Chapter 7 - The Great Debate 

           “I cant believe she’d go off on her own like that.” Commander Rhys laments as he leans against the wall of the medical clinic. Elliot sits up in his blue and white striped hospital bed, setting down the Karlsland magazine he had been reading while John brews tea at a station at the far end of the room. 

           “I’m sure she’ll be fine sir. She’s a sturdy gal.” Elliot says confidently. 

           “I’m not worried about her. I’m just annoyed I’m missing out on whatever's going on down there!” Rhys replies with a hearty chuckle. 

          “Maybe you won't have to miss out Commander Rhys.” says Ursula as she suddenly opens the door to the infirmary, her nose and ears bright red from shaking off the outside cold. 

           “Oh Officer Hartmann? How goes things at the collapse?” Rhys asks. 

           “Strange. Everythings very strange…” the small girl sighs.

           “Yeah, nothing about this mission has gone to plan has it lads?” bemoans Elliot from his somewhat comfy bed. 

             “You know what they say about best laid plans and all that.” scoffs Cobbler. 

           “Commander Rhys.” Ursula says while gesturing towards the large and rugged commando. “Lynn tells me you're quite the expert when it comes to outdoor survival methods?” she questions. 

           “I’ve been around a bit.” he replies. 

           “If something goes wrong and we need to mount a rescue effort your knowledge would be invaluable. Would you accompany me to the work site and show some of our men what you know?” the Karlsland scientist asks, adjusting her glasses on her nose slowly. 

           “I’d be happy to help Officer. And what of these two?” Rhys smiles a warm, toothy grin while scratching his beard. 

           “I’m sending a crew to pick up some equipment to run down to the crater. If Mr Elliot can move I’d appreciate it if they joined them.”

           “Don't you worry about me, Miss Hartmann. I’m feeling right as rain after your witches worked their magic on me.” Elliot jokes, swinging his now fully healed legs out from under the soft bed sheets. 

           The hars Ultima winds smash against the corrugated metal hull of tool shed B-4. Both Cobbler and Elliot trudge through the dense snow, layered up with thick winter jackets and heavy boots to stave off the chill, but even then without a witches innate resistance to such things their bodies can't help but shiver against the onslaught.               

           “Blimey! How anyone could stand to lie down here at all is beyond me!” Cobbler moans as the two men arrive at the small out building. After rubbing his gloved-up hands together for warmth Cobbler pulls open the slightly frosted over door with a harsh metallic scrape. 

           Inside is little more than a storage area. In the centre of the room sits a partially disassembled engine, maybe from an aircraft or one of the snow cruisers. Bits and pieces, random odds and ends, and scraps of machinery lay scattered about. Pipes and metal work rest against the walls where numerous tools rest, some a little frozen in place, but not immovable. There’s a rather impressive collection of wrenches lined up on a workbench, all ordered perfectly by size. Of course a Karlsland engineer would take pride in their organisational skills Elliot laughs to himself. 

           “Hartmann said there should be some carry-bags of stuff for us. You see them White?” asks John as he looks through a large cabinet near the door. 

          “Yeah there all over here. Give me a hand would ya?” 

           The two men indeed find what they were sent for; a mass of heavy, drab green duffle bags which clink and clatter when moved, no doubt containing most of the tool contents of this building. 

           “We can't move all this on our own.” admits John as he pulls one of the sacks from the pile with a thud. 

           “Here, never mind that; look over here.” calls Elliot from the side of the room. Curious, John joins his companion at another workbench, one far messier than the well ordered one before. The station is strewn with loose screws and bolts, and shreds of wire spool chaotically. What had really drawn the men's attention however was a stack of paperbacks and a calendar affixed to the wall with a thick nail. “Would ya get a lode of that.” Elliot smirks, grabbing one of the magazines from the pile.

           “We keep finding these mags all over the place. Someone’s into witches a bit too much if you ask me.” Cobbler says, trying to play off his curiosity as he likewise flips through one of the rags. 

          “You gotta admit Jerry’s witches aint half bad eh?” Elliot whistles. “You catch an eye of that one fixin’ me up?”

            “I guess witches did a lot of promotional photograph shoots maybe?” Suggests Cobbler.

            “If this calendar is anything to go by I’d say it must have been worthwhile. I mean; the thing ain't even in-date any more.” Elliot laughs, flipping some of the calendar pages over showing off a range of Karlsland aces. 

            “What do you have there, Englander?” comes a sudden voice from the door. Startled slightly, the men notice a small group of three Karlsland soldiers coming in from out of the cold, likewise dressed in thick, warm coats. 

            “Just admiring your country's fine witches.” Elliot jokes. 

            “Ah you’ve found Johans stash eh? I told him not to leave that stuff laying around. Some of the witches get rather personal about it.” the lead soldier laughs as he strides over to join his Britannian visitors. “I am Florian Gunter. Officer Hartmann sent us to collect some tools. I don't suppose you have talked to many of us men around here yet. Welcome to New Swabia.” the heavily accented man says, unwrapping a woollen scarf from around his neck to show off a clean shaved, square jawed face. 

           “It's quite the place. Not exactly Blackpool pleasure beach but eh, cosey enough I suppose.” Elliot says in jest. 

           “Yah, it's certainly something. I have to say we weren't expecting the Britannians to show up here so soon.”

            “Well we have a tendency for showing up where we’re not wanted.”  Elliot admits in jest. 

          “I see you looking at the Luftwaffe calendar there. Yah we have some good witches in Karlsland. You should, ah, check out Heidemarie Schnaufer; you’ll never find a more… mysterious girl.” 

           “Don't listen to Florian Britannians! Everybody knows Prinzessin is our cutest witch!” another of the Karlslanders yells from across the shed as he secures one of the duffle bags against his shoulder.

            “Dah! That idiot has no taste.” Scoffs Florian dismissively. “What about you though? Britannia has some… pretty good witches, so I hear.” 

             “Oh yeah, Britannia has plenty of aces! You can't knock the R.A.F. Of course we got Miss Bishop with us now. She’s run off down that hole or something.” Says Elliot with a sense of national pride. 

             “So I hear. Lynette Bishop of the 501st? Yah she served with several of our top witches as well. Including Officer Hartmanns sister. Top scoring ace of the war you know?”

              “Well that's exceptional circumstances. Miss Bishop was still an amazing fighter.”

              “Ya, ya, ya I’m sure! What about you, do you have a favourite witch?” the boisterous Karlslander asks Cobbler loudly. 

              “Uh well… I never really met any witches before Miss Bishop so I can't really say. But she’s made an impression.” admits Cobbler with a slightly embarrassed tone. 

              “Florian, knock it off! It's not all about the witches you know, it's the equipment they use!” says another Karlslander, nudging Florian at the side to get him back on task.                                       

            “Ah well when it comes to that we’re clearly the best.” Elliot insinuates, much to his Karlsland counterparts amusement. 

            “Ha! What are you talking about stupid Britannian!? 

            “Hey look I don't care how good your one-o-tens or whatever they are is; you’ll never beat a good Spitfire!” mocks Elliot bluntly. 

            “You mean those planes built from shoe-horns and kitchen pots!? Eh, funny man. The whole world knows Messercharf makes the best striker units!” retorts Florian as he lifts up one of the bags in a swift motion. Unfortunately for him however the bottom of the bag had other ideas; and a sharp ripping noise is quickly followed by the deafening clang of hammers and socket wrenches hitting the hard concrete floor. “Shit!” cries the startled soldier as his comrades break out into haughty bouts of laughter.  

             “Guess Karlsland isn't known for its bags eh?! Here let me give ya a hand.” jokes Elliot before starting to help out Florian in recovering all the dropped equipment. 

             “Thank you Englander.” nods Florian in appreciation. 

             “The name’s Elliot White. So what do you do around here when not running tools?” 

             “I’m always running tools. I’m a mechanic on snow cruiser Nacht.” answers Florian, pointing at the engine block which dominates the inside of the tiny shed. 

             “Well it's quite the machine. We rolled in on it.”

             “Mr Gunter I gotta ask: why use tires on the cruiser’s instead of tracks? I don't get it.” asks a curious Cobbler from across the room as he looks at the large mass of machinery in the centre more closely. 

             “The snow and ice down here is so thick that it would clog up the treads, whereas the cruiser's tires are so massive they can simply move over anything they like. It distributes the weight more also. You ever see a tank get stuck in the mud? It’s just like that.” Florian explains, packing the last of the tools into a new, un-damaged rucksack. 

              “I guess that answers your question John. They overcame their getting stuck problem.” Elliot jokes with a grin. 

              “What do you mean?” 

              “It’s just an observation but I’ve seen plenty of stuck tanks, but they were all Karlsland tanks.”

              “Oh!? I’d like to see Britannia field any tank as good as one of ours. Did you not see the giant Ratte in Berlin?” Florian says, puffing out his chest with extreme confidence. 

           “What; you mean that giant target? The one that got wrecked by the Neuroi? That Rat? We’re talking about that Rat? Oh you're having a laugh; Karlsland’s tanks could barely move! You were always running out of parts; could hardly fuel the damn things! Give me a reliable Churchill or Valentine any day of the week, and we’ll see where your Rat is then.” Elliot retorts, his London accent growing thicker as he becomes determined to win this little debate.

            “Florian, this is getting out of hand. Officer Hartmann is expecting these bags soon, we must get moving.” One of the soldiers nearest the door calls out to his comrade. 

            “Yeah Elliot, I agree with that guy. Let’s get going.” Cobbler says, desperately trying to defuse the situation.

            “At least we can name our tanks properly. Who would ever be scared of Valentine's Day? And how many Cruiser tanks do you even need!?” mocks florian.  

           “Aww, yeah you got us on that one… I never quite understood that. But hey: at least we’re not New Zeiland!” 

           “Hmmm no; I think you can still get the blame for that one… But at least you can say you have a good navy! Even I’ll admit that one.” 

            “To right we do.” Elliot smiles a gigantic smug grin as he lurches one of the heavy bags over his shoulder. “It was a pleasure fighting alongside your countrymen Florian.” he says as he pats the chuckling Karlslander on the shoulder. 

            “Yah. You Britannian’s really saved our asses there.” sighs Florian with a thankful laugh. Soon enough every man hoists a bag out of the pile, with one particularly large Karlslander even lifting two sacks at once, before venturing back outside into the winds in order to run the supplies down to the ice-hole. 

            Shortly after leaving the equipment area the small convoy of men each get to talking among one another with Elliot continuing to banter with his new friend Florian up front. Cobbler, barely managing to carry the bulky bag containing tent coverings, turns to the soldier next to him. 

            “So how long have you guys been down here?” he asks, adjusting the awkward load across his back. 

            “Oh a few months.” replies the Karlsland mechanic. “We all came down aboard the Gneisenau and set up camp on the ice shelf.”

            “Well you did a good job setting yourselves up.” compliments Cobbler. “Say though I gotta ask; what’s the deal with your Commander? Marseille?”

            “Commander Marseille is a tough one. Strict. She’s grown a temper in the last few years. Some of the other witches are the same, but if you stay out of their way and get on with whatever you're supposed to be doing they'll leave you alone. Apart from Officer Hartmann, she’s a good girl.” the man replies through his balaclava mask. 

            “She seemed a bit angry we were here.” Cobbler suggests. 

            “That's those Coven ideals for you. I can't say I’m a fan.” 

            “Then why’d you come here if the Coven was involved?” asks Cobbler. 

            “No choice about it. We were all drafted. I didn't want to come here, I wanted to stay at home and help rebuild Hamburg. Instead I got sent to the bottom of the world. Ugh!” bemoans the Karlslander. Cobbler can't help but feel a bit sorry for the man. Despite how badly his mission has been going so far, at least he volunteered to come to Ultima. 

            As the group of men advance further away from the buildings of New Swabia the snow gets deeper and thicker and the winds pick up dramatically. Cobbler almost loses his footing at one point, only being held up by the tall mechanic at his side. Florian’s scarf whips about in the gale like an angry snake and the bags only become heavier with every step. 

            “Bloody hell this is tough!” yells Elliot in frustration. 

            Suddenly, a violent curtain of blinding snow falls down over the entire area taking everyone by complete surprise. 

            “Shit! Blizzard!” yells one of the Karlslanders. 

            “It’s just like on the plane!” Cobbler shouts out loud as this whirlwind of ice and mist envelops everyone in its frozen grasp. Indeed just like what happened to the Anson this storm has appeared from nowhere, with no warning at all. The winds roar like an enraged beast, disorientating anyone caught inside. Unbeknown to the men; they all drift further and further apart, their vision obscured up to the tips of their noses. Navigation is zero. 

            “Elliot!? Where are you!?” yells Cobbler to no avail. It's imperative they get out of this storm before any serious injuries occur. Who knows how fast frostbite will set in in a blizzard like this. 

            Seconds feel like minutes as the scattered group of soldiers struggle unseen through the explosion of snow, every now and then getting knocked off their feet by blasts of wind that hit like freight trains. Some drop the heavy duffle bags in the confusion, others trip on chunks of hidden ice and fall face first to the ground. It’s a dizzying experience with little orientation past up and down. No one knows where the crater is any more, nore do they know the way back towards the base camp. It’s not long until Cobbler's hands begin to go numb from the chill, not long before several Kalslanders cant feet their ears. 

             “G-Got to get- out of here!” stutters Elliot as he stumbles to the ground shivering intensely having long lost his equipment bag. It is just then that the delirious Britannian swears he notices something. He’s unsure if it's disorientation but Elliot can swear that the ground underneath him is shaking. “An earthquake maybe?” he asks himself in a daze. 

           Indeed, struggling to focus, the ground is moving. An intense fear that another collapse might be happening grips the man tightly. Is he about to fall to his death down another giant hole? Would anyone be able to see such an opening in this impenetrable curtain.  

            Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the sky again clears. The winds die down, the rampaging snow drifts to the floor gently and serinely. Looking up, Cobbler dusts ice from his eyes and can just about spot several of the other men sitting or standing about separated by any metres of distance.

            “Elliot!?” Cobbler shouts, quickly getting a response from his comrade somewhere close by. The shivering pilot sighs in deep relief, his breath forming a large cloud in front of him as he struggles to his feet. Luckily his bag isn't that far away and it doesn't take long for all of the men to be located, present and accounted for, and with all equipment in hand as well.   

           “Those storms come out of nowhere. First time I’ve been caught in one.” moans Florian as he blows into his palms for warmth. “It’s way worse than Orussia.”   

           “Let's get this stuff to Hartmann before that happens again.” says Elliot with complete seriousness.                         

            A few minutes later the troop crests the hill before the crater. It would seem that they weren't the only victims of the sudden storm as the camp surrounding the opening has been torn asunder. Tents have collapsed and some have blown far, far away. Soldiers rapidly search through the debris for anyone who may have been injured in the disaster. Luckily no one fell into the hole in the confusion, although the same can't be said for the mechanical crane set up at the edge, which did in fact collapse and crash down to the solid icy cavern below. 

            As they overlook the devastation, Cobbler spots Ursula helping several men dig the banks of sonar equipment out of a rapidly formed snow drift. 

           “Well that's not good.” huffs an exhausted Elliot.

           “Wait! Do you hear that?” Florian quickly says. 

           “Oh no, not another storm!” Indeed the sound of the wind is picking up again, a light roar in the distance. But then however, as the mes listen the sound appears ro grow nearer, louder, not at all like the storm before. 

           “That's not wind.” posits Elliot. 

           Indeed, almost directly above their heads, an Avro Anson flies over the base. The transport from the HMS Furious has arrived. Both Elliot and Cobbler let out an excited cheer upon seeing the glorious sight of the Britannian aircraft enter a circling pattern above New Swabia, its twin engines droning loudly as the plane shines bright in the sky, its metallic body catching the light of the midday sun. 

            “Bloody hell they finally arrived.” smiles Elliot with relief, turning to pat Cobbler on the back with joy. 

            Suddenly however, like some cruel twist of fate the sound of an explosion turns everyone's attention back skyward. The aircraft is engulfed in a raging ball of orange flame. No one saw exactly what happened, but for whatever reason the Anson is now falling from the clear blue skies awash with fire and fury, crashing to earth like some terrible, cataclysmic meteor, shattering the Britannian’s joy in an instant.