.” Sigimer answered softly. Arnulf broke the calm with a rapid barking laugh that echoed through the tops of the trees. “You are not easily satisfied then, friend Sigimer!” Arnulf exclaimed. “Today has Wodan granted us what many have thought to be impossible! Through our glorious chief Arminius, the noble Herrmann, we have routed and destroyed three... THREE!... of the invincible legions of our Roman oppressors! Let the eagles of the south come now if they dare, for we have made it plain that they are as vulnerable as any!” Sigimer nodded slowly in agreement, but his eyes were very far away. “And what do you think pleases Wodan now, friend Arnulf?” “It is obvious, is it not?” Arnulf responded laughing. “No more shall the Batavians or the Segestes contest with one another for the affections of Rome. Today marks the end of all of our animosities with each other and we shall stand united under a single banner, true to Wodan, against our all-too-human enemies. No more shall we send tribute to the southerners and their gods, for we are now a Germania united! I have heard that Arminius, the noble Herrmann, is even sending an envoy to Rome with the head of Publius Quintilius Varus to show the great Augustus what we barbarians in Germania are capable of doing together. We are free now, friend Sigimer. We are free to unite under our own gods and live in peace!” Sigimer nodded thoughtfully and then bent down to examine the Roman body at his feet. He marked immediately that it was a centurion, a great leader of Roman men, although not Varus himself. Sigimer slowly removed the helmet from the corpse and gazed into the man’s face. He was young, probably no more than twenty, and doubtlessly on his way to a warmer and more comfortable winter encampment when the Cheruscans, the Chatti, and the Allemanni and Marcomanni mercenaries sprung their ambush here in this ancient and stormy forest. Sigimer placed the centurion’s helmet reverently on the ground beside the Roman’s face, which was pale and calm in the sleep of death. “Do you doubt my words, friend Sigimer? What fills your head with silent troubles?” Arnulf asked as he rested his spear against the great, old oak. A few drops of rain fell from from its leaves and mingled with the pools of blood that swirled about their ankles. A tear began to roll down Sigimer’s cheek. “I am just... remembering something, my dear friend Arnulf” Sigimer whispered. Stalingrad, U.S.S.R. A.D. 1943 Dmitri Ivanovich and his friend Anton Fyodorovich stared across the frozen Volga River and braced themselves against the bitter February wind that cut through their standard issue wool overcoats. Despite the bone chilling cold and hunger that had become an integral part of their lives these past months, Dmitri seemed buoyant and rubbed his hands over his arms with an almost gleeful chuckle of relief. Around them lay mounds of the fallen Germans and Soviets that had besieged this city since the previous August. Most of the bodies were now frozen in place and would not begin to show any signs of morbidity until the spring thaw. Dmitri drunk in the quiet now, broken only by the wind, a quiet he had not known since before the Nazis had arrived at Stalingrad half a year earlier. When Dmitri Ivanovich opened his eyes again, he saw his friend standing now with his back to the Volga and looking solemnly on the battered city. “You should feel happy, comrade Anton Fyodorovich.” Dmitri announced. “Should I, Mitya?” Anton answered. Dmitri noticed that his friend had addressed him familiarly and had deliberately omitted the state-sanctioned title of camaraderie that was slowly becoming nearly mandatory amongst the Soviets. Dmitri was not sure precisely why, but he began to immediately grow defensive. “Yes, comrade Anton, you should.” He responded a bit testily. “Do you not realise the blow against the Germans that we have carried off here? Ever since the German armies adopted the blitzkrieg attack, it has been accepted that there was no way to defend one’s homeland from them. Why, until now, no filthy German Field Marshal has ever surrendered! Comrade General Zhukov has Field Marshal von Paulus even now on his way to Moscow! Do you not see the significance of all of this, comrade Anton?” “Perhaps you could clear that matter up for me, comrade Dmitri Ivanovich.” Anton responded slowly and diplomatically. He was not angry with his friend, but he had relatives who had been sent to gulags for their failure to grasp the political significance of events before. In this day and age, he learned that politics were everywhere and it was best not to be seen as dissident, even amongst comrades. “We have won not only a military victory here, but we have struck at the very heart of those Geman animals, comrade Anton Fyodorovich! When the people, the common people, see that the Nazis have lost here, they will rise in the hundreds of millions to repel them from our homeland! We bolsheviks will be able to unite, my comrade, to form a state composed of the workers and people instead of foreign or Tzarist oppressors! As of today, comrade Anton, we are a free people!” Anton Fyodorovich knelt down to a heap of bodies that had been piled up in front of a storehouse in an attempt to clear the streets. He gently removed the helmet of a German feldwebel and looked into his pallid face. The man was young, probably no older than twenty when he had succumbed to hunger and hopelessness and, eventually, to bullets. A tear began to roll down Anton’s cheek. “Is something wrong, comrade? Are you not happy?” Dmitri Ivanovich persisted. “I am just... remembering something, comrade Mitya.” Anton whispered. North of Peshawar, Afghanistan. A.D. 1989 Faroukh and his friend Ali stared silently over a desert littered with fallen Afghanis and Soviets. Since the Soviet occupation in 1979, Faroukh and Ali had fought the communists as guerrilla fighters of the Mujahiddin. Now, thanks largely to the Hisb-i-Islami and the aid they received from the United States, the Soviets were withdrawing from Afghanistan and taking their communism and bloodshed with them. Ali seemed very pleased as he watched the desert sun sinking lower over the stark, rocky landscape. “Allah has blessed us, my friend. Do you not agree?” Ali asked his pensive friend. “I know not, Ali.” Faroukh answered without lifting his gaze from the bodies of men he had fought with and against for the past ten years. “Why, how can you say such a thing, Faroukh?” Ali asked. “Do you not know that it is blasphemy? Why, now that we have repelled the Communists, we people of faith can begin a true Islamic state! Praise Allah that Gulbadin Helcmatyar and his friend Osama bin Laden have received the arms from the Americans to stop these so-called unstoppable Communists and drive them from our land! Now the Taliban shall begin a reign of righteousness that is true to the principles of Islam! Can you not see that, my friend?” Faroukh surveyed the bodies strewn across the rocks. “It is not so clear a thing to me, my friend.” He replied as he bent down to remove the helmet of a fallen Soviet officer. The Soviet was spetsnaz, the special forces of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republic. He must have received special training and rank although Faroukh observed as he gazed into his dead features that he also could not have been much older than twenty. A tear began to roll down Faroukh’s cheek. “Whatever preoccupies you this way, Faroukh?” Ali asked. “I am just... remembering something, my friend .” Faroukh whispered. A Bar Just Outside of Gary, Indiana. A.D. 2001 Bill and his friend Earl are listening to the television reports of the United States campaign against the Taliban in Afghanistan. The newscaster has announced the latest in a series of cluster bombs that were dropped near Kabul. Earl is unable to restrain his delight and emits a loud “Whoo-hoo!” as an image of the American flag fills the screen. He looks to his friend who is stubbing a cigarette into his ashtray with a tear rolling down his cheek. “What’s a-matter, Bill? We’re teaching ‘em Hadjis whut it means to mess with the U.S.! Aint’cha happy?” end. This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=510