bornNbredRebel
Experienced
- Joined
- Mar 12, 2013
- Posts
- 32
If you are interested in this story, please PM me. My style of writing is described in my SRP profile, which is linked in my signature.
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Paris, France
August, 1914
I was oddly unaffected by the clamor that washed over me as I leaned against the bar in Marcel's, a bistro located on a fairly busy side street not far from the row of embassies that represented the interests of the various nations of the world in France.*
The men in the pub were boastful, and patriotic songs filled the air. Outside, the streets were filled with cheering demonstrators, all of them chafing to get at the "Boches."
It was late on a hot summer afternoon, and these cheering masses were excited about the prospects of war.
Five weeks had passed since the Austrian archduke and his wife had been shot down in the streets of Sarajevo in Bosnia, a place most people probably had never heard of, and in that time the whole fragile fabric of peace and stability had come completely unraveled.
Austria had demanded justice from Serbia, which everyone assumed was behind the killings, and one-by-one the dominoes had fallen. When Russia began to mobilize its army in support of its Serbian ally, that was the trigger that spurred Germany into action, and that, in turn, had brought France into conflict with Germany. War was now an unstoppable train that had left the station.
And I had a cold ball of ice in my stomach, because I knew what was coming, if the people around me did not.*
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Paris, France
August, 1914
I was oddly unaffected by the clamor that washed over me as I leaned against the bar in Marcel's, a bistro located on a fairly busy side street not far from the row of embassies that represented the interests of the various nations of the world in France.*
The men in the pub were boastful, and patriotic songs filled the air. Outside, the streets were filled with cheering demonstrators, all of them chafing to get at the "Boches."
It was late on a hot summer afternoon, and these cheering masses were excited about the prospects of war.
Five weeks had passed since the Austrian archduke and his wife had been shot down in the streets of Sarajevo in Bosnia, a place most people probably had never heard of, and in that time the whole fragile fabric of peace and stability had come completely unraveled.
Austria had demanded justice from Serbia, which everyone assumed was behind the killings, and one-by-one the dominoes had fallen. When Russia began to mobilize its army in support of its Serbian ally, that was the trigger that spurred Germany into action, and that, in turn, had brought France into conflict with Germany. War was now an unstoppable train that had left the station.
And I had a cold ball of ice in my stomach, because I knew what was coming, if the people around me did not.*
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