Upheaval

[Medevelin]

(Please read the OOC thread and be approved before posting.)

War had crushed Europe, life hung by a thread for both sides and rivers worth of blood flowed from the wounds of the dead and dying. Artillery strikes demolished entire cities, air strikes scorching the earth from above. Chaos, entropy, disarray. These words didn’t begin to describe the carnage and horror that had fallen upon Earth. It was hell, pure and unequaled.

Alleyne, a small town at the cusp of the Battle of the Bulge was one of the first conquered by German forces, however it was seen as unimportant and after shelling it and only one day of occupation they moved out leaving the town behind enemy lines. Most who had remained in the village after the evacuation were dead with little sign that there were any survivors.

Within one of the still standing houses however there was a survivor. A young woman had holed herself up in the attic of a half-destroyed house, wounded and clinging to a Mosin-Nagant. A German MP-40 with some spare clips lay in a pile on the floor and in another pile were spare rations she had managed to gather in her few ventures out through the town. German patrols and supplies came through the town every few days and she had to be careful. However the Germans weren’t the only problem she faced. The cold Belgian winter was soon to set in and with her wounds she was in no shape to travel out of the town. She had been hit by a stray bullet while treating a wounded soldier. The bullet tore right through her mid-section. If not for the help of one of the other nurses she’d have surely died. Instead her wound had begun to heal and apparently no internal organs hit. She had been taken to a small house since the church was filling with wounded and they needed space for more. It was that change of scenery that had saved Miranda Speirs’ life. The next day a massive bombardment leveled the church and most of the town.

If there were other survivors in the town she hadn’t found any. When she was able enough to walk again she had ventured through the town, which was split by a small river through the middle. Gathering weapons and food and whatever clothing, blankets and supplies she could. Patching the caved in ceiling with whatever broad pieces of wood she could find and using blankets to cover the holes. It wouldn’t be enough to keep the cold out but it would help. She had prayed for survivors to show up but none came before the heavy snowfall blanketed the town. German patrols continued through the area but less frequently. Miranda watched them each time through one of the upstairs windows rifle at the ready even though it was futile to think she could do anything meaningful against an entire force.

 

[Palex4ever]

Lumanitsa pulled her heavy scarf tighter around her face as she approached the decimated city. She had grown used to avoiding cities, as they attracted Nazi patrols, but she was on her last twelve bullets for the rifle and didn't want to use another to kill a small animal for food. The gutted town looked as dead as its inhabitants against the gray sky.

She made her way along the debris strewn streets, keeping low and alert for signs of movement. There was none, and she frankly hadn't been expecting any. The only sound was that of flowing water from the river that split the town in half. After a half hour of searching, she was still hungry. She had found the wreckage of a bakery, but any food inside had taken by people or animals.

She sat in the front seat of a wrecked Belgian army jeep and laid her head against the steering wheel. She had slept maybe six hours in the last two days. The dropping temperature had kept her moving, stuck in survival mode. The last several days hadn't even felt real... hadn't felt like anything. She was just so tired. Her hand entered the folds of the patchwork of thick clothing she had scavenged and closed around the cold grip of the service pistol she had taken off the German she had killed. She placed the muzzle against the underside of her chin and wondered, why go on? Her entire family was dead, the last week had been the most cold and miserable of her life. She pulled back the hammer and closed her eyes, tightening her finger on the trigger... before pulling the pistol away, breathing heavily.

 

[Medevelin]

It was early in the morning, she didn’t know the exact time but she assumed it to be around nine or ten in the morning. She was out scavenging since no German patrols were coming. She had a minimal ability with the German language and using a radio she’d stolen from an abandoned vehicle listened in to find out when the next patrol would come. She taught herself German, writing every word she could make out down and figuring out what it meant. It was the only way she could go around the town without notice.

Today was a different day than the previous week. The air was abnormally cold, a sharp transition from the day before where it was relatively mild at that time of year. However there was something else different as well. She had been picking through clothes in one of the houses when she heard a noise from outside. Footsteps.

She took a hold of the pistol she’d taken with her and investigated, slipping outside it took her little time to find the owner of the footsteps. Someone was sitting in a broken down jeep. She couldn’t make out who it was but it seemed to be a woman. She would take no chances. She prepared her gun and when she was close enough pointed it at the womans head.

“Wh… who are you?” She asked, trembling with fear inside her for whatever reason.

 

[Palex4ever]

Lumanita heard the click of a pistol and a woman's voice behind her. At least she knew it wasn't the Germans. They would have greeted her with a loud bark and probably a rifle butt to the head. She raised her hands slowly in the air and slowly turned around, making sure her scarf covered her wounded cheek.

She didn't know the language the woman was speaking, so she decided to try french, figuring it was common enough.

"My name is Lumanita and I'm just looking for some food," she said, "my rifle is almost out of rounds. If you want me to move on, I will." She half expected the woman to tell her to do just that. Even before the war, people had been less than friendly to her people, thinking them thieves and beggars.

 

[Medevelin]

The woman spoke in French, not a surprise being they were in Belgium. Switching to French from English Miranda cleared her throat and continued her interrogation.

"Where did you come from? Did the Germans follow you? Are you alone?" The wind was blowing cold, she didn't want to stay out too much longer but she didn't know what to make of this woman. She did look hungry though.

"Come, you can answer my questions inside over soup." She wasn't about to lower the gun but for both their sakes they needed to get inside.

 

[Palex4ever]

She took the pistol from the passenger seat and offered it to the woman, handle first. She walked in front while the woman gave her directions to the shelter. When they were inside, Lumanitsa went to a corner and sat down, happy to be able to sit down.

She pulled the cowl of rags off and let her tangled black hair down. More slowly, she pulled down the scarf covering the lower half of her face. she knew it wasn't as bad as it could have been, but she was still self conscious about her wounded face. This woman was the first person to see her since that day. She had done her best with the little medical supplies she could scavenge, making two butterfly bandages to hold the cut shut.

"To answer your questions," she began, "my family and I have lived in France these last several years. We moved from town to town, trading with the locals, offering entertainment and other services. "two weeks..." she said, before trailing off. She realized she didn't know how long it had been since she escaped the death squad. It had been at least seven days, but beyond that she couldn't be sure. Time hadn't really been important lately. "about two weeks ago, my family's camp was approached in the early morning by several German vehicles. They had surrounded us before we had a chance to flee. Soldiers came from the trucks, shouting at us in German and..." she trailed off... and stared into space for a long moment. She could actually hear it in her mind. The engines of the trucks. The soldiers yelling at them and the cries of the children. The harsh barks of the officer in charge. The loud CRACKS of the firing squad as she was led roughly away by the man who tried to use her body.

She pressed her hand to her ears in an effort to block out the sounds. The first tear since her family's deaths rolled down her cheek. "I... don't wish to speak of it right now..." she managed.

"As for your other question, I don't think the Germans followed me. They pursued me for a little while, since I killed the man who... did this to my face. I laid a false trail for them, heading west, and I'm sure they followed it."

"What is your name?" she asked the woman.

 

[Medevelin]

Miranda followed the woman into her shelter and watched as she slumped to the floor in a corner pulling wraps off her face she could see the large gash. A knife likely. She had already made soup and it had been warming over the wood stove. Grabbing two tin cups she scooped each in the pot pulling out the steaming soup which was more broth than anything but she had found some food such as pasta to mix in for more substance. She put the one cup on a plate and served it to the woman with a cup of black coffee and a piece of bread which had begun to stale. She had looted the bakery and had eaten only bread for days to ensure it wouldn’t go to waste before she could consume it. She listened to the woman’s story while internally comparing it to her own.

“Nazi bastards.” She whispered, not quite sure if the woman had heard her or not. They had both lost much in this war and both were alone. Miranda felt she could trust her despite knowing her for only minutes. Maybe she wanted to trust her more than anything, to be alone was the worst suffering of all. To have nobody know or care of her plight made her wonder why she even tried to survive.

“My name is Miranda. I am a nurse, my fiancé was… is.. a soldier in the Belgian army. He has long been gone. Germans overran our town, most died during the artillery strike. Those who didn’t were either killed or taken by the Germans. I was lucky… if you want to call it that.” She paused a moment as she felt a pang of guilt and sorrow for the events.

“That wound looks infected. Please allow me to tend to it. Infections can be as deadly as bullets now.” She put a pot of water on the stove and brought it to a boil while cleaning a cloth and preparing a needle to stitch it.

 

[MilkManDan007]

Jason Dawkins

They had received their orders and briefing the night before. It was another simple run across the Channel to hit a few rail lines and supporting bridges. According to the briefing, cutting off the supply lines would help to slow the advance of the German Panzers and allow the soldiers on the ground time to regroup and push back against the German lines.

The flight to the target was uneventful, with few clouds to offer hiding spots for Luftwaffe fighters. Jason Dawkins knew that it was a mission that had to be carried out, even though the bridges and rail lines would be repaired within weeks and they would just have to bomb them again. It was the unfortunate cycle that the war was starting to take. The troops on the ground were not advancing as fast as they had hoped, and every day more and more of the medium bombers were shot down.

Dawkins had heard rumors of crewmembers who had been shot down witnessing the ruthlessness of the Germans who had found them. One gunner who made his way back to England nearly three weeks after being shot down told a tale of his injured pilot and radioman being shot even as they offered no resistance in the face of a German patrol who stumbled upon them as they were making their way towards Allied ground. Dawkins shuddered at the thought. The “Stray Dog,” his B-26 Marauder, had a few close shaves in the mission they had gone out on thus far, but nothing serious. It was a rugged, twin-engine plane and he had ever confidence that it would always bring him home.

As they approached the target area, the bombardier, a man named Henry Robbins who Dawkins had met only a week before, began to scan the ground below using the scope, calling out slight adjustments that needed to be made to line up the best run. Dawkins kept his ears on the voice from below, knowing that their flight needed him to be on line or else the mission could be scrubbed. Everyone else kept their eyes on the skies, looking for the air cover that was bound to arrive sooner or later.

The plane jumped as an airburst shell from one of the German 88mm anti-aircraft guns exploded nearby. Dawkins knew they were getting close, and that the flak would only increase as the Germans tried to protect the lines that would keep their tanks rolling across the battlefield. Dawkins could almost hear the razor-sharp fragments from the shells whistling past the plane, each one trying to down any aircraft they neared. A burst, then another and another exploded near the “Stray Dog.” Dawkins was jostled in his seat, the thick canvas belt digging into his hips and keeping him planted in the cockpit. Dawkins continued to listen to the bombardier, touching the rudder pedals with the gentlest touch to ease the plane into position.

“Bombs Away!” came the call from the Robbins as he pulled the release lever, freeing the six 500-pound bombs from the bay at the center of the airframe. The other Marauders in the flight followed suit, and soon after the ground began to erupt with plumes of fire, smoke and debris. “We have secondary explosions and fire!” Robbins yelled out. A small cheer came from the gunners behind the wings, knowing that the mission had gone as planned. With the plane now 3,000 pounds lighter, Dawkins called for the bay doors to be closed so they could make their turn, climb, and start to head for the safety of England.

“The flak wasn’t really that bad this time, Jason,” said copilot Mitch Cox, a New Yorker who Dawkins had trained with and who had been flying with him since their first days in the Corps. “I would have thought they’d have more 88’s up in this area, especially sin…”

His words were cut off as a hail of shells poured through the plane. Dawkins pulled hard on the yolk and jammed the throttles forward, pushing the nose of the B-26 well above the horizon. He turned to see where the shells might have come from, wiping the blood spatter from his friend from his face. The tracers were coming from above and to the right.

“109s! We’ve got 109s coming down out of sun!” The waist gunners couldn’t have seen the flight of Messerschmitt BF-109 fighters. They had been in perfect position above and behind the flight of bombers. Coming down out of the sun, they easily caught the flight off-guard. The fighters were some of the finest machines that the Wehrmacht had produced. The high-performance fighter could out turn, out climb, and the two 13mm machineguns and 20mm cannon mounted on each craft could easily tear them apart.

As Dawkins pushed the plane into a dive and turned, trying to keep the enemy fighters from having an easy target, he heard the comforting sounds of the .50-caliber guns mounted throughout the aircraft rattling off shells at the oncoming fighters.

This was always the worst part of things, Dawkins thought as he muscled the yolk without the aid of his copilot. Not only would the bombers have to avoid the fighters, but they would have to keep from running into or shooting at one another as the fighters darted through the formation. He heard the gunners calling to one another to locate the fighters as they continued their assault, the chatter of the other pilots over the radios calling out damage, and the occasional cheer as a fighter fell to the fusillade of fire.

“Shit yeah!” came the hoarse voice of Patrick Dobbs, one of the waist gunners, over the radio. “ ‘Summerbelle’ just got another one, that makes…” he paused, the words hanging in his mouth as he watched the Messerschmitt nose down and roll, the light green paint on the fuselage eerily mimicking the pale horse Death rode upon. ‘Dawkins! Move this bitch! 109 coming right at us! Three o’clock high!”

Dawkins wrenched the yolk to the right and pressed in, hoping to cut inside the BF-109 and avoid a collision. The plane nosed over hard, and the entire crew became weightless as the negative G-forces lifted them from their positions. He caught the sight of the Messerschmitt through the top of the canopy, the dark smoke pouring from its cowling as it plunged towards the ground below. The pilot of the BF-109 and he locked eyes for an instant, and Dawkins watched as the German pulled back on his yolk, pulling the nose of the fighter up just enough to ensure a collision.

Dawkins pulled back on the yolk as the wing of the fighter tore into the starboard wing just beyond the engine, shearing off the end of the wing and jerking the plane violently to the right. He pushed hard left against the yolk, willing it if nothing else, fighting to keep the plane semi-level so that the others could jump free. The plane shuddered violently as fuel and hydraulic fluid poured from the mortal wound. There was no saving the “Stray Dog,” no limping home. Jumping and taking their chances on the ground was their only chance.

“Everybody jump! Get the hell out of here!” he yelled into the radio, hoping the crew had already decided that bailing out was their best option. He held the controls for what seemed like hours, even though only a few minutes of real time had passed. His arms were beginning to shake as his muscles began to lose the battle with the aircraft. “Everybody out? Who’s left?” he called into the radio. He was met only with silence. They were out, now it was his turn. He pulled back on the yolk, driving the nose of the plane into the sky, gaining what little altitude he could so that when he released the yolk, he would have time to make his way aft and jump. It was now or never.

He let go of the stick and unbuckled himself almost in one motion, turning and sprinting through the cockpit door and into the main body of the aircraft as it began to shudder into a stall. The bomb bay doors had been opened when the others jumped and Dawkins wasted no time diving through them as the plane began a roll to the right and stalled. He fell for a few seconds, hoping to clear the descending plane before pulling his chute and feeling the nylon straps tighten as the silk parachute opened above him. The “Stray Dog” spiraled away from him, the engines still churning furiously as she plunged into the densely wooded hillside.

“Thanks for all the memories, girl,” he said, looking at the growing column of smoke from the fire below. He turned his head to look for other parachutes, hoping his crew made it out safely. He swiveled his head over both shoulders, but saw none. How long had he held things for them to get out? Five minutes, maybe ten? He could have covered almost 30 miles in that amount of time, and with all the evasive maneuvers, he could be almost anywhere. They had dropped their payload well behind enemy lines and knew that they hadn’t gone far enough to cross the front. He would land in enemy territory. The story of the executed pilots ran through his head as the silence enveloped him as he drifted down towards the snowy landscape below.

The landing was rough, but the thick layer of snow helped to cushion the blow. Dawkins quickly stripped off his harness, gathered up the parachute, rolled it, and tucked it securely under a nearby bush. The Germans would most likely send out a patrol to search for him and his crew, and the harder he could make himself to find, the better. Now was no time to panic, and he took stock of what he had with him. He would be warm enough for now, thanks to the warm flight suit, and at least he had his boots. The trusty knife hung at his side and the weighty .45 caliber pistol was still secured in the holster.

“Well, shit,” he said to himself, the wisps of his breath visible in the cold air, “now what?” The sounds of running water drew his attention. Follow the river downstream and look for friendly locals, he thought. At least it was a start, and the sooner he could get moving, the less likely he would be found and captured. The walk kept him warm and helped to stave off the December cold as he walked. Several miles passed under his feet before he came across the outskirts of a small town, the river running through the center. Dawkins hung at the edge of the town for what seemed like ages, listening for any sign of movement, any whisper of occupation. The town seemed deserted, conquered and left abandoned. At least he would be able to scrounge some food and a covered place to sleep for the night.

He began to move from alleyway to alleyway, checking in windows and behind doors for anything of use. As he approached another road, the faint sound of voices could be heard. Dawkins crouched and moved to the edge of the street, peering out from behind a shattered and frozen rain barrel. There were two women, one seated in a light vehicle, the other standing to the side, pistol in her hand. The two were speaking softly to one another, and the light breeze kept Dawkins from hearing what they were saying. The seated woman handed over a pistol and the two of them moved off. Keeping to the alleyways and out of sight, he followed them. He didn’t know who they were, but they were the only sign of life he had seen since he had bailed out. The two of them ducked into a nearby building, not much more than standing rubble at this point, but at least it was shelter. They spoke softly to one another, their words muffled by the distance between their lips and his ears. The wind was beginning to pick up again, and the icy air cut through his flight suit and chilled him.

“Well, I guess it’s now or never,” he muttered, stepping out from the alleyway and ducking into the small house. He kept his pistol holstered for now, hoping the two weren’t Nazi sympathizers.

“Hello? Anyone home?” he said quietly as he stepped into the room.

 

[Palex4ever]

Lumaitsa nodded absently as Miranda told her about herself and her fiance. She felt the stirrings of a feeling that she thought had died with her family. A sense of belonging. It felt good, but she didn't give into it. She had to stay weary. After all, she had know this woman for less than an hour. How could she be sure she wouldn't sell out "the gyppo girl" to a Nazi squad to save her own neck. It was how she had been raised. Her father had taught her from a young age that gaje, or non-gypsies, were not to be trusted. Still, it seemed foolish of her to turn down companionship and a meal.

She snapped back into the present at Miranda's offer to stitch her face. She felt a rush of gratitude. The damn wound had burned like fire every time she had forced herself to chew on whatever forest creature she killed to feed herself. The sudden kindness toward her tugged at her heart, and she choked back the sob that tried to surface.

All that disappeared when they heard a voice at the door. All emotion left her face as she snapped back into survival mode, unslinging the rifle from her shoulder and aiming it at the mans forehead in one smooth motion. If he had been wearing a gray uniform, she would have painted the wall with his brains already. But he was wearing a uniform that wasn't familiar to her, and he certainly wasn't speaking German.

 

[Medevelin]

The woman had a oddly and unfortunately familiar look in her eyes as Miranda had seen in her own through a broken piece of mirror she had salvaged. Hope in hopelessness. Hope for what was beyond her but it was there in some form. She moved to bring water and a cloth to the woman's face when a man entered. She dived to her left and grabbed the pistol she had set down, her side crashing hard against the wooden foot stool as she twisted and pointed the gun at the intruder.

Her hands shook intensely and her breathing and heart rate picked up tenfold. Her eyes were wide with fear, anxiety and many more of those nameless emotions never captured by letters.

"Who are you? What do you want?" She burst out in English, then switching to German and repeating the questions just in case. An American uniform didn't mean an American man.

She slowly squirmed back against the wall and very tentatively rose to her feet. Never once blinking an eye as she awaited the man's answer. Only once casting a glance over to Lumanitsa feeling odd that she was taking up arms with the woman who for all she knew might turn the gun on her. She prayed that wouldn't be the case.

 

[MilkManDan007]

Jason Dawkins

He knew that there were two women in the house, he just had no idea that they would be so well-armed. The one to his left leveled a rifle at him, the barrel steady and unwavering. A fresh cut on her cheek was visible just beyond the stock. The other woman jumped at his arrival, diving and pulling up a smaller pistol. As he rose, the pistol shook in her hand, her finger tight on the trigger. He could understand their jumpiness and trepidation at meeting new people, as Dawkins knew that the area was crawling with Germans who would be all too pleased to find three more souls to feed the Nazi war machine.

“Let’s not be too hasty now,” he said, choosing his next words carefully. “If I were a Nazi, I wouldn’t be alone, and I probably would have started shooting by now.” He stepped into the room carefully, not making any sudden motions and keeping his hands in front of him, his palms pointed at the two women. Dawkins rolled his shoulder slightly to show them the Army Air Corps insignia and the American Flag stitched onto the shoulder of his flight suit. “I’m an American pilot. My plane was shot down and I landed about five or six miles up the river. I’m just looking for a place to hole up for a day or so until I can figure out how to make it back to friendly ground.”

There was a small pot of water and a few small scraps of food tucked about the room. The women looked tired and thin, and probably hadn’t had much to eat since the German offensive had begun. Slowly, he reached to his breast pocket and unbuttoned the snap with one hand. He kept his right hand in front of him, steady for now, but ready to grab for the pistol tucked at his side. From his pocket, he pulled a small, silver-wrapped bar and pushed the wrapping aside with his thumb.

“Chocolate?”

 

[Medevelin]

"You know the Germans plant soldiers in your armies. A uniform buys you no trust." She responded even though she almost jumped at the offer of chocolate. From being alone to having two separate people appear, it was almost too much of a coincidence.

The woman was badly injured but the Germans were willing to do anything. Was she being paranoid? Of course she was but she now wondered if she could trust her own sanity after what she had seen, what she had experienced.

"Watch him. I have to seal your cheek." She judgmentally set down the pistol and took her supplies over to the woman. The gash had obviously not survived her journeys clean. Mira took some peroxide, dabbing her cloth in it before setting the jar down and bringing it up to her face.

"This will sting." She spoke in french to the woman before swabbing the wound repeatedly until it was clean and clear. She then grabbed her needle, making certain it was sharp before warming it over the fire. Next she split the hole in the needle with a slender thread, these crude materials would have to suffice until real medical aid could help the woman further.

"Don't move." She uttered as she poked through the flesh and began weaving the thread as quickly yet painlessly as possible. Hoping she had sufficiently disinfected the wound. If she hadn't it could lead to malaria or any number of other illnesses and diseases.

"Forgive my asking." She spoke in English to the man not once looking to him as she worked.

"We're two lone women, neither have eaten much and I doubt either of us have the strength you must. So how am I... are we to trust that you won't take advantage of that fact should we let our guard down?"

 

[ShireWolfe]

Wincing at the fresh and sharp jolt of pain that shoots through her as she falls through the bushes and into the ditch, the young blonde bites her lip to avoid crying out. Shaking her head to clear it of the dizzyness she felt, Jennifer stumbled back up onto her feet as she glanced around.

At first, she didn't believe her eyes. The bushes had concealed not only the ditch, which in fact turned out to be the crater produced by an artillery shell, but also the town of Alleyne itself. 'I must have traveled faster than I thought...' She mused silently to herself. Coughing, she scrambled out of the crater, her eyes darting around as she moved slowly down the streets, still somewhat dazed.

As her wits began to return to her, she began to move a bit more carefully, holding her large photography device in front of her like a gun, pausing at every corner to peek around carefully, looking into shop windows as she hugged her blood-stained coat, feeling her hand come away wet.

Fuck... the wound opened up again...? She thought, grimly. If she kept moving and running around like this, the wound from the mine shrapnel would never close up, she'd loose too much blood, or it'd get infected. However, she was snapped out of her glum musing at the sound of someone speaking. But that couldn't be, could it?

Yes, that was definately someone talking. A man and a woman, by the sounds of it in... Good Heavens! Could it be? In -English-!? Her heart skipped a beat, that she might find help so easily? No German would speak English behind their own lines, especially with a woman, right?

Creeping closer to the source of the sound, she soon came to behind a pile of rubble, where she could see two women and... a Yankee? Now this was getting stranger by the minute. The only one armed was the woman, however, which she took as a good sign.

"Oh, what the hell..." She whispered to herself, before pushing herself up, letting her camera hang in it's leather strap, while she spreads her arms wide.

"I'm unarmed... I'm sorry for sneaking up on you, but I just heard your voices, and just came to town..." She spoke slowly, loudly, to make sure she'd be understood by the two girls. Her voice clearly betrayed her as being from Britain, with it's rather distinctive accent.

 

[Palex4ever]

Lumanitasa didn't even bother raising her rifle as the second person burst in speaking English. All her effort was still focused on clenching her teeth through the pain of having her cheek disinfected and stitched shut. After the procedure was finished, she ran her finger along the bumpy texture of the catgut stitching, forming a crescent shape from the corner of her ear to a spot on her cheek, about an inch from her lips. "Thank you," she said to Miranda quietly.

She found it odd that she had encountered not one, but three people since her arrival in this supposedly deserted town. Her natural suspicion of "gaje" made her wary, but her own experience in deception made this whole scenario too strange to be arranged. Why would the German's arrange for three different agents, just to kill her? Only one would be needed to put a bullet in her head. She decided to watch and see how this would play out

 

[Korit]

Upheaval Dome is an impact structure, the deeply eroded remnants of an impact crater.Upheaval is the process of being heaved upward.The crater is clearly visible on the surface as bright brown and black coloured concentric rings.

 

[Medevelin]

"Okay this is bullshit, what the fuck?" Miranda shouted out in frustration, being detached from society even for the few weeks she was made her fearful and distrusting of anyone she did meat. Of course that would be normal for someone who had witnessed an entire town be destroyed and only German armies passing through as her contact to humanity. Now there were three friendlies in her midst and she was aiming a gun at them. It was then that she realized her situation fully, she was being driven insane or to some dark place her mind never wanted to go. She quickly dropped her weapon and sat down in the chair behind her, burying her face in her hands.

"If you are going to kill me do it. I don't care anymore." She weeped with no thought to whether they would shoot her. The torture of her memories remained ever-present, every life lost a pang in her heart. What reason was there to go on? Eventually Germans would find her if those in the room didn't kill her.

 

[Brains123]

"Tank"

It had been days since the tank Rick had been rideing in exploded around him. The german rocket had nearly ripped the tank in two sending him 30ft into the air before he crashed into the hard ground. All the air had been knocked out of him and only distance shouts keep him in reality. Then the last tank erupted into a ball of flame sending shrapnel tearing into his leg. The wound gushing blood he finally departed the real world and slipped off into the darkness. He awoke almost an hour later to germans stepping over the small puddle of blood streaming from his leg. Carefull not to alert the soldiers who were obviously checking for survivers he glanced around cacthing the gaze of the barely alive tank gunner. The same tank gunner who he had been working besides only a few hours before. Closeing his eyes he drifts off again the lose of blood dragging him back down into darkness. The next time he awoke the germans were gone and the tank gunner was sitting up. His left arm mangled and bloody lies limp at his side. Tank gets to his feet and sees his leg wound re-open and start pouring fresh blood. Quickly he tears the sleeve off his uniform and ties a tight knot above the deep gash. The flow of blood slows to a near trickle as he limps to the injured gunner. "You ok soldier!" The gunner turns to Tank his face pale white and slowly nods. Tank helps him to his feet and they hobble to the nearest intact structure. Helping him through the front door of what at one time was a cozy home the gunner flops to the floor. "Can you move the arm at all?" The look of pain that erupts on the soldiers face answers the queston. "Our best bet is gunna be to take it off.." The gunner nods his face turning a lighter shade as he passes out on the floor. Tank works quickly removing his knife from its sheath and saws through the soft flesh. He quickly sees that the bone wont be a problem as he hacks at the soldiers arm. The bloody arm falls to the floor with a thud as the last bit of tenden is cut. That was yesterday, he dident make it.