Okay.

Preserved
Reserve

Yes boss

RESERVED

iebanehita: RESERVED

welcome boss

preserved, or reserved

CHAPTER ONE


"Company 126, charge!"

Captain Joel Villette's voice rang through the dene that was the site of the current skirmish between a section of the French military troops and a garrison of Portuguese soldiers. The year was 1908, France and Portugal were locked in a serious military tussle over the ownership of Cesalle Island, a supposedly mineral resource filled island in the West Indies.

There are many sides to the story of how the dispute all began but the most widely spread one was perhaps that of how a team of French archeaologists had discovered the island during an excavation mission and they had sent an encrypted message containing the details of their findings back home. The message had unfortunately, or you could say fortunately, fallen into the hands of the Portuguese government who took prompt action in sending out miners to exploit the minerals and several garrisons to protect them while on duty.

When the French government heard of this, they sent a diplomatic request to their Portuguese counterpart to withdraw their industrial and military actions on the island but the Portuguese government paid no heed to the request, leaving the French bureaucrats with no other option than to attempt a forceful take over of the island. An attempt which has been constantly rebutted for three years now.

Presently, three hundred men of French descent broke into wild shouts, lowered their rifles and charged at the enemy line that was made almost invisible by the soot blackened air. Sergeant Jean Trevires was one of these men. He was a twenty eight year old Parisien, 6'2, broad shouldered, averagely built, blue eyed and fair haired with a face that made him more than a hit with females everywhere he went.

He was born Elias Coules into a powerful family of illustrious businessmen in Paris. His two older brothers had been incorporated into the family business when they turned twenty five but his own case was different. On his twenty fifth birthday, his father, Richard Coules, had called him into his study, sat him down and told point blank that he was an illegitimate child, the product of an illicit affair between himself and a hooker.

"My point is you have no right to any inheritance and no stake in the family business," Coules had said as calmly as though he was saying the time. "Living under my roof is even a privilege for you."

"But Father that is unfair, afterall I'm still your son."

"That doesn't change the fact that you are a bastard. Son of a Bi*ch! Have you ever wondered why you are the only one of your siblings who didn't make a distinction in business school?"

That day, Elias had stormed out of the Coules' Residence in fury and had moved into the streets. There in the streets of Paris, many things changed about him. His name, his survival instincts, his philosophies of life, almost everything. When he heard of the unrest brewing in Cesalle, he didn't think twice before joining the army.

"Open fire!"

The order was from the commander of the Portugese troop. He saw that the French soldiers were within range and they had to start cutting them down as quick as possible.

A fusillade was the direct response to that command. Men began to fall like snow flakes in winter on both side as bullets continued to fly around. A shot rang dangerously close to Trevires' head and he ducked reflexively as he propelled himself closer even to the enemy line.

"Bayonets!" Captain Villette roared at the remainder of his men when they were considerably close enough to use the blades.

Trevires sank the blade at the muzzle of his rifle in the chest of a nearby soldier and he pulled it out in time to slash the neck of another enemy with it. Someone grabbed him from the back and attempted to wrestle him onto the blood stained earth. Trevires reacted quickly by sending the butt of his musket into where he believed his assailant's groin was. He didn't hit the mark but he came close as the blow caught the enemy soldier in the solar plexus. The Portuguese grunted and momentarily slackened his hold on Trevires, giving the blond hunk the perfect opportunity to turn and then bury his bayonet between his eyes.

Somewhere close by on the battlefield, a French Lieutenant was periliously close to being butchered by two Portugese soldiers. One of them held the Lieutenant's hands in a vise grip behind his back while another positioned himself to slice the officer's head off his neck with dirk.

"Joao, be fast. We . ."

The Portuguese's speech was punctuated by three rapid shots from some distance. Lieutenant Hercailles was as surprised as he was exceedingly grateful when the death grip on him slackened and his two adversaries drop dead.

Hercailles sprang up quickly and looked around for his saviour. He found him soon enough. He was a tough looking, handsome young man. The young soldier saluted and Hercailles replied as fit. All of this happened in a fleeting moment and both men soon resumed their fighting against the Portuguese in earnest.

After several hours of gruelling warfare, the Portuguese troops retreated into one of their forts, leaving the tired but, no doubt, motivated French side to claim victory in that battle. A pyrrhic victory it was, as they had lost more men to both injury and death than their opponents. They had won the battle but they were far away from winning the war.

Back in their camp, men in the regiment made up of companies 125, 126 and 130 of the French army converged to celebrate their hard fought, costly victory. Drinks, gotten from the canteens of dead friends and foes, were served around the men. Captain Villette pulled some strings and he was able to get a string of wenches delivered to the camp. As each men carted his choice to his tent, Jean Trevires slinked out of camp.

Not again, he thought as he walked deeper into the woods that surrounded the camp. Memories of the time he had been coaxed by his friends to visit a brothel came back flooding. It was perhaps the most embarassing period of his life. He had gone into one of the brothel rooms with virtually no idea of what to do, except a few tips here and there by his friends. Tips that turned out to be mostly fallacious anyway.

"What do you want?" The fat, middle aged lady with sagging jowls in the room Jean had chosen asked. The fact that she was almost nude did not make her any bit attractive.

"I . . . ww . . want. . ." A seventeen year old Trevires had stuttered.

"Come here," The LovePeddler ordered, patting the little space available on the dirty looking mattress she was sitting on.

The sound of whispering voices coming from a cluster of trees close by put a stop to that train of thought. Trevires sneaked closer to get a clear view of the conversing people. Could they be French, Portuguese or locals?

He saw them at last. They were four men, dressed in French military uniforms with their faces covered in half by their helmets and also by bandannas with eye holes punched in them. They sat around a low burning fire and talked in hushed tones as though they were aware that someone was listening to them.

"Up with your hands!" A thick, unfriendly sounding voice growled suddenly behind Trevires.

The blonde sergeant froze. He was found out. He was in trouble.


THE END OF CHAPTER ONE

VAN is back!!!

Easy4reel:
VAN is back!!!

Na internal strike for my school cause am o. . .

VanTee20:


Na internal strike for my school cause am o. . .

What do I say now? That the strike should persist? or that you should have time to finish this?............................wait, FINISH UP PERDIFY!

Easy4reel:


What do I say now? That the strike should persist? or that you should have time to finish this?............................wait, FINISH UP PERDIFY!

Lol. .

I will sir.