Emmelyne
My brain has too many tabs open.
Please make sure you are comfortable with the plot below. This is just to get a feeling of right now since some people need more help to imagine. 
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They poured out of the rivers and harbors and down towards the coast of Libya. Some were frowsy and hung with old automobile tires for deniers, others white and gleaming with polished chromium and flying yacht pennants. There were fishing boats, shrimp catchers, ancient car ferries that had never known the touch of salt water. Some had been built before the Boer War. There were Thames fire floats, Belgian drifters, and lifeboats from sunken ships. There were bright blue French fishing boats and stumpy little Dutch scouts. There were paddle steamers and tugs pushing barges and flatboats with ancient kerosene engines. Large and small, wide and narrow, fast and slow, they moved in a motley flood down to the shore. Some had registered with the navy and were under navy command. Others had simply come by themselves, tubby little crafts used for Sunday picnics on the Thames and laid up for years, somehow gotten underway by elderly gentlemen who had left their armchairs and rocking chairs. Down they came, clogging the estuaries, going off to war.
The Egyptians started their way slowly to the new times, getting ready for their small attack on the Germans for any chance for their revenge. There was a variety of bankers and dentists, taxi drivers and yachtsmen, old longshoremen and very young men, all huddled into hundreds of boats filled with ammo. And they had left right at Aldawolfas arrival, looking for Germans and ready to kill them in cold blood. The Fuhrer had apparently ordered them to steal cargo from the docks, having an aligned truce with them broke out for them sailing straight to Italy, unaware of the troops being deported off. They had already figured that Americans were over at the other side, they could come in. Despite their low chances with Germans, they had quite a high striking point they didn’t occur.
And Adailz, and all the other men going to travel overseas were pawns to be killed in the way.
There was no other way to put it, and as the two people laid in the same bed, chatting in German back and forth, they were unaware of the total chaos about to break out.
There were bankers and dentists, taxi drivers and yachtsmen, old longshoremen and very young boys, engineers, fisherman, and civil servants. There were fresh-faced young sea scouts and old men with white hair blowing in the wind. Some were poor, with not even a raincoat to protect them from the water, and others were owners of the great states. A few had machine guns, some had riffles and old fowling pieces, but most had nothing but their own brave hearts.
Off they went at sundown, more than a thousand boats in all. It was a miracle that so many had been able to assemble at once place at one time, and even more miraculous that Jews had been found for them. But now came the best part of this, the sea. As if obedient to suggestion, lay down flat.
By the hundreds they poured forth, coming up behind them, bent on missions of their own, were the warships, destroyers, cruisers, and gunboats. Racketing full tilt across the Mediterranean sea. The moon was not yet up, and the blackness - for no one dared show a light - the destroyers could not see the little boats, and the little boats could not see the warships until the great gleaming bow wave moving at forty knots were right on top of them. But somehow, for the most part, they avoided each other, and the storage armada moved on.
The wash thrown out by the big ships was a serious matter for the little boats, and they rocked helplessly in the wake of the warships. It was like being on a black highway with fast-moving traffic and no lights showing. A few were rammed and some were swamped, but still, they moved on. Behind them, invisible in the blackness, was Egypt. Ahead, glowing faintly from burning oil tanks and flaming artillery, lay the coast. On one of the little boats, the man at the wheel puts his arm around the shoulders of his twelve-year-old son and hugged him in a silent encouragement. On another boat, a girl dressed in man's cloth, having thought to fool the inspection officers by sticking an empty pipe in her mouth, now took the pipe out again and stuck it between her teeth to keep them from chattering.
Suddenly out of the night came dozens of aircraft flares dropped by the Egypt bombers, looking like orange blossoms overhead. They lit up nightmarish scenes: wrecked and burning ships everywhere, thousands of British soldiers standing waist deep in the water holding their weapons over their heads, hundreds of thousands more in snake-like lines on the beaches. Through it all, scuttling like water bugs, moved the little boats coming to the rescue.
As the flares sputtered overhead, the planes came into the attack. The primary targets were not the little boats but the larger ships - the destroyers and transports- but the people on the little boats fought back at the same, firing rifles and rackety old Liew guns as the divide bombers screamed down. Exploding bombs and fiery tracers added their light to the underworld scene. Through it all, the little boats continued to move into the beach and began taking aboard the soldiers.
Those who were there will never forget the long lines of men wearily staggering across the beach from the dunes to the shallows, falling into the little boats, while others, caught where they stood, died among the bombs and bullets.
The amazing thing was the lack of panic, there was no mad scramble for boats, the men moved slowly forward, neck deep in the water, with the officers guiding them. As the r=front ranks were dragged aboard the boats, the rear ranks moved up, the first ankle-deep and then knee deep and finally shoulder deep until at last, it was their turn to be pulled up over the side.
The little boats listed under the loads they have never been designed for. Boats that had never carried more than a dozen people at a time were now carrying sixty or seventy. Somehow they backed off the beach, remained afloat, and ferried the loads out to the larger ships waiting offshore and then returned to the beach for more men.
As the German gunners on the coast and the German pilots overhead saw their prey escaping, they renewed their efforts The rain of bombs, shells, and bullets grey every greater until the little boats seemed to be moving through a sea of flame. The strip of beach, from Bergues on the left to Nieuwpoort on the right, was growing smaller under the barrage, and even the gallant rear guard was now being pressed down onto the beaches. The Germans were closing in for the kill. The little boats still went about their business, moving steadily through the water.
As the situation became even more desperate, the big ships moved in right alongside the little ones some grounding on the sand and hoping somehow to get off again despite the falling tide. Ropes, ladders, and cargo nets were heaved over the sides to make it possible for the bedraggled men to clamber aboard. Those who were wounded or too weak to climb were picked up by the little boats. Hands slipper with blood and oil clutched at other hands. Now the fight was not only against the Germans but against time as well. The safety. Now the fight was not only against the German but against time as well. The minutes and hours were racing by. SOon the gray light of dawn would be touching the eastern sky and when it grew light, the German guns and planes could pick off the survivors at their leisure. Every minute counted now; the little boats redoubled their already desparteeforts.
Orders were shouted but went unheard in that infernal din. The gun battery shelled without stopping. To the whistle of the shells were added the scream of falling bombs and the roaring of the engines. The burstings of anti-aircraft shells, machine-gun fire, the explosions of burning ships, the screaming of the dive-bombers.
But all this time, as if in contrast to humanity’s frenzy, nature had remained calm. All through the spring night, the wind had not risen and the sea had remained flat. That in itself was a factor in the saving of countless lives, for if one of the usual spring gales had come whirling through the CHannel, rescue would have been far more difficult, if not impossible.
All through the long hours, the work went on. The old men and boys who piloted the boats were sagging with exhaustion. There was an endless repetition in what they were doing: pull the men aboard, make the wounded as comfortable as possible, take them out to the larger ships, then return for more. No matter how many times they made the trip, there were still more men, apparently endless files of weary, stumbling, silent men moving down across the beaches into the water, waiting for rescue.
Sometimes the little boats ran out of gas. And sometimes the engine of a boat that had been laid up for years in a boatyard or quiet backwater simply broke down and quit. When that happens, small individual miracles were performed by grease-stained, sweating, cursing old gentlemen who whacked away in the dark with piles and screwdrivers at the stubborn metal until some obstruction gave and the asthmatic engines ground back into life.
Meanwhile, invisible in the night sky, another battle was taking place. R.A.F Spitfires were hiring themselves at 400 miles an hour into the massed ranks of Nazi bombers, scattering them all over the oceans. The fighters flew until they were down to their last pints of fuel and then hurriedly landed, filled their tanks and guns, and took off again. Flitting back and forth, silent as bats and deadly as hawks, they fought their own strange war at great cost to themselves and at an even greater cost to the enemy. It was thanks to them that the Germans were never able to mount a fully sustained air attack on all the motley craft beneath.
At taste, the ranks of men on the beach grew thinner. The flood that had once seemed endless was reduced to a trickle. Already the sky was growing light, and soon the little boats would have to scuttle away. None abandoned their position. Steadily they went on with the work. Although every minute lost might mean another life lost, the men on the beach did not panic. Slowly, steady silently, responding only to the orders of their officers. The long lines shuffled forward and out into the water toward the helping hands and waited for them on the little boats.
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CHARACTER SHEETS TO DM TO ME!
DM ME TO THINK OF WAYS TO START AND OR HAVE MET EACHOTHER!
IF MULTIPUL PEOPLE HAVE DM'D ME, CONSIDER DOING A GROUP RP!!!!
DM ME FOR ANY QUESTIONS!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They poured out of the rivers and harbors and down towards the coast of Libya. Some were frowsy and hung with old automobile tires for deniers, others white and gleaming with polished chromium and flying yacht pennants. There were fishing boats, shrimp catchers, ancient car ferries that had never known the touch of salt water. Some had been built before the Boer War. There were Thames fire floats, Belgian drifters, and lifeboats from sunken ships. There were bright blue French fishing boats and stumpy little Dutch scouts. There were paddle steamers and tugs pushing barges and flatboats with ancient kerosene engines. Large and small, wide and narrow, fast and slow, they moved in a motley flood down to the shore. Some had registered with the navy and were under navy command. Others had simply come by themselves, tubby little crafts used for Sunday picnics on the Thames and laid up for years, somehow gotten underway by elderly gentlemen who had left their armchairs and rocking chairs. Down they came, clogging the estuaries, going off to war.
The Egyptians started their way slowly to the new times, getting ready for their small attack on the Germans for any chance for their revenge. There was a variety of bankers and dentists, taxi drivers and yachtsmen, old longshoremen and very young men, all huddled into hundreds of boats filled with ammo. And they had left right at Aldawolfas arrival, looking for Germans and ready to kill them in cold blood. The Fuhrer had apparently ordered them to steal cargo from the docks, having an aligned truce with them broke out for them sailing straight to Italy, unaware of the troops being deported off. They had already figured that Americans were over at the other side, they could come in. Despite their low chances with Germans, they had quite a high striking point they didn’t occur.
And Adailz, and all the other men going to travel overseas were pawns to be killed in the way.
There was no other way to put it, and as the two people laid in the same bed, chatting in German back and forth, they were unaware of the total chaos about to break out.
There were bankers and dentists, taxi drivers and yachtsmen, old longshoremen and very young boys, engineers, fisherman, and civil servants. There were fresh-faced young sea scouts and old men with white hair blowing in the wind. Some were poor, with not even a raincoat to protect them from the water, and others were owners of the great states. A few had machine guns, some had riffles and old fowling pieces, but most had nothing but their own brave hearts.
Off they went at sundown, more than a thousand boats in all. It was a miracle that so many had been able to assemble at once place at one time, and even more miraculous that Jews had been found for them. But now came the best part of this, the sea. As if obedient to suggestion, lay down flat.
By the hundreds they poured forth, coming up behind them, bent on missions of their own, were the warships, destroyers, cruisers, and gunboats. Racketing full tilt across the Mediterranean sea. The moon was not yet up, and the blackness - for no one dared show a light - the destroyers could not see the little boats, and the little boats could not see the warships until the great gleaming bow wave moving at forty knots were right on top of them. But somehow, for the most part, they avoided each other, and the storage armada moved on.
The wash thrown out by the big ships was a serious matter for the little boats, and they rocked helplessly in the wake of the warships. It was like being on a black highway with fast-moving traffic and no lights showing. A few were rammed and some were swamped, but still, they moved on. Behind them, invisible in the blackness, was Egypt. Ahead, glowing faintly from burning oil tanks and flaming artillery, lay the coast. On one of the little boats, the man at the wheel puts his arm around the shoulders of his twelve-year-old son and hugged him in a silent encouragement. On another boat, a girl dressed in man's cloth, having thought to fool the inspection officers by sticking an empty pipe in her mouth, now took the pipe out again and stuck it between her teeth to keep them from chattering.
Suddenly out of the night came dozens of aircraft flares dropped by the Egypt bombers, looking like orange blossoms overhead. They lit up nightmarish scenes: wrecked and burning ships everywhere, thousands of British soldiers standing waist deep in the water holding their weapons over their heads, hundreds of thousands more in snake-like lines on the beaches. Through it all, scuttling like water bugs, moved the little boats coming to the rescue.
As the flares sputtered overhead, the planes came into the attack. The primary targets were not the little boats but the larger ships - the destroyers and transports- but the people on the little boats fought back at the same, firing rifles and rackety old Liew guns as the divide bombers screamed down. Exploding bombs and fiery tracers added their light to the underworld scene. Through it all, the little boats continued to move into the beach and began taking aboard the soldiers.
Those who were there will never forget the long lines of men wearily staggering across the beach from the dunes to the shallows, falling into the little boats, while others, caught where they stood, died among the bombs and bullets.
The amazing thing was the lack of panic, there was no mad scramble for boats, the men moved slowly forward, neck deep in the water, with the officers guiding them. As the r=front ranks were dragged aboard the boats, the rear ranks moved up, the first ankle-deep and then knee deep and finally shoulder deep until at last, it was their turn to be pulled up over the side.
The little boats listed under the loads they have never been designed for. Boats that had never carried more than a dozen people at a time were now carrying sixty or seventy. Somehow they backed off the beach, remained afloat, and ferried the loads out to the larger ships waiting offshore and then returned to the beach for more men.
As the German gunners on the coast and the German pilots overhead saw their prey escaping, they renewed their efforts The rain of bombs, shells, and bullets grey every greater until the little boats seemed to be moving through a sea of flame. The strip of beach, from Bergues on the left to Nieuwpoort on the right, was growing smaller under the barrage, and even the gallant rear guard was now being pressed down onto the beaches. The Germans were closing in for the kill. The little boats still went about their business, moving steadily through the water.
As the situation became even more desperate, the big ships moved in right alongside the little ones some grounding on the sand and hoping somehow to get off again despite the falling tide. Ropes, ladders, and cargo nets were heaved over the sides to make it possible for the bedraggled men to clamber aboard. Those who were wounded or too weak to climb were picked up by the little boats. Hands slipper with blood and oil clutched at other hands. Now the fight was not only against the Germans but against time as well. The safety. Now the fight was not only against the German but against time as well. The minutes and hours were racing by. SOon the gray light of dawn would be touching the eastern sky and when it grew light, the German guns and planes could pick off the survivors at their leisure. Every minute counted now; the little boats redoubled their already desparteeforts.
Orders were shouted but went unheard in that infernal din. The gun battery shelled without stopping. To the whistle of the shells were added the scream of falling bombs and the roaring of the engines. The burstings of anti-aircraft shells, machine-gun fire, the explosions of burning ships, the screaming of the dive-bombers.
But all this time, as if in contrast to humanity’s frenzy, nature had remained calm. All through the spring night, the wind had not risen and the sea had remained flat. That in itself was a factor in the saving of countless lives, for if one of the usual spring gales had come whirling through the CHannel, rescue would have been far more difficult, if not impossible.
All through the long hours, the work went on. The old men and boys who piloted the boats were sagging with exhaustion. There was an endless repetition in what they were doing: pull the men aboard, make the wounded as comfortable as possible, take them out to the larger ships, then return for more. No matter how many times they made the trip, there were still more men, apparently endless files of weary, stumbling, silent men moving down across the beaches into the water, waiting for rescue.
Sometimes the little boats ran out of gas. And sometimes the engine of a boat that had been laid up for years in a boatyard or quiet backwater simply broke down and quit. When that happens, small individual miracles were performed by grease-stained, sweating, cursing old gentlemen who whacked away in the dark with piles and screwdrivers at the stubborn metal until some obstruction gave and the asthmatic engines ground back into life.
Meanwhile, invisible in the night sky, another battle was taking place. R.A.F Spitfires were hiring themselves at 400 miles an hour into the massed ranks of Nazi bombers, scattering them all over the oceans. The fighters flew until they were down to their last pints of fuel and then hurriedly landed, filled their tanks and guns, and took off again. Flitting back and forth, silent as bats and deadly as hawks, they fought their own strange war at great cost to themselves and at an even greater cost to the enemy. It was thanks to them that the Germans were never able to mount a fully sustained air attack on all the motley craft beneath.
At taste, the ranks of men on the beach grew thinner. The flood that had once seemed endless was reduced to a trickle. Already the sky was growing light, and soon the little boats would have to scuttle away. None abandoned their position. Steadily they went on with the work. Although every minute lost might mean another life lost, the men on the beach did not panic. Slowly, steady silently, responding only to the orders of their officers. The long lines shuffled forward and out into the water toward the helping hands and waited for them on the little boats.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHARACTER SHEETS TO DM TO ME!
DM ME TO THINK OF WAYS TO START AND OR HAVE MET EACHOTHER!
IF MULTIPUL PEOPLE HAVE DM'D ME, CONSIDER DOING A GROUP RP!!!!
DM ME FOR ANY QUESTIONS!
